The poetical works of John Godfrey Saxe :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poet's License!—Some there are
Who hold the false opinion
'T is but a meagre privilege
Confined to Art's dominion;
The right to rhyme quite unrestrained
By certain rigid fetters
Which bind the colder men of prose
Within the realm of letters.

Ah no!—I deem 't is something more,
And something vastly higher,
To which the proudest bard on earth
May worthily aspire.
The Poet's License!—'t is the right,
Within the rule of duty,
To look on all delightful things
Throughout the world of beauty.

To gaze with rapture at the stars
That in the skies are glowing;
To see the gems of perfect dye
That in the woods are growing,
And more than sage astronomer,
And more than learnéd florist,
To read the glorious homilies
Of Firmament and Forest.

When Nature gives a gorgeous rose,
Or yields the simplest fern,
She writes this motto on the leaves,—
“To whom it may concern!”
And so it is the poet comes
And revels in her bowers,
And, though another hold the land,
Is owner of the flowers.

O, nevermore let Ignorance
With heedless iteration
Repeat the phrase as meaning aught
Of trivial estimation;
The Poet's License!—'t is the fee
Of earth and sky and river
To him who views them royally,
To have and hold forever!

TREASURE IN HEAVEN.

RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO GEORGE PEABODY, ESQ.

“What I spent, I had; what I left,
I lost; what I gave, I have!”
Old Epitaph.

I.

Every coin of earthly treasure
We have lavished, upon earth,
For our simple worldly pleasure,
May be reckoned something worth;
For the spending was not losing,
Though the purchase were but small;
It has perished with the using:
We have had it,—that is all!

II.

All the gold we leave behind us,
When we turn to dust again
(Though our avarice may blind us),
We have gathered quite in vain;
Since we neither can direct it,
By the winds of fortune tossed,
Nor in other worlds expect it:
What we hoarded, we have lost.

III.

But each merciful oblation—
(Seed of pity wisely sown),
What we gave in self-negation,
We may safely call our own;
For the treasure freely given
Is the treasure that we hoard,
Since the angels keep in heaven
What is lent unto the Lord!

I'M GROWING OLD.

My days pass pleasantly away;
My nights are blest with sweetest sleep;
I feel no symptoms of decay;
I have no cause to mourn nor weep;
My foes are impotent and shy,
My friends are neither false nor cold,
And yet, of late, I often sigh,—
I'm growing old!

My growing talk of olden times,
My growing thirst for early news,
My growing apathy to rhymes,
My growing love of easy shoes,
My growing hate of crowds and noise,
My growing fear of taking cold,
All whisper, in the plainest voice,
I'm growing old!

I'm growing fonder of my staff;
I'm growing dimmer in the eyes;
I'm growing fainter in my laugh;
I'm growing deeper in my sighs;
I'm growing careless of my dress;
I'm growing frugal of my gold;
I'm growing wise; I'm growing,—yes,—
I'm growing old!

I see it in my changing taste;
I see it in my changing hair;
I see it in my growing waist;
I see it in my growing heir;
A thousand signs proclaim the truth,
As plain as truth was ever told,
That, even in my vaunted youth,
I'm growing old!

Ah me! my very laurels breathe
The tale in my reluctant ears,
And every boon the Hours bequeath
But makes me debtor to the Years!
E'en Flattery's honeyed words declare
The secret she would fain withhold,
And tells me in “How young you are!”
I'm growing old!

Thanks for the years!—whose rapid flight
My sombre Muse too sadly sings;
Thanks for the gleams of golden light
That tint the darkness of their wings;
The light that beams from out the sky,
Those heavenly mansions to unfold
Where all are blest, and none may sigh,
“I'm growing old!”

THE STORY OF LIFE.

Say, what is life! 'Tis to be born;
A helpless Babe, to greet the light
With a sharp wail, as if the morn
Foretold a cloudy noon and night;
To weep, to sleep, and weep again,
With sunny smiles between; and then?

And then apace the infant grows
To be a laughing, puling boy,
Happy, despite his little woes,
Were he but conscious of his joy;
To be, in short, from two to ten,
A merry, moody Child; and then?

And then, in coat and trousers clad,
To learn to say the Decalogue,
And break it; an unthinking Lad,
With mirth and mischief all agog;
A truant oft by field and fen
To capture butterflies; and then?

And then, increased in strength and size,
To be, anon, a Youth full-grown;
A hero in his mother's eyes,
A young Apollo in his own;
To imitate the ways of men
In fashionable sins; and then?

And then, at last, to be a Man;
To fall in love; to woo and wed;
With seething brain to scheme and plan;
To gather gold, or toil for bread;
To sue for fame with tongue or pen,
And gain or lose the prize; and then?

And then in gray and wrinkled Eld
To mourn the speed of life's decline;
To praise the scenes his youth beheld,
And dwell in memory of Lang-Syne;
To dream awhile with darkened ken,
Then drop into his grave; and then?

MY CASTLE IN SPAIN.

There's a castle in Spain, very charming to see,
Though built without money or toil

Of this handsome estate I am owner in fee,
And paramount lord of the soil;
And oft as I may I'm accustomed to go
And live, like a king, in my Spanish Chateau!

There 's a dame most bewitchingly rounded and ripe,
Whose wishes are never absurd;
Who does n't object to my smoking a pipe,
Nor insist on the ultimate word;
In short, she 's the pink of perfection, you know;
And she lives, like a queen, in my Spanish Chateau!

I 've a family too; the delightfulest girls,
And a bevy of beautiful boys;
All quite the reverse of those juvenile churls
Whose pleasure is mischief and noise;
No modern Cornelia might venture to show
Such jewels as those in my Spanish Chateau!

I have servants who seek their contentment in mine,
And always mind what they are at;
Who never embezzle the sugar and wine,
And slander the innocent cat;
Neither saucy, nor careless, nor stupidly slow
Are the servants who wait in my Spanish Chateau!

I have pleasant companions; most affable folk,
And each with the heart of a brother;
Keen wits, who enjoy an antagonist's joke,
And beauties who 're fond of each other;
Such people, indeed, as you never may know,
Unless you should come to my Spanish Chateau!

I have friends, whose commission for wearing the name
In kindness unfailing is shown;
Who pay to another the duty they claim,
And deem his successes their own;
Who joy in his gladness, and weep at his woe;
You'll find them (where else?) in my Spanish Chateau!

“O si sic semper!” I oftentimes say
(Though 't is idle, I know, to complain),
To think that again I must force me away
From my beautiful castle in Spain!
Ah! would that my stars had determined it so
I might live the year round in my Spanish Chateau!

SPES EST VATES.

There is a saying of the ancient sages:
No noble human thought,
However buried in the dust of ages,
Can ever come to naught.

With kindred faith, that knows no base dejection,
Beyond the sages' scope
I see, afar, the final resurrection
Of every glorious hope.

I see, as parcel of a new creation,
The beatific hour
When every bud of lofty aspiration
Shall blossom into flower.

We are not mocked; it was not in derision
God made our spirits free;
The poet's dreams are but the dim prevision
Of blessings that shall be,—

When they who lovingly have hoped and trusted,
Despite some transient fears,
Shall see Life's jarring elements adjusted,
And rounded into spheres!

THE GIFTS OF THE GODS.

The saying is wise, though it sounds like a jest,
That “The gods don't allow us to be in their debt,”

For though we may think we are specially blest,
We are certain to pay for the favors we get!

Are Riches the boon? Nay, be not elate;
The final account is n't settled as yet;
Old Care has a mortgage on every estate,
And that 's what you pay for the wealth that you get!

Is Honor the prize? It were easy to name
What sorrows and perils her pathway beset;
Grim Hate and Detraction accompany Fame,
And that 's what you pay for the honor you get!

Is Learning a treasure? How charming the pair
When Talent and Culture are lovingly met;
But Labor unceasing is grievous to bear,
And that 's what you pay for the learning you get!

Is Genius worth having? There is n't a doubt;
And yet what a price on the blessing is set,—
To suffer more with it than dunces without,
And that 's what you pay for the genius you get!

Is Beauty a blessing? To have it for nought
The gods never grant to their veriest pet;
Pale Envy reminds you the jewel is bought,
And that's what you pay for the beauty you get!

But Pleasure? Alas!—how prolific of pain!
Gay Pleasure is followed by gloomy Regret;
And often Repentance is one of her train,
And that 's what you pay for the pleasure you get!

But surely in Friendship we all may secure
An excellent gift; never doubt it,—and yet
With much to enjoy there is much to endure,
And that 's what we pay for the friendship we get!

But then there is Love?—Nay, speak not too soon;
The fondest of hearts may have reason to fret;
For Fear and Bereavement attend on the boon,
And that 's what we pay for the love that we get!

And thus it appears—though it sounds like a jest—
The gods don't allow us to be in their debt;
And though we may think we are specially blest,
We are certain to pay for whatever we get!

THE OLD CHAPEL-BELL.

A BALLAD.

Within a churchyard's sacred ground,
Whose fading tablets tell
Where they who built the village church
In solemn silence dwell,
Half hidden in the earth, there lies
An ancient Chapel-Bell.

Broken, decayed, and covered o'er
With mouldering leaves and rust;
Its very name and date concealed
Beneath a cankering crust;
Forgotten,—like its early friends,
Who sleep in neighboring dust.

Yet it was once a trusty Bell,
Of most sonorous lung,
And many a joyous wedding-peal
And many a knell had rung,
Ere Time had cracked its brazen sides,
And broke its iron tongue.

And many a youthful heart had danced,
In merry Christmas-time,
To hear its pleasant roundelay,
Sung out in ringing rhyme;

And many a worldly thought been checked
To list its sabbath chime.

A youth—a bright and happy boy—
One sultry summer's day,
Aweary of his bat and ball,
Chanced hitherward to stray,
To read a little book he had,
And rest him from his play.

“A soft and shady spot is this!”
The rosy youngster cried,
And sat him down beneath a tree,
That ancient Bell beside;
(But, hidden in the tangled grass,
The Bell he ne'er espied.)

Anon, a mist fell on his book,
The letters seemed to stir,
And though, full oft, his flagging sight
The boy essayed to spur,
The mazy page was quickly lost
Beneath a cloudy blur.

And while he marveled much at this,
And wondered how it came,
He felt a languor creeping o'er
His young and weary frame,
And heard a voice, a gentle voice,
That plainly spoke his name.

That gentle voice that named his name
Entranced him like a spell
Upon his ear so very near
And suddenly it fell,
Yet soft and musical, as 't were
The whisper of a bell.

“Since last I spoke,” the voice began,
“Seems many a dreary year!
(Albeit, 't is only since thy birth
I've lain neglected here!)
Pray list, while I rehearse a tale
Behooves thee much to hear.

“Once, from yon ivied tower, I watched
The villagers around,
And gave to all their joys and griefs
A sympathetic sound,—
But most are sleeping, now, within
This consecrated ground.

“I used to ring my merriest peal
To hail the blushing bride;
I sadly tolled for men cut down
In strength and manly pride;
And solemnly,—not mournfully,—
When little children died.

“But, chief, my duty was to bid
The villagers repair,
On each returning sabbath morn
Unto the House of Prayer,
And in his own appointed place
The Saviour's mercy share.

“Ah! well I mind me of a child,
A gleesome, happy maid,
Who came, with constant step, to church,
In comely garb arrayed,
And knelt her down full solemnly,
And penitently prayed.

“And oft, when church was done, I marked
That little maiden near
This pleasant spot, with book in hand,
As you are sitting here,—
She read the Story of the Cross,
And wept with grief sincere.

“Years rolled away,—and I beheld
The child to woman grown;
Her cheek was fairer, and her eye
With brighter lustre shone;
But childhood's truth and innocence
Were still the maiden's own.

“I never rang a merrier peal
Than when, a joyous bride,
She stood beneath the sacred porch,
A noble youth beside,
And plighted him her maiden troth,
In maiden love and pride.

“I never tolled a deeper knell,
Than when, in after years,
They laid her in the churchyard here,
Where this low mound appears,—
(The very grave, my boy, that you
Are watering now with tears!)

“It is thy mother! gentle boy,
That claims this tale of mine,—
Thou art a flower whose fatal birth
Destroyed the parent vine!
A precious flower art thou, my child,—
Two LIVES WERE GIVEN FOR THINE!

“One was thy sainted mother's, when
She gave thee mortal birth;
And one thy Saviour's, when in death
He shook the solid earth;

Go! boy, and live as may befit
Thy life's exceeding worth!”

The boy awoke, as from a dream,
And, thoughtful, looked around,
But nothing saw, save at his feet
His mother's lowly mound,
And by its side that ancient Bell,
Half hidden in the ground!

COMPENSATION.

I.

When once, in “Merrie England,”
A prisoner of state
Stood waiting death or exile,
Submissive to his fate,
He made this famous answer,—
“Si longa, levis;
Si dura, brevis;
Go tell your tyrant chief,
Long pains are light ones,
Cruel ones are brief!”

II.

Alas! we all are culprits;
Our bodies doomed to bear
Discomforts and diseases,
And none may 'scape his share;
But God in pity orders,
Si longa, levis;
Si dura, brevis;
He grants us this relief,
Long pains are light ones,
Cruel ones are brief.

III.

Nor less the mind must suffer
Its weight of care and woe,
Afflictions and bereavements
Itself can only know;
But let us still remember,
Si longa, levis;
Si dura, brevis;
To moderate our grief,—
Long pains are light ones,
Cruel ones are brief.

THE OLD MAN'S MOTTO.

“Give me a motto!” said a youth
To one whom years had rendered wise;
“Some pleasant thought, or weighty truth,
That briefest syllables comprise;
Some word of warning or of cheer
To grave upon my signet here.

“And, reverend father,” said the boy,
“Since life, they say, is ever made
A mingled web of grief and joy,
Since cares may come and pleasures fade,—
Pray, let the motto have a range
Of meaning matching every change.”

“Sooth!” said the sire, “methinks you ask
A labor something over-nice,
That well a finer brain might task.
What think you, lad, of this device
(Older than I, though I am gray),
'T is simple,—‘This will pass away’?

“When wafted on by Fortune's breeze,
In endless peace thou seem'st to glide,
Prepare betimes for rougher seas,
And check the boast of foolish pride;
Though smiling joy is thine to-day,
Remember, ‘This will pass away!’

“When all the sky is draped in black,
And, beaten by tempestuous gales,
Thy shuddering ship seems all a-wrack,
Then trim again thy tattered sails;
To grim Despair be not a prey;
Bethink thee, ‘This will pass away!’

“Thus, O my son, be not o'er-proud,
Nor yet cast down; judge thou aright;
When skies are clear, expect the cloud;
In darkness, wait the coming light;
Whatever be thy fate to-day,
Remember, ‘This will pass away!’”

MAXIMILIAN.

Not with a craven spirit he
Submitted to the harsh decree
That bade him die before his time,
Cut off in manhood's golden prime,—
Poor Maximilian!

And some who marked his noble mien,
His dauntless heart, his soul serene,

Have deemed they saw a martyr die,
And chorused forth the solemn cry,
“Great Maximilian!”

Alas! Ambition was his sin;
He staked his life a throne to win;
Counted amiss the fearful cost
(As chiefs have done before),—and lost!
Rash Maximilian!

'T is not the victim's tragic fate,
Nor calm endurance, makes him great;
Mere lust of empire and renown
Can never claim the martyr's crown,
Brave Maximilian!

Alas! it fell, that, in thy aim
To win a sovereign's power and fame,
Thy better nature lost its force,
And royal crimes disgraced thy course,
King Maximilian!

Alas! what ground for mercy's plea
In his behalf, whose fell decree
Gave soldiers unto felons' graves,
And freemen to the doom of slaves,—
Fierce Maximilian?

I loathe the rude, barbaric wrath
That slew thee in thy vent'rous path;
But “they who take,” thus saith the Lord,
“Shall also perish by the sword,”
Doomed Maximilian!

But, when I think upon the scene,—
Thy fearful fate, thy wretched queen,—
And mark how bravely thou didst die,
I breathe again the pitying sigh,
“Poor Maximilian!”

WISHING.

Of all amusements for the mind,
From logic down to fishing,
There is n't one that you can find
So very cheap as “wishing.”
A very choice diversion too,
If we but rightly use it,
And not, as we are apt to do,
Pervert it, and abuse it.

I wish,—a common wish, indeed,—
My purse were somewhat fatter,
That I might cheer the child of need,
And not my pride to flatter;
That I might make Oppression reel,
As only gold can make it,
And break the Tyrant's rod of steel,
As only gold can break it.

I wish—that Sympathy and Love,
And every human passion
That has its origin above,
Would come and keep in fashion;
That Scorn, and Jealousy, and Hate,
And every base emotion,
Were buried fifty fathom deep
Beneath the waves of Ocean!

I wish—that friends were always true,
And motives always pure;
I wish the good were not so few,
I wish the bad were fewer;
I wish that parsons ne'er forgot
To heed their pious teaching;
I wish that practicing was not
So different from preaching!

I wish—that modest worth might be
Appraised with truth and candor;
I wish that innocence were free
From treachery and slander;
I wish that men their vows would mind;
That women ne'er were rovers;
I wish that wives were always kind,
And husbands always lovers!

I wish—in fine—that Joy and Mirth,
And every good Ideal,
May come erewhile, throughout the earth,
To be the glorious Real;
Till God shall every creature bless
With his supremest blessing,
And Hope be lost in Happiness,
And wishing in Possessing!

THE WAY OF THE WORLD.

I.

A youth would marry a maiden,
For fair and fond was she;
But she was rich, and he was poor,
And so it might not be.
A lady never could wear—
Her mother held it firm—
A gown that came of an India plant,
Instead of an India worm.—
And so the cruel word was spoken;
And so it was two hearts were broken.

II.

A youth would marry a maiden,
For fair and fond was she;
But he was high and she was low,
And so it might not be.
A man who had worn a spur,
In ancient battle won,
Had sent it down with great renown,
To goad his future son!—
And so the cruel word was spoken;
And so it was two hearts were broken.

III.

A youth would marry a maiden,
For fair and fond was she;
But their sires disputed about the Mass,
And so it might not be.
A couple of wicked kings,
Three hundred years agone,
Had played at a royal game of chess,
And the Church had been a pawn!—
And so the cruel word was spoken;
And so it was two hearts were broken.

A POET'S ELEGY.

Here rests, at last, from worldly care and strife,
A gentle man-of-rhyme,
Not all unknown to fame,—whose lays and life
Fell short of the sublime.

Yet, as his poems ('t was the critics' praise)
Betrayed a careful mind,
His life, with less of license than his lays,
To Virtue was inclined.

Whate'er of Wit the kindly Muse supplied
He ever strove to bend
To Folly's hurt; nor once with wanton pride
Employed to pain a friend.

He loved a quip, but in his jesting vein
With studious care effaced
The doubtful word that threatened to profane
The sacred or the chaste.

He loathed the covert, diabolic jeer
That conscience undermines;
No hinted sacrilege nor skeptic sneer
Lurks in his laughing lines.

With satire's sword to pierce the false and wrong;
A ballad to invent
That bore a wholesome sermon in the song,—
Such was the poet's bent.

In social converse, “happy as a king.”
When colder men refrained
From daring flights, he gave his fancy wing
And freedom unrestrained.

And golden thoughts, at times,—a motley brood,—
Came flashing from the mine;
And fools who saw him in his merry mood
Accused the untasted wine.

He valued friendship's favor more than fame,
And paid his social dues;
He loved his Art,—but held his manly name
Far dearer than his Muse.

And partial friends, while gayly laughing o'er
The merry lines they quote,
Say with a sigh, “To us the man was more
Than aught he ever wrote!”

THE MOURNER A LA MODE.

I saw her last night at a party
(The elegant party at Mead's),
And looking remarkably hearty
For a widow so young in her weeds;
Yet I know she was suffering sorrow
Too deep for the tongue to express,—
Or why had she chosen to borrow
So much from the language of dress?

Her shawl was as sable as night;
And her gloves were as dark as her shawl;
And her jewels—that flashed in the light—
Were black as a funeral pall;

Her robe had the hue of the rest,
(How nicely it fitted her shape!)
And the grief that was heaving her breast
Boiled over in billows of crape!

What tears of vicarious woe,
That else might have sullied her face,
Were kindly permitted to flow
In ripples of ebony lace!
While even her fan, in its play,
Had quite a lugubrious scope,
And seemed to be waving away
The ghost of the angel of Hope!

Yet rich as the robes of a queen
Was the sombre apparel she wore;
I'm certain I never had seen
Such a sumptuous sorrow before;
And I could n't help thinking the beauty,
In mourning the loved and the lost,
Was doing her conjugal duty
Altogether regardless of cost!

One surely would say a devotion
Performed at so vast an expense
Betrayed an excess of emotion
That was really something immense;
And yet as I viewed, at my leisure,
Those tokens of tender regard,
I thought:—It is scarce without measure—
The sorrow that goes by the yard!

Ah! griefs is a curious passion;
And yours—I am sorely afraid
The very next phase of the fashion
Will find it beginning to fade;
Though dark are the shadows of grief,
The morning will follow the night,
Half-tints will betoken relief,
Till joy shall be symboled in white!

Ah well! it were idle to quarrel
With Fashion, or aught she may do;
And so I conclude with a moral
And metaphor—warranted new:—
When measles come handsomely out,
The patient is safest, they say;
And the Sorrow is mildest, no doubt,
That works in a similar way!

THE EXPECTED SHIP.

Thus I heard a poet say,
As he sang in merry glee,
“Ah! 't will be a golden day,
When my ship comes o'er the sea!

“I do know a cottage fine,
As a poet's house should be,
And the cottage shall be mine,
When my ship comes o'er the sea!

“I do know a maiden fair,
Fair, and fond, and dear to me,
And we'll be a wedded pair,
When my ship comes o'er the sea!

“And within that cottage fine,
Blest as any king may be,
Every pleasure shall be mine,
When my ship comes o'er the sea!

“To be rich is to be great;
Love is only for the free;
Grant me patience, while I wait
Till my ship comes o'er the sea!”

Months and years have come and gone
Since the poet sang to me,
Yet he still keeps hoping on
For the ship from o'er the sea!

Thus the siren voice of Hope
Whispers still to you and me
Of something in the future's scope,
Some golden ship from o'er the sea!

Never sailor yet hath found,
Looking windward or to lee,
Any vessel homeward bound,
Like that ship from o'er the sea!

Never comes the shining deck;
But that tiny cloud may be—
Though it seems the merest speck—
The promised ship from o'er the sea!

Never looms the swelling sail,
But the wind is blowing free,
And that may be the precious gale
That brings the ship from o'er the sea!

THE HEAD AND THE HEART

The head is stately, calm, and wise,
And bears a princely part;
And down below in secret lies
The warm, impulsive heart.

The lordly head that sits above,
The heart that beats below,
Their several office plainly prove,
Their true relation show.

The head, erect, serene, and cool,
Endowed with Reason's art,
Was set aloft to guide and rule
The throbbing, wayward heart.

And from the head, as from the higher,
Comes every glorious thought;
And in the heart's transforming fire
All noble deeds are wrought.

Yet each is best when both unite
To make the man complete;
What were the heat without the light?
The light, without the heat?

THE PROUD MISS MACBRIDE.

A LEGEND OF GOTHAM.

I

O, terribly proud was Miss MacBride,
The very personification of Pride,
As she minced along in Fashion's tide,
Adown Broadway,—on the proper side,—
When the golden sun was setting;
There was pride in the head she carried so high,
Pride in her lip, and pride in her eye,
And a world of pride in the very sigh
That her stately bosom was fretting;

II.

A sigh that a pair of elegant feet,
Sandaled in satin, should kiss the street,—
The very same that the vulgar greet
In common leather not over “neat,”—
For such is the common booting;
(And Christian tears may well be shed,
That even among our gentlemen bred,
The glorious day of Morocco is dead,
And Day and Martin are reigning instead,
On a much inferior footing!)

III.

O, terribly proud was Miss MacBride,
Proud of her beauty, and proud of her pride,
And proud of fifty matters beside,
That would n't have borne dissection;
Proud of her wit, and proud of her walk,
Proud of her teeth, and proud of her talk,
Proud of “knowing cheese from chalk,”
On a very slight inspection!

IV.

Proud abroad, and proud at home,
Proud wherever she chanced to come,
When she was glad, and when she was glum;
Proud as the head of a Saracen
Over the door of a tippling shop!—
Proud as a duchess, proud as a fop,
“Proud as a boy with a bran-new top,”
Proud beyond comparison!

V.

It seems a singular thing to say,
But her very senses led her astray
Respecting all humility;
In sooth, her dull auricular drum
Could find in Humble only a “hum,”
And heard no sound of “gentle” come,
In talking about gentility.

VI.

What Lowly meant she did n't know,
For she always avoided “everything low,”
With care the most punctilious,
And queerer still, the audible sound
Of “super-silly” she never had found
In the adjective supercilious!

VII.

The meaning of Meek she never knew,
But imagined the phrase had something to do
With “Moses,”—a peddling German Jew,
Who, like all hawkers the country through,
Was a person of no position;
And it seemed to her exceedingly plain,
If the word was really known to pertain
To a vulgar German, it was n't germane
To a lady of high condition!

VIII.

Even her graces,—not her grace,
For that was in the “vocative case,”—
Chilled with the touch of her icy face,
Sat very stiffly upon her;

She never confessed a favor aloud,
Like one of the simple, common crowd,
But coldly smiled, and faintly bowed,
As who should say: “You do me proud,
And do yourself an honor!”

IX.

And yet the pride of Miss MacBride,
Although it had fifty hobbies to ride,
Had really no foundation;
But, like the fabrics that gossips devise,—
Those single stories that often arise
And grow till they reach a four-story size,
Was merely a fancy creation!

X.

'T is a curious fact as ever was known
In human nature, but often shown
Alike in castle and cottage,
That pride, like pigs of a certain breed,
Will manage to live and thrive on “feed”
As poor as a pauper's pottage!

XI.

That her wit should never have made her vain,
Was, like her face, sufficiently plain;
And as to her musical powers,
Although she sang until she was hoarse,
And issued notes with a Banker's force,
They were just such notes as we never indorse
For any acquaintace of ours!

XII.

Her birth, indeed, was uncommonly high,
For Miss MacBride first opened her eye
Through a skylight dim, on the light of the sky;
But pride is a curious passion,
And in talking about her wealth and worth
She always forgot to mention her birth,
To people of rank and fashion!

XIII.

Of all the notable things on earth,
The queerest one is pride of birth,
Among our “fierce Democracie”!
A bridge across a hundred years,
Without a prop to save it from sneers,—
Not even a couple of rotten Peers,—
A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers,
Is American aristocracy!

XIV.

English and Irish, French and Spanish,
German, Italian, Dutch, and Danish,
Crossing their veins until they vanish
In one conglomeration!
So subtle a tangle of Blood, indeed,
No modern Harvey will ever succeed
In finding the circulation!

XV.

Depend upon it, my snobbish friend,
Your family thread you can't ascend,
Without good reason to apprehend
You may find it waxed at the farther end
By some plebeian vocation;
Or, worse than that, your boasted Line
May end in a loop of stronger twine,
That plagued some worthy relation!

XVI.

But Miss MacBride had something beside
Her lofty birth to nourish her pride;
For rich was the old paternal MacBride,
According to public rumor;
And he lived “Up Town,” in a splendid square,
And kept his daughter on dainty fare,
And gave her gems that were rich and rare,
And the finest rings and things to wear,
And feathers enough to plume her!

XVII.

An honest mechanic was John MacBride
As ever an honest calling plied,
Or graced an honest ditty;
For John had worked, in his early day,
In “Pots and Pearls,” the legends say,
And kept a shop with a rich array
Of things in the soap and candle way,
In the lower part of the city.

XVIII

No rara avis was honest John
(That 's the Latin for “sable swan”),
Though, in one of his fancy flashes,
A wicked wag, who meant to deride,
Called honest John “Old Phœnix MacBride,
Because he rose from his ashes!”

XIX.

Alack! for many ambitious beaux!
She hung their hopes upon her nose,

(The figure is quite Horatian!)
Until from habit the member grew
As queer a thing as ever you knew
Turn up to observation!

XX.

A thriving tailor begged her hand,
But she gave “the fellow” to understand,
By a violent manual action,
She perfectly scorned the best of his clan,
And reckoned the ninth of any man
An exceedingly Vulgar Fraction!

XXI.

Another, whose sign was a golden boot,
Was mortified with a bootless suit,
In a way that was quite appalling;
For though a regular sutor by trade,
He was n't a suitor to suit the maid,
Who cut him off with a saw,—and bade
“The cobbler keep to his calling.”

XXII.

(The Muse must let a secret out,—
There is n't the faintest shadow of doubt
That folks who oftenest sneer and flout
At “the dirty, low mechanicals,”
Are they whose sires, by pounding their knees,
Or coiling their legs, or trades like these,
Contrived to win their children ease
From poverty's galling manacles.)

XXIII.

A rich tobacconist comes and sues,
And, thinking the lady would scarce refuse
A man of his wealth and liberal views,
Began, at once, with, “If you choose,—
And could you really love him”—
But the lady spoiled his speech in a huff,
With an answer rough and ready enough,
To let him know she was up to snuff,
And altogether above him!

XXIV.

A young attorney of winning grace
Was scarce allowed to “open his face,”
Ere Miss MacBride had closed his case
With true judicial celerity;
For the lawyer was poor, and “seedy” to boot,
And to say the lady discarded his suit,
Is merely a double verity.

XXV.

The last of those who came to court
Was a lively beau of the dapper sort,
“Without any visible means of support,”—
A crime by no means flagrant
In one who wears an elegant coat,
But the very point on which they vote
A ragged fellow “a vagrant.”

XXVI.

A courtly fellow was Dapper Jim,
Sleek and supple, and tall and trim,
And smooth of tongue as neat of limb;
And, maugre his meagre pocket,
You 'd say, from the glittering tales he told,
That Jim had slept in a cradle of gold,
With Fortunatus to rock it!

XXVII.

Now Dapper Jim his courtship plied
(I wish the fact could be denied)
With an eye to the purse of the old MacBride,
And really “nothing shorter”!
For he said to himself, in his greedy lust,
“Whenever he dies,—as die he must,—
And yields to Heaven his vital trust,
He 's very sure to ‘come down with his dust,’—
In behalf of his only daughter.”

XXVIII.

And the very magnificent Miss MacBride,
Half in love and half in pride,
Quite graciously relented;
And tossing her head, and turning her back,
No token of proper pride to lack,
To be a Bride without the “Mac,”
With much disdain, consented.

XXIX.

Alas! that people who 've got their box
Of cash beneath the best of locks,
Secure from all financial shocks,
Should stock their fancy with fancy stocks,
And madly rush upon Wall Street rocks,
Without the least apology;
Alas! that people whose money affairs
Are sound beyond all need of repairs,

Should ever tempt the bulls and bears
Of Mammon's fierce Zoölogy!

XXX

Old John MacBride, one fatal day,
Became the unresisting prey
Of Fortune's undertakers;
And staking his all on a single die,
His foundered bark went high and dry
Among the brokers and breakers!

XXXI.

At his trade again in the very shop
Where, years before, he let it drop,
He follows his ancient calling,—
Cheerily, too, in poverty's spite,
And sleeping quite as sound at night,
As when, at Fortune's giddy height,
He used to wake with a dizzy fright
From a dismal dream of falling.

XXXII.

But alas for the haughty Miss MacBride!
'T was such a shock to her precious pride,
She could n't recover, although she tried
Her jaded spirits to rally;
'T was a dreadful change in human affairs
From a Place “Up Town” to a nook “Up Stairs,”
From an Avenue down to an Alley!

XXXIII.

'T was little condolence she had, God wot,
From her “troops of friends,” who had n't forgot
The airs she used to borrow;
They had civil phrases enough, but yet
'T was plain to see that their “deepest regret”
Was a different thing from Sorrow!

XXXIV.

They owned it could n't have well been worse,
To go from a full to an empty purse;
To expect a reversion and get a “reverse,”
Was truly a dismal feature;
But it was n't strange,—they whispered,—at all;
That the Summer of pride should have its Fall
Was quite according to Nature!

XXXV.

And one of those chaps who make a pun—
As if it were quite legitimate fun
To be blazing away at every one,
With a regular double-loaded gun—
Remarked that moral transgression
Always brings retributive stings
To candle-makers, as well as kings!
And making light of cereous things
Was a very wick-ed profession!

XXXVI.

And vulgar people, the saucy churls,
Inquired about “the price of Pearls,”
And mocked at her situation;
“She was n't ruined, they ventured to hope;
Because she was poor, she need n't mope,—
Few people were better off for soap,
And that was a consolation!”

XXXVII.

And to make her cup of woe run over,
Her elegant, ardent, plighted lover
Was the very first to forsake her;
Her quite regretted the step, 't was true,—
The lady had pride enough for two,
But that alone would never do
To quiet the butcher and baker!

XXXVIII.

And now the unhappy Miss MacBride,
The merest ghost of her early pride,
Bewails her lonely position;
Cramped in the very narrowest niche,
Above the poor, and below the rich,
Was ever a worse condition?

MORAL

Because you flourish in worldly affairs,
Don't be haughty, and put on airs,
With insolent pride of station!
Don't be proud, and turn up your nose
At poorer people in plainer clo'es,
But learn, for the sake of your soul's repose,
That wealth's a bubble, that comes,—and goes!
And that all Proud Flesh, wherever it grows,
Is subject to irritation!

“Omnia suspendens naso.”

THE MASQUERADE.

Ηαρφασις, ητ' εκλεψε νοον πυκα περ φρονεοντων.
Hom. II., xiv. 217.

I

Count Felix was a man of worth
By Fashion's strictest definition,
For he had money, manners, birth,
And that most slippery thing on earth
Which social critics call position.

II.

And yet the Count was seldom gay;
The rich and noble have their crosses;
And he—as he was wont to say—
Had seen some trouble in his day,
And met with several serious losses.

III.

Among the rest, he lost his wife,
A very model of a woman,
With every needed virtue rife
To lead a spouse a happy life,—
Such wives (in France) are not uncommon.

IV.

The lady died, and left him sad
And lone, to mourn the best of spouses;
She left him also—let me add—
One child, and all the wealth she had,—
The rent of half a dozen houses.

V.

I cannot tarry to discuss
The weeping husband's desolation;
Upon her tomb he wrote it thus:—
“Felix infelicissimus!”
In very touching ostentation.

VI.

Indeed, the Count's behavior earned
The plaudits of his strict confessor;
His weeds of woe had fairly turned
From black to brown, ere he had learned
To think about his wife's successor.

VII.

And then, indeed, 't was but a thought;
A sort of sentimental dreaming,
That came at times, and came—to naught,
With all the plans so nicely wrought
By matrons skilled in marriage-scheming.

VIII.

At last, when many years had fled,
And Father Time, the great physician,
Had soothed his sorrow for the dead,
Count Felix took it in his head
To change his wearisome condition.

IX.

You think, perhaps, 't was quickly done;
The Count was still a man of fashion;
Wealth, title, talents, all in one,
Were eloquence to win a nun,
If nuns could feel a worldly passion.

X.

And yet the Count might well despond
Of tying soon the silken tether;
Wise, witty, handsome, faithful, fond,
And twenty—not a year beyond—
Are charming,—when they come together!

XI.

But more than that, the man required
A wife to share his whims and fancies;
Admire alone what he admired;
Desire, of course, as he desired,
And show it in her very glances.

XII.

Long, long the would-be wooer tried
To find his precious ultimatum,—
All earthly charms in one fair bride;
But still in vain he sought and sighed;
He could n't manage to get at 'em.

XIII.

In sooth, the Count was one of those
Who, seeking something superhuman,
Find not the angel they would choose,
And—what is more unlucky—lose
Their chance to wed a charming woman.

XIV.

The best-matched doves in Hymen's cage
Were paired in youth's romantic season;
Laugh as you will at passion's rage,
The most unreasonable age
Is what is called the age of reason.

XV.

In love-affairs, we all have seen,
The heart is oft the best adviser;

The gray might well consult the “green,”
Cool sixty learn of rash sixteen,
And go away a deal the wiser.

XVI.

The Count's high hopes began to fade;
His plans were not at all advancing;
When, lo!—one day his valet made
Some mention of a masquerade,—
“I'll go,” said he,—“and see the dancing.

XVII.

“'T will serve my spirits to arouse;
And, faith! I'm getting melancholy.
'T is not the place to seek a spouse,
Where people go to break their vows,—
But then 't will be extremely jolly!”

XVIII.

Count Felix found the crowd immense,
And, had he been a censor morum,
He might have said, without offense,
“Got up regardless of expense,
And some—regardless of decorum.

XIX.

“Faith!—all the world is here tonight!”
“Nay,” said a merry friend demurely,
“Not quite the whole,—pardon!—not quite;
Le Demi-Monde were nearer right,
And no exaggeration, surely!”

XX.

The revelry ('t was just begun)
A stoic might have found diverting;
That is, of course, if he was one
Who liked to see a bit of fun,
And fancied persiflage and flirting.

XXI.

But who can paint that giddy maze?
Go find the lucky man who handles
A brush to catch, on gala-days,
The whirling, shooting, flashing rays
Of Catherine-wheels and Roman candles!

XXII.

All sorts of masks that e'er were seen;
Fantastic, comic, and satanic;
Dukes, dwarfs, and “Highnesses” (Serene),
And (that's of course) the Cyprian Queen,
In gauzes few and diaphanic.

XXIII.

Lean Carmelites, fat Capuchins,
Giants half human and half bestial;
Kings, Queens, Magicians, Harlequins,
Greeks, Tartars, Turks, and Mandarins
More diabolic than “Celestial.”

XXIV.

Fair Scripture dames,—Naomi, Ruth,
And Hagar, looking quite demented;
The Virtues (all—excepting Truth)
And Magdalens, who were in sooth
Just half of what they represented!

XXV.

Fates, Furies, Fairies,—all the best
And worst of Fancy's weird creation;
Psyche and Cupid (demi-dressed)
With several Vestals—by request,
And solely for that one occasion.

XXVI.

And one, among the motley brood,
He saw, who shunned the wanton dances;
A sort of demi-nun, who stood
In ringlets flashing from a hood,
And seemed to seek our hero's glances.

XXVII.

The Count, delighted with her air,
Drew near, the better to behold her;
Her form was slight, her skin was fair,
And maidenhood, you well might swear,
Breathed from the dimples in her shoulder.

XXVIII.

He spoke; she answered with a grace
That showed the girl no vulgar heiress;
And,—if the features one may trace
In voices,—hers betrayed a face
The finest to be found in Paris!

XXIX.

And then such wit!—in repartee
She shone without the least endeavor;
A beauty and a bel-esprit!
A scholar, too,—'t was plain to see.
Who ever saw a girl so clever?

XXX.

Her taste he ventured to explore
In books, the graver and the lighter,
And mentioned authors by the score;
Mon Dieu! in every sort of lore
She always chose his favorite writer!

XXXI.

She loved the poets; but confessed
Racine beat all the others hollow;
At least, she thought his style the best—
(Racine! his literary test!
Racine! his Maximus Apollo!)

XXXII.

Whatever topic he might name,
Their minds were strangely sympathetic;
Of courtship, marriage, fashion, fame,
Their views and feelings were the same,—
“Parbleu!” he cried, “it looks prophetic!

XXXIII.

“Come, let us seek an ampler space;
This heated room—I can't abide it!
That mask, I'm sure, is out of place,
And hides the fairest, sweetest face”—
Said she, “I wear the mask to hide it!”

XXXIV.

The answer was extremely pat,
And gave the Count a deal of pleasure:
“C'est vrai! I did not think of that!
Come, let us go where we can chat
And eat (I'm hungry) at our leisure.”

XXXV.

“I'm hungry too!” she said,—and went,
Without the least attempt to cozen,—
Like ladies who refuse, relent,
Debate, oppose, and then consent
To—eat enough for half a dozen!

XXXVI.

And so they sat them down to dine,
Solus cum sola, gay and merry;
The Count inquires the sort of wine
To which his charmer may incline;
Ah! quelle merveille! she answers, “Sherry!”

XXXVII.

What will she eat? She takes the carte,
And notes the viands that she wishes;
“Pardon, Monsieur! what makes you start?”
As if she knew his tastes by heart.
The lady named his favorite dishes!

XXXVIII.

Was e'er such sympathy before?
The Count was really half demented;
He kissed her hand, and roundly swore
He loved her perfectly!—and, more,—
He 'd wed her—if the gods consented!

XXXIX.

“Monsieur is very kind,” she said,
“His love so lavishly bestowing
On one who never thought to wed,—
And least of all”—she raised her head—
“'T is late, Sir Knight, I must be going!”

XL.

Count Felix sighed,—and while he drew
Her shawl about her, at his leisure,
“What street?” he asked; “my cab is due.”
“No, no!” she said, “I go with you!
That is—if it may be your pleasure.”

XLI.

Of course, there 's little need to say
The Count delighted in her capture;
Away he drove, and all the way
He murmured, “Quelle félicité!”
In very ecstasy of rapture!

XLII.

Arrived at home—just where a fount
Shot forth a jet of lucent water—
He helped the lady to dismount;
She drops her mask, and lo! the Count
Sees—Dieu de ciel!—his only daughter!

XLIII.

“Good night!” she said,—“I'm very well,
Although you thought my health was fading;
Be good—and I will never tell
('T was funny though) of what befell
When you and I went masquerading!”

MY FAMILIAR.

“Ecce iterum Crispinus!”

I.

Again I hear that creaking step!—
He 's rapping at the door!—
Too well I know the boding sound
That ushers in a bore.
I do not tremble when I meet
The stoutest of my foes,
But Heaven defend me from the friend
Who comes—but never goes!

II.

He drops into my easy-chair,
And asks about the news;
He peers into my manuscript,
And gives his candid views;
He tells me where he likes the line,
And where he 's forced to grieve;
He takes the strangest liberties,—
But never takes his leave!

III.

He reads my daily paper through
Before I 've seen a word;
He scans the lyric (that I wrote)
And thinks it quite absurd;
He calmly smokes my last cigar,
And coolly asks for more;
He opens everything he sees—
Except the entry door!

IV.

He talks about his fragile health,
And tells me of the pains
He suffers from a score of ills
Of which he ne'er complains;
And how he struggled once with death
To keep the fiend at bay;
On themes like those away he goes,—
But never goes away!

V.

He tells me of the carping words
Some shallow critic wrote;
And every precious paragraph
Familiarly can quote;
He thinks the writer did me wrong;
He 'd like to run him through!
He says a thousand pleasant things,—
But never says, “Adieu!”

VI.

Whene'er he comes,—that dreadful man,—
Disguise it as I may,
I know that, like an Autumn rain,
He'll last throughout the day.
In vain I speak of urgent tasks;
In vain I scowl and pout;
A frown is no extinguisher,—
It does not put him out!

VII.

I mean to take the knocker off,
Put crape upon the door,
Or hint to John that I am gone
To stay a month or more.
I do not tremble when I meet
The stoutest of my foes,
But Heaven defend me from the friend
Who never, never goes!

LOVE AND LAW.

A LEGEND OF BOSTON.

I.

Jack Newman was in love; a common case
With boys just verging upon manhood's prime,
When every damsel with a pretty face
Seems some bright creature from a purer clime,
Sent by the gods to bless a country town,—
A pink-cheeked angel in a muslin gown.

II.

Jack was in love; and also much in doubt
(As thoughtful lovers oft have been before)
If it were better to be in or out.
Such pain alloyed his bliss. On reason's score,
Perhaps 't is equally a sin to get
Too deep in love, in liquor, or in debt.

III.

The lady of his love, Miss Mary Blank
(I call her so to hide her real name),
Was fair and twenty, and in social rank—
That is, in riches—much above her flame;
The daughter of a person who had tin
Already won; while Jack had his to win.

IV.

Her father was a lawyer; rather rusty
In legal lore, but one who well had striven
In former days to swell his “res angustæ”
To broad possessions; and, in short, had thriven
Bravely in his vocation; though, the fact is,
More by his “practices” ('t was said) than practice!

V.

A famous man was Blank for sound advice
In doubtful cases; for example, where
The point in question is extremely nice,
And turns upon the section of a hair;
Or where-which seems a very common pother—
Justice looks one way, and the Law another.

VI.

Great was his skill to make or mar a plot:
To prop, at need, a rotten reputation,
Or undermine a good one; he had got
By heart the subtle science of evasion,
And knew the useful art to pick a flaw
Through which a rascal might escape the law.

VII.

Jack was his pupil; and 't is rather queer
So shrewd a counselor did not discover,
With all his cunning both of eye and ear,
That this same pupil was his daughter's lover;
And—what would much have shocked his legal tutor—
Was even now the girl's accepted suitor!

VIII.

Fearing a non-suit, if the lawyer knew
The case too soon, Jack kept it to himself;
And, stranger still, the lady kept it too;
For well he knew the father's pride of pelf,
Should e'en a bare suspicion cross his mind,
Would soon abate the action they designed.

IX.

For Jack was impecunious; and Blank
Had small regard for people who were poor;
Riches to him were beauty, grace, and rank:
In short, the man was one of many more
Who worship money-bags and those who own 'em,
And think a handsome sum the summum bonum.

X.

I'm fond of civii words, and do not wish
To be satirical; but none despise
The poor so truly as the noureaux riche;
And here, no doubt, the real reason lies,
That being over-proud of what they are,
They 're naturally ashamed of what they were.

XI.

Certain to meet the father's cold negation,
Jack dare not ask him for his daughter's hand.
What should he do? 'T was surely an occasion
For all the wit a lover might command;
At last he chose (it seemed his only hope)
That final card of Cupid,—to elope!

XII.

A pretty plan to please a penny-a-liner;
But far less pleasant for the leading factor,
Should the fair maiden chance to be a minor
(Whom the law reckons an unwilling actor);
And here Jack found a rather sad obstruction,—
He might be caught and punished for abduction.

XIII.

What could he do? Well,—here is what he did:
As a “moot-case” to Lawyer Blank he told
The whole affair, save that the names were hid.
I can't help thinking it was rather bold,

But Love is partial to heroic schemes,
And often proves much wiser than he seems.

XIV.

“The thing is safe enough, with proper care,”
Observed the lawyer, smiling. “Here 's your course:—
Just let the lady manage the affair
Throughout; Videlicet, she gets the horse,
And mounts him, unassisted, first; but mind,
The woman sits before, and you, behind!

XV.

“Then who is the abductor?—Just suppose
A court and jury looking at the case;
What ground of action do the facts disclose?
They find a horse,—two riders,—and a race,—
And you ‘Not guilty’; for 't is clearly true
The dashing damsel ran away with you!”

XVI.

[OMITTED]

XVII.

These social sins are often rather grave;
I give such deeds no countenance of mine;
Nor can I say the father e'er forgave;
But that was surely a propitious “sign,”
On which (in after years) the words I saw
Were, “Blank and Newman, Counselors at Law!”

RHYME OF THE RAIL.

Singing through the forests,
Rattling over ridges,
Shooting under arches,
Rumbling over bridges,
Whizzing through the mountains,
Buzzing o'er the vale,—
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Riding on the Rail!

Men of different “stations'
In the eye of Fame
Here are very quickly
Coming to the same.
High and lowly people,
Birds of every feather,
On a common level
Traveling together!

Gentleman in shorts,
Looming very tall;
Gentleman at large,
Talking very small;
Gentleman in tights,
With a loose-ish mien;
Gentleman in gray,
Looking rather green.

Gentleman quite old,
Asking for the news;
Gentleman in black,
In a fit of blues;
Gentleman in claret,
Sober as a vicar;
Gentleman in Tweed,
Dreadfully in liquor!

Stranger on the right,
Looking very sunny,
Obviously reading
Something rather funny.
Now the smiles are thicker,
Wonder what they mean?
Faith he 's got the Knicker-
Bocker Magazine!

Stranger on the left,
Closing up his peepers;
Now he snores amain,
Like the Seven Sleepers;
At his feet a volume
Gives the explanation,
How the man grew stupid
From “Association”!

Ancient maiden lady
Anxiously remarks,
That there must be peril
'Mong so many sparks!
Roguish-looking fellow,
Turning to the stranger,
Says it 's his opinion
She is out of danger!

Woman with her baby,
Sitting vis à-vis;
Baby keeps a squalling;
Woman looks at me;
Asks about the distance,
Says it 's tiresome talking,

Noises of the cars
Are so very shocking!

Market-woman careful
Of the precious casket,
Knowing eggs are eggs,
Tightly holds her basket;
Feeling that a smash,
If it came, would surely
Send her eggs to pot
Rather prematurely!

THE BRIEFLESS BARRISTER.

A BALLAD.

An Attorney was taking a turn,
In shabby habiliments drest;
His coat it was shockingly worn,
And the rust had invested his vest.

His breeches had suffered a breach,
His linen and worsted were worse;
He had scarce a whole crown in his hat,
And not half a crown in his purse.

And thus as he wandered along,
A cheerless and comfortless elf,
He sought for relief in a song,
Or complainingly talked to himself:—

“Unfortunate man that I am!
I 've never a client but grief:
The case is, I 've no case at all,
And in brief, I 've ne'er had a brief!

“I've waited and waited in vain,
Expecting an ‘opening’ to find,
Where an honest young lawyer might gain
Some reward for toil of his mind.

“'T is not that I'm wanting in law,
Or lack an intelligent face,
That others have cases to plead,
While I have to plead for a case.

“O, how can a modest young man
E'er hope for the smallest progression,—
The profession's already so full
Of lawyers so full of profession!”

While thus he was strolling around,
His eye accidentally fell
On a very deep hole in the ground,
And he sighed to himself, “It is well!”

To curb his emotions, he sat
On the curbstone the space of a minute,
Then cried, “Here 's an opening at last!”
And in less than a jiffy was in it!

Next morning twelve citizens came
('T was the coroner bade them attend),
To the end that it might be determined
How the man had determined his end!

“The man was a lawyer, I hear,”
Quoth the foreman who sat on the corse.
“A lawyer? Alas!” said another,
“Undoubtedly died of remorse!”

A third said, “He knew the deceased,
An attorney well versed in the laws,
And as to the cause of his death.
'T was no doubt for the want of a cause.”

The jury decided at length,
After solemnly weighing the matter,
That the lawyer was drownded, because
He could not keep his head above water!

LITTLE JERRY THE MILLER.

A BALLAD.

Beneath the hill you may see the mill
Of wasting wood and crumbling stone;

The wheel is dripping and clattering still,
But Jerry, the miller, is dead and gone.

Year after year, early and late,
Alike in summer and winter weather,
He pecked the stones and calked the gate,
And mill and miller grew old together.

“Little Jerry!”—'t was all the same,—
They loved him well who called him so;
And whether he 'd ever another name,
Nobody ever seemed to know.

'T was, “Little Jerry, come grind my rye”;
And, “Little Jerry, come grind my wheat”;
And “Little Jerry” was still the cry,
From matron bold and maiden sweet.

'T was “Little Jerry” on every tongue,
And so the simple truth was told;
For Jerry was little when he was young,
And Jerry was little when he was old.

But what in size he chanced to lack,
That Jerry made up in being strong;
I've seen a sack upon his back
As thick as the miller, and quite as long.

Always busy, and always merry,
Always doing his very best,
A notable wag was Little Jerry,
Who uttered well his standing jest.

How Jerry lived is known to fame,
But how he died there 's none may know;
One autumn day the rumor came,
“The brook and Jerry are very low.”

And then 't was whispered, mournfully,
The leech had come, and he was dead;
And all the neighbors flocked to see;
“Poor little Jerry!” was all they said.

They laid him in his earthy bed,—
His miller's coat his only shroud;
“Dust to dust,” the parson said,
And all the people wept aloud.

For he had shunned the deadly sin,
And not a grain of over-toll
Had ever dropped into his bin,
To weigh upon his parting soul.

Beneath the hill there stands the mill,
Of wasting wood and crumbling stone;
The wheel is dripping and clattering still,
But Jerry, the miller, is dead and gone.

Perhaps it may add a trifle to the interest of this ballad to know that the description, both of the man and the mill, is quite true.

“Little Jerry”—a diminutive Frenchman of remarkable strength, wit, and good-nature— was for many years my father's miller in High-gate, Vermont. His surname was written “Goodheart” in the mill-books; but he often told me that our English translation, was quite too weak, as the real name was spelled “Fortboncœur.

HOW CYRUS LAID THE CABLE.

A BALLAD.

Come, listen all unto my song;
It is no silly fable;
'T is all about the mighty cord
They call the Atlantic Cable.

Bold Cyrus Field he said, says he,
I have a pretty notion
That I can run a telegraph
Across the Atlantic Ocean.

Then all the people laughed, and said,
They 'd like to see him do it;
He might get half seas-over, but
He never could go through it.

To carry out his foolish plan
He never would be able;
He might as well go hang himself
With his Atlantic Cable.

But Cyrus was a valiant man,
A fellow of decision;
And heeded not their mocking words,
Their laughter and derision.

Twice did his bravest efforts fail,
And yet his mind was stable;
He wa'n't the man to break his heart
Because he broke his cable.

“Once more, my gallant boys!” he cried;
“Three times!—you know the fable,—
(I'll make it thirty,” muttered he,
“But I will lay the cable!”)

Once more they tried,—hurrah! hurrah!
What means this great commotion?
The Lord be praised! the cable 's laid
Across the Atlantic Ocean!

Loud ring the bells,—for, flashing through
Six hundred leagues of water,
Old Mother England's benison
Salutes her eldest daughter!

O'er all the land the tidings speed,
And soon, in every nation,
They'll hear about the cable with
Profoundest admiration!

Now, long live President and Queen;
And long live gallant Cyrus;
And may his courage, faith, and zeal
With emulation fire us;

And may we honor evermore
The manly, bold, and stable;
And tell our sons, to make them brave,
How Cyrus laid the cable!

WHAT HAS BECOME OF THE GODS.

Full often I have heard it said,
As something quite uncontroverted,
“The gods and goddesses are dead,
And high Olympus is deserted”:
And so, while thinking of the gods,
I made, one night, an exploration,
(In fact or fancy,—where 's the odds?)
To get authentic information.

I found—to make a true report,
As if I were a sworn committee—
They all had left the upper court,
And settled in Manhattan city;
Where now they live, as best they may,
Quite unsuspected of their neighbors,
And in a humbler sort of way,
Repeat their old Olympic labors.

In human frames, for safe disguise,
They come and go through wooden portals,
And to the keen Detective's eyes
Seem nothing more than common mortals;
For mortal-like they 're clad and fed,
And, still to blind the sharp inspector,
Eat, for ambrosia, baker's bread,
And tipple—everything but nectar.

Great Jove, who wore the kingly crown,
And used to make Olympus rattle,
As if the sky was coming down,
Or all the Titans were in battle,—
Is now a sorry playhouse wight,
Content to make the groundlings wonder,
And earn some shillings every night,
By coining cheap theatric thunder.

Apollo, who in better times
Was poet-laureate of th' Elysians,
And, adding medicine to rhymes,
Was chief among the court physicians,
Now cures disease of every grade,—
Lucina's cares and Cupid's curses,—
And, still to ply his double trade,
Bepuffs his pills in doggerel verses!

Minerva, famous in her day
For wit and war,—though often shocking
The gods by overmuch display
Of what they called her azure stocking,—
Now deals in books of ancient kind
(Where Learning soars and Fancy grovels),
And, to indulge her warlike mind,
Writes very sanguinary novels.

And Venus, who on Ida's seat
In myrtle-groves her charms paraded,
Displays her beauty in the street,
And seems, indeed, a little faded;
She 's dealing in the clothing-line
(If at her word you choose to take her)
In Something Square you read the sign:—
“Miss Cytherea, Mantua-maker.”

Mars figures still as god of war,
But not with spear and iron hanger,
Erect upon the ponderous car
That rolled along with fearful clangor
Ah! no; of sword and spear bereft,
He stands beside his bottle-holder,
And plumps his right, and plants his left,
And strikes directly from the shoulder.

And Bacchus, reared among the vines
That flourished in the fields Elysian,

And ruddy with the rarest wines
That ever flashed upon the vision,—
A licensed liquor-dealer now,
Sits pale and thin from over-dosing
With whiskey, made—the deuce knows how,
And brandy of his own composing.

And cunning Mercury,—what d' ye think
Is now the nimble rogue's condition?
Of course 't was but a step, to sink
From Peter Funk to politician;
Though now he neither steals nor robs,
But just secures a friend's election,
And lives and thrives on little jobs
Connected with the Street Inspection.

Thus all the gods, in deep disguise,
Go in and out of wooden portals,
And, to the sharpest human eyes,
Seem nothing more than common mortals.
And so they live, as best they may,
Quite unsuspected of their neighbors,
And, in a humbler sort of way,
Repeat their old Olympic labors.

THE COLD-WATER MAN.

A BALLAD.

It was an honest fisherman,
I knew him passing well,—
And he lived by a little pond,
Within a little dell.

A grave and quiet man was he,
Who loved his book and rod,—
So even ran his line of life,
His neighbors thought it odd.

For science and for books, he said
He never had a wish,—
No school to him was worth a fig,
Except a school of fish.

He ne'er aspired to rank or wealth,
Nor cared about a name,—
For though much famed for fish was he,
He never fished for fame.

Let others bend their necks at sight
Of Fashion's gilded wheels,
He ne'er had learned the art to “bob”
For anything but eels.

A cunning fisherman was he,
His angles all were right;
The smallest nibble at his bait
Was sure to prove “a bite”!

All day this fisherman would sit
Upon an ancient log,
And gaze into the water, like
Some sedentary frog;

With all the seeming innocence,
And that unconscious look,
That other people often wear
When they intend to “hook”!

To charm the fish he never spoke,—
Although his voice was fine,
He found the most convenient way
Was just to drop a line.

And many a gudgeon of the pond,
If they could speak to-day,
Would own, with grief, this angler had
A mighty taking way.

Alas! one day this fisherman
Had taken too much grog,
And being but a landsman, too,
He could n't keep the log.

'T was all in vain with might and main
He strove to reach the shore;
Down—down he went, to feed the fish
He 'd baited oft before.

The jury gave their verdict that
'T was nothing else but gin
Had caused the fisherman to be
So sadly taken in;

Though one stood out upon a whim,
And said the angler's slaughter,
To be exact about the fact,
Was, clearly, gin-and-water!

The moral of this mournful tale,
To all is plain and clear,—
That drinking habits bring a man
Too often to his bier;

And he who scorns to “take the pledge,”
And keep the promise fast,
May be, in spite of fate, a stiff
Cold-water man at last!

COMIC MISERIES.

I.

My dear young friend, whose shining wit
Sets all the room ablaze,
Don't think yourself “a happy dog,”
For all your merry ways;
But learn to wear a sober phiz,
Be stupid, if you can,
It 's such a very serious thing
To be a funny man!

II.

You 're at an evening party, with
A group of pleasant folks,—
You venture quietly to crack
The least of little jokes:
A lady does n't catch the point,
And begs you to explain,—
Alas for one who drops a jest
And takes it up again!

III.

You 're talking deep philosophy
With very special force,
To edify a clergyman
With suitable discourse:
You think you 've got him,—when he calls
A friend across the way,
And begs you 'll say that funny thing
You said the other day!

IV.

You drop a pretty jeu-de-mot
Into a neighbor's ears,
Who likes to give you credit for
The clever thing he hears,
And so he hawks your jest about,
The old, authentic one,
Just breaking off the point of it,
And leaving out the pun!

V.

By sudden change in politics,
Or sadder change in Polly,
You lose your love, or loaves, and fall
A prey to melancholy,
While everybody marvels why
Your mirth is under ban,
They think your very grief “a joke,”
You 're such a funny man!

VI.

You follow up a stylish card
That bids you come and dine,
And bring along your freshest wit
(To pay for musty wine);
You 're looking very dismal, when
My lady bounces in,
And wonders what you 're thinking of,
And why you don't begin!

VII.

You 're telling to a knot of friends
A fancy-tale of woes
That cloud your matrimonial sky,
And banish all repose,—
A solemn lady overhears
The story of your strife,
And tells the town the pleasant news:—
You quarrel with your wife!

VIII. A CONNUBIAL ECLOGUE.

“Arcades ambo,
Et cantare pares et respondere parati.”
Virgil.

HE.
Much lately have I thought, my darling wife,
Some simple rules might make our wedded life
As pleasant always as a morn in May;
I merely name it,—what does Molly say?

SHE.
Agreed: your plan I heartily approve;
Rules would be nice,—but who shall make them, love?
Nay, do not speak!—let this the bargain be,
One shall be made by you, and one by me,
Till all are done—

HE.
—Your plan is surely fair,
In such a work 't is fitting we should share;

And now—although it matters not a pin—
If you have no objection, I 'll begin.

SHE.
Proceed! In making laws I'm little versed;
And as to words, I do not mind the first;
I only claim—and hold the treasure fast—
My sex's sacred privilege, the last!

HE.
With all my heart. Well, dearest, to begin:—
When by our cheerful hearth our friends drop in,
And I am talking in my brilliant style
(The rest with rapture listening the while)
About the war,—or anything, in short,
That you 're aware is my especial forte,—
Pray don't get up a circle of your own,
And talk of—bonnets, in an undertone!

SHE.
That 's Number One; I'll mind it well, if you
Will do as much, my dear, by Number Two:
When we attend a party or a ball,
Don't leave your Molly standing by the wall,
The helpless victim of the dreariest bore
That ever walked upon a parlor-floor,
While you—oblivious of your spouse's doom—
Flirt with the girls,—the gayest in the room!

HE.
When I (although the busiest man alive)
Have snatched an hour to take a pleasant drive,
And say, “Remember, at precisely four
You'll find the carriage ready at the door,”
Don't keep me waiting half an hour or so,
And then declare, “The clock must be too slow!”

SHE.
When you (such things have happened now and then)
Go to the Club with, “I'll be back at ten,”
And stay till two o'clock, you need n't say,
“I really was the first to come away;
'T is very strange how swift the time has passed:
I'm sure, my dear, the clock must be too fast!”

HE.
There—that will do; what else remains to say
We may consider at a future day;
I'm getting sleepy—and—if you have done—

SHE.
Not I!—this making rules is precious fun;
Now here 's another:—When you paint to me
“That charming woman” you are sure to see,
Don't—when you praise the virtues she has got—
Name only those you think your wife has not!
And here 's a rule I hope you won't forget,
The most important I have mentioned yet,—
Pray mind it well:—Whenever you incline
To bring your queer companions home to dine,
Suppose, my dear,—Good Gracious! he 's asleep!
Ah! well,—'t is lucky good advice will keep;
And he shall have it, or, upon my life,
I 've not the proper spirit of a wife!

SOME PENCIL-PICTURES:

TAKEN AT SARATOGA.

I.

Your novel-writers make their ladies tall;
I mean their heroines; as if, indeed,

It were a fatal failing to be small.
In this, I own, we are not well agreed,—
I like a little woman, if she 's pretty,
Modest and clever, sensible and witty.

II.

And such is she who sits beside me; fair
As her deportment; mine is not the pen
To paint the glory of her Saxon hair,
And eyes of heavenly azure! There are men
Who doat on raven tresses, and are fond
Of dark complexions,—I adore a blonde!

III.

There sits a woman of another type:
Superb in figure and of stately size;
An Amazonian beauty round and ripe
As Cytherea,—with delicious eyes
That laugh or languish with a shifting hue
Somewhat between a hazel and a blue.

IV.

Across the room—to please a daintier taste—
A slender damsel flits with fairy tread;
A lover's hand might span her little waist,
If so inclined,—that is, if they were wed.
Some youths admire those fragile forms, I 've heard;
I never saw the man, upon my word!

V.

But styles of person, though they please me more
(As Nature's work), excite my wonder less
Than all my curious vision may explore
In moods and manners, equipage and dress;
The last alone were theme enough, indeed,
For more than I could write, or you would read.

VI.

Swift satirized mankind with little ruth,
And womankind as well; but we must own
His words of censure oft are very truth,—
For instance, where the satirist has shown
How—thankless for the gifts which they have got—
All strive to show the talents they—have not!

VII.

Thus (it is written) Frederick the Great
Cared little for the battles he had fought,
But listened eagerly and all elate
To hear a courtier praise the style and thought
That graced his Sonnets; though, in fact, his verse
(I 've tried to read it) could n't well be worse!

VIII.

The like absurd ambition you may note
In fashionable women. Look you there!
Observe an arm which all (but she) must vote
Extremely ugly; so she keeps it bare
(Lest so much beauty should escape the light)
From wrist to shoulder, morning, noon, and night!

IX.

Observe again (the girl who stands alone)
How Pride reveals what Prudence would suppress;
A mere anatomy of skin-and-bone,—
She wears, perversely, a décolleto dress!
Those tawny angles seek no friendly screen,
But court the day, and glory to be seen!

X.

O Robert Burns! if such a thing might be,
That all by ignorance or folly blind,
For once should “see themselves as others see”
(As thou didst pray for hapless human kind),
What startled crowds would madly rush to hide
The dearest objects of their fondest pride!

BOYS.

“The proper study of mankind is man,”—
The most perplexing one, no doubt, is woman,
The subtlest study that the mind can scan,
Of all deep problems, heavenly or human!

But of all studies in the round of learning,
From nature's marvels down to human toys,
To minds well fitted for acute discerning,
The very queerest one is that of boys!

If to ask questions that would puzzle Plato,
And all the schoolmen of the Middle Age,—
If to make precepts worthy of old Cato,
Be deemed philosophy, your boy 's a sage!

If the possession of a teeming fancy
(Although, forsooth, the younker does n't know it),
Which he can use in rarest necromancy,
Be thought poetical, your boy 's a poet!

If a strong will and most courageous bearing,
If to be cruel as the Roman Nero;
If all that 's chivalrous, and all that 's daring,
Can make a hero, then the boy 's a hero!

But changing soon with his increasing stature,
The boy is lost in manhood's riper age,
And with him goes his former triple nature,—
No longer Poet, Hero, now, nor Sage!

THE SUPERFLUOUS MAN.

“It is ascertained by inspection of the registers of many countries, that the uniform proportion of male to female births is as 21 to 20: accordingly, in respect to marriage, every 21st man is naturally superfluous.”—

Treatise on Population.

I long have been puzzled to guess,
And so I have frequently said,
What the reason could really be
That I never have happened to wed;
But now it is perfectly clear,
I am under a natural ban;
The girls are already assigned,—
And I'm a superfluous man!

Those clever statistical chaps
Declare the numerical run
Of women and men in the world,
Is Twenty to Twenty-and-one;
And hence in the pairing, you see,
Since wooing and wedding began,
For every connubial score,
They 've got a superfluous man!

By twenties and twenties they go,
And giddily rush to their fate,
For none of the number, of course,
Can fail of a conjugal mate;
But while they are yielding in scores
To Nature's inflexible plan,
There 's never a woman for me,—
For I'm a superfluous man!

It is n't that I am a churl,
To solitude over-inclined;
It is n't that I am at fault
In morals, or manners, or mind;
Then what is the reason, you ask,
I'm still with the bachelor-clan?
I merely was numbered amiss,—
And I'm a superfluous man!

It is n't that I am in want
Of personal beauty or grace,
For many a man with a wife
Is uglier far in the face;
Indeed, among elegant men
I fancy myself in the van;
But what is the value of that,
When I'm a superfluous man?

Although I am fond of the girls,
For aught I could ever discern
The tender emotion I feel
Is one that they never return;
'T is idle to quarrel with fate,
For, struggle as hard as I can,
They 're mated already, you know,—
And I'm a superfluous man!

No wonder I grumble at times,
With women so pretty and plenty,
To know that I never was born
To figure as one of the Twenty;

But yet, when the average lot
With critical vision I scan,
I think it may be for the best
That I'm a superfluous man!

TOUJOURS LES FEMMES.

I think it was a Persian king
Who used to say, that evermore
In human life each evil thing
Comes of the sex that men adore;
In brief, that nothing e'er befell
To harm or grieve our hapless race,
But, if you probe the matter well,
You 'll find a woman in the case!

And then the curious tale is told
How, when upon a certain night
A climbing youngster lost his hold,
And, falling from a ladder's height,
Was found, alas! next morning dead,
His Majesty, with solemn face,
As was his wont, demurely said,
“Pray, who 's the woman in the case?”

And how a lady of his court,
Who deemed the royal whim absurd,
Rebuked him, while she made report
Of the mischance that late occurred;
Whereat the king replied in glee,
“I 've heard the story, please your Grace,
And all the witnesses agree
There was a woman in the case!

“The truth, your Ladyship, is this
(Nor is it marvelous at all),
The chap was climbing for a kiss,
And got, instead, a fatal fall.
Whene'er a man—as I have said—
Falls from a ladder, or from grace,
Or breaks his faith, or breaks his head,
There is a woman in the case!”

For such a churlish, carping creed
As that his Majesty professed,
I hold him of unkingly breed,—
Unless, in sooth, he spoke in jest.
To me, few things have come to pass
Of good event, but I can trace,—
Thanks to the matron or the lass,—
Somewhere, a woman in the case.

Yet once, while gayly strolling where
A vast Museum still displays
Its varied wealth of strange and rare,
To charm, or to repel, the gaze,—
I—to a lady (who denied
The creed by laughing in my face)—
Took up, for once, the Persian's side
About a woman in the case.

Discoursing thus, we came upon
A grim Egyptian mummy—dead
Some centuries since. “'T is Pharaoh's son,
Perhaps; who knows?” the lady said.
No! on the black sarcophagus
A female name I stooped to trace.
Toujours les femmes! 'T is ever thus,—
There was a woman in the case!

GIRLHOOD.

With rosy cheeks, and merry-dancing curls,
And eyes of tender light,
O, very beautiful are little girls,
And goodly to the sight!

Here comes a group to seek my lonely bower,
Ere waning Autumn dies:
How like the dew-drops on a drooping flower
Are smiles from gentle eyes!

What beaming gladness lights each fairy face
The while the elves advance,
Now speeding swiftly in a gleesome race,
Now whirling in a dance!

What heavenly pleasure o'er the spirit rolls,
When all the air along
Floats the sweet music of untainted souls,
In bright, unsullied song!

The sacred nymphs that guard this sylvan ground
May sport unseen with these,
And joy to hear their ringing laugh resound
Among the clustering trees!

With rosy cheeks, and merry-dancing curls,
And eyes of tender light,

O, very beautiful are little girls,
And goodly to the sight!

THE COCKNEY.

It was in my foreign travel,
At a famous Flemish inn,
That I met a stoutish person
With a very ruddy skin;
And his hair was something sandy,
And was done in knotty curls,
And was parted in the middle,
In the manner of a girl's.

He was clad in checkered trousers,
And his coat was of a sort
To suggest a scanty pattern,
It was bobbed so very short;
And his cap was very little,
Such as soldiers often use;
And he wore a pair of gaiters,
And extremely heavy shoes.

I addressed the man in English,
And he answered in the same,
Though he spoke it in a fashion
That I thought a little lame;
For the aspirate was missing
Where the letter should have been,
But where'er it was n't wanted,
He was sure to put it in!

When I spoke with admiration
Of St. Peter's mighty dome,
He remarked: “'T is really nothing
To the sights we 'ave at 'ome!”
And declared upon his honor,—
Though, of course, 't was very queer,—
That he doubted if the Romans
'Ad the hart of making beer!

When I named the Colosseum,
He observed, “'T is very fair;
I mean, ye know, it would be,
If they 'd put it in repair;
But what progress or himprovement
Can those curst Hitalians 'ope
While they 're hunder the dominion
Of that blasted muff, the Pope?”

Then we talked of other countries,
And he said that he had heard
That Hamericans spoke Hinglish,
But he deemed it quite habsurd;
Yet he felt the deepest hinterest
In the missionary work,
And would like to know if Georgia
Was in Boston or New York!

When I left the man-in-gaiters,
He was grumbling, o'er his gin,
At the charges of the hostess
Of that famous Flemish inn;
And he looked a very Briton
(So, methinks, I see him still),
As he pocketed the candle
That was mentioned in the bill!

CAPTAIN JONES'S MISADVENTURE.

I.

Captain Jones was five-feet ten
(The height of Chesterfield's gentlemen),
With a manly breadth of shoulder;
And Captain Jones was straight and trim,
With nothing about him anywise slim,
And had for a leg as perfect a limb
As ever astonished beholder!

II.

With a calf of such a notable size
'T would surely have taken the highest prize
At any fair Fair in creation;
'T was just the leg for a prince to sport
Who wished to stand at a Royal Court
At the head of Foreign Legation!

III.

And Captain Jones had an elegant foot,
'T was just the thing for his patent boot,
And could so prettily shove it,
'T was a genuine pleasure to see it repeat
In the public walks the Milonian feat
Of bearing the calf above it!

IV.

But the Captain's prominent personal charm
Was neither his foot, nor leg, nor arm,
Nor his very distingué air;
Nor was it, although you 're thinking upon 't,
The front of his head, but his head and front
Of beautiful coal-black hair!

V.

So very bright was the gloss they had,
'T would have made a rival raving mad
To look at his raven curls;
Wherever he went, the Captain's hair
Was certain to fix the public stare,
And the constant cry was, “I declare!”
And “Did you ever!” and “Just look there!”
Among the dazzled girls.

VI.

Now Captain Jones was a master bold
Of a merchant-ship some dozen years old,
And every name could have easily told,
And never confound the “hull” and the “hold,”
Throughout her inventory;
And he had traveled in foreign parts,
And learned a number of foreign arts,
And played the deuce with foreign hearts,
As the Captain told the story.

VII.

He had learned to chatter the French and Spanish,
To splutter the Dutch, and mutter the Danish,
In a way that sounded oracular;
Had gabbled among the Portuguese;
And caught the Tartar, or, rather, a piece
Of “broken China,” it was n't Chinese,
Any more than his own vernacular!

VIII.

How Captain Jones was wont to shine
In the line of ships! (not Ships of the Line,)
How he'd brag of the water over his wine,
And of woman over the water!
And then, if you credit the Captain's phrase,
He was more expert in such queer ways
As “doubling capes” and “putting in stays,”
Than any milliner's daughter!

IX.

Now the Captain kept in constant pay
A single Mate, as a Captain may
(In a nautical, not in a naughty way,
As “mates” are sometimes carried);
But to hear him prose of the squalls that arose
In the dead of the night to break his repose,
Of white-caps and cradles, and such things as those,
And of breezes that ended in regular blows,
You'd have sworn the Captain was married!

X.

The Captain's morals were fair enough,
Though a sailor's life is rather rough,
By dint of the ocean's force;
And that one who makes so many, in ships,
Should make, upon shore, occasional “trips,”
Seems quite a matter of course.

XI.

And Captain Jones was stiff as a post
To the vulgar fry, but among the most
Genteel and polished, ruled the roast,
As no professional cook could boast
That ever you set your eye on;
Indeed, 't was enough to make him vain,
For the pretty and proud confessed his reign,
And Captain Jones, in manners and mane,
Was deemed a genuine lion.

XII.

And the Captain reveled early and late,
At the balls and routs of the rich and great,
And seemed the veriest child of fêtes,
Though merely a minion of pleasure;
And he laughed with the girls in merry sport,
And paid the mammas the civilest court,
And drank their wine, whatever the sort,
By the nautical rule of “Any port”—
You may add the rest at leisure.

XIII.

Miss Susan Brown was a dashing girl
As ever revolved in the waltz's whirl,
Or twinkled a foot in the polka's twirl,
By the glare of spermaceti;
And Susan's form was trim and slight,
And her beautiful skin, as if in spite
Of her dingy name, was exceedingly white,

And her azure eyes were “sparkling and bright,”
And so was her favorite ditty.

XIV.

And Susan Brown had a score of names,
Like the very voluminous Mr. James
(Who got at the Font his strongest claims
To be reckoned a Man of Letters);
But thinking the task will hardly please
Scholars who 've taken the higher degrees,
To be set repeating their A, B, C's,
I choose to reject such fetters as these,
Though merely Nominal fetters.

XV.

The patronymical name of the maid
Was so completely overlaid
With a long prænominal cover,
That if each additional proper noun
Was laid with additional emphasis down,
Miss Susan was done uncommonly Brown,
The moment her christ'ning was over!

XVI.

And Susan was versed in modern romance,
In the Modes of Murray and Modes of France,
And had learned to sing and learned to dance,
In a style decidedly pretty;
And Susan was versed in classical lore,
In the works of Horace, and several more
Whose opera now would be voted a bore
By the lovers of Donizetti.

XVII.

And Susan was rich. Her provident sire
Had piled the dollars up higher and higher,
By dint of his personal labors,
Till he reckoned at last a sufficient amount
To be counted, himself, a man of account
Among his affluent neighbors.

XVIII.

By force of careful culture alone,
Old Brown's estate had rapidly grown
A plum for his only daughter;
And, after all the fanciful dreams
Of golden fountains and golden streams,
The sweat of patient labor seems
The true Pactolian water.

XIX.

And while your theorist worries his mind
In hopes the magical stone to find,
By some alchemical gammon,
Practical people, by regular knocks,
Are filling their “pockets full of rocks”
From the golden mountain of Mammon!

XX.

With charms like these, you may well suppose
Miss Susan Brown had plenty of beaux,
Breathing nothing but passion;
And twenty sought her hand to gain,
And twenty sought her hand in vain,
Were “cut,” and did n't “come again,”
In the Ordinary fashion.

XXI.

Captain Jones, by the common voice,
At length was voted the man of her choice,
And she his favorite fair;
It was n't the Captain's manly face,
His native sense, nor foreign grace,
That took her heart from its proper place
And put it into a tenderer case,
But his beautiful coal-black hair!

XXII.

How it is, why it is, none can tell,
But all philosophers know full well,
Though puzzled about the action,
That of all the forces under the sun
You can hardly find a stronger one
Than capillary attraction.

XXIII.

The locks of canals are strong as rocks;
And wedlock is strong as a banker's box;
And there 's strength in the locks a Cockney cocks
At innocent birds, to give himself knocks;
In the locks of safes, and those safety-locks
They call the Permutation;

But of all the locks that ever were made
In Nature's shops, or the shops of trade,
The subtlest combination
Of beauty and strength is found in those
Which grace the heads of belles and beaux
In every civilized nation!

XXIV.

The gossips whispered it through the town,
That Captain Jones loved Susan Brown;
But, speaking with due precision,
The gossips' tattle was out of joint,
For the lady's “blunt” was the only point
That dazzled the lover's vision!

XXV.

And the Captain begged, in his smoothest tones,
Miss Susan Brown to be Mistress Jones,—
Flesh of his flesh and bone of his bones,
Till death the union should sever;
For these are the words employed, of course,
Though Death is cheated, sometimes, by Divorce,
A fact which gives an equivocal force
To that beautiful phrase, “forever!”

XXVI.

And Susan sighed the conventional “Nay”
In such a bewitching, affirmative way,
The Captain perceived 't was the feminine “Ay,”
And sealed it in such commotion,
That no “lip-service” that ever was paid
To the ear of a god, or the cheek of a maid,
Looked more like real devotion!

XXVII.

And Susan's Mamma made an elegant fête,
And exhibited all the family plate,
In honor of Susan's lover;
For now 't was settled, another trip
Over the sea in his merchant-ship,
And his bachelor-ship was over.

XXVIII.

There was an Alderman, well to do,
Who was fond of talking about vertu,
And had, besides, the genuine goût,
If one might credit his telling;
And the boast was true beyond a doubt
If he had only pronounced it “gout,”
According to English spelling!

XXIX.

A crockery-merchant of great parade,
Always boasting of having made
His large estate in the China trade;
Several affluent tanners;
A lawyer, whose most important “case”
Was that which kept his books in place;
His wife, a lady of matchless grace,
Who bought her form, and made her face,
And plainly borrowed her manners;

XXX.

A druggist; an undevout divine;
A banker, who 'd got as rich as mine
“In the cotton trade and sugar line,”
Along the Atlantic border;
A doctor, fumbling his golden seals;
And an undertaker close at his heels,
Quite in the natural order!

XXXI.

People of rank, and people of wealth,
Plethoric people in delicate health
(Who fast in public, and feast by stealth),
And people slender and hearty
Flocked in so fast, 't was plain to the eye
Of any observer standing by,
That party-spirit was running high,
And this was the popular party!

XXXII.

To tell what griefs and woes betide
The hapless world, from female pride,
Were a long and dismal story;
Alas for Susan and womankind!
A sudden ambition seized her mind,
In the height of her party-glory.

XXXIII.

To pique a group of laughing girls
Who stood admiring the Captain's curls,
She formed the resolution
To get a lock of her lover's hair,
In the gaze of the guests assembled there,

By some expedient, foul or fair,
Before the party's conclusion.

XXXIV.

“Only a lock, dear Captain! no more,
‘A lock for memory,’ I implore!”
But Jones, the gayest of quizzers,
Replied, as he gave his eye a cock,
“'T is a treacherous memory needs a lock,”
And dodged the envious scissors.

XXXV.

Alas that Susan could n't refrain,
In her zeal the precious lock to gain,
From laying her hand on the lion's mane!
To see the cruel mocking,
And hear the short, affected cough,
The general titter, and chuckle, and scoff,
When the Captain's Patent Wig came off,
Was really dreadfully shocking!

XXXVI.

Of Susan's swoon, the tale is told,
That long before her earthly mould
Regained its ghostly tenant,
Her luckless, wigless, loveless lover
Was on the sea, and “half-seas-over,”
Dreaming that some piratical rover
Had carried away his Pennant!

MIRALDA:

A TALE OF CUBA.

The tale of “Miralda” is based on a popular legend, of which an excellent prose version may be found in Ballou's “History of Cuba.”

I.

In Cuba, when that lovely land
Saw Tacon reigning in his glory,
How Justice held, at his command,
Her balance with an even hand—
Learn while you listen to my story.

II.

Miralda—such her maiden name—
Was poor and fair, and gay and witty,
Yet in Havana not a dame
In satin had a fairer fame,
Or owned a face one half so pretty.

III.

For years she plied her humble trade
(To sell cigars was her vocation),
And many a gay gallant had paid
More pounds to please the handsome maid
Than pence to buy his soul's salvation.

IV.

But though the maiden, like the sun,
Had smiles for every transient rover,
Her smiles were all the bravest won;
Miralda gave her heart to none
Save Pedro, her affianced lover;

V.

Pedro, a manly youth who bore
His station well as labor's vassal,
The while he plied a nimble oar
For passengers, from shore to shore,
Between the Punta and the castle.

VI.

The handsome boatman she had learned
To love with fondest, truest passion;
For him she saved the gold she earned;
For him Miralda proudly spurned
The doubtful suit of men of fashion.

VII.

Of these—a giddy, gaudy train,
Strict devotees of wanton Pleasure—
Gay Count Almonté sought to gain
Miralda's love; but all in vain;
Her heart was still her Pedro's treasure.

VIII.

At last the Count, in sheer despair
Of gaining aught by patient suing,
Contrived—the wretch!—a cunning snare,
By wicked force to win and wear
The prize that spurned his gentler wooing.

IX.

One day a dashing Captain came,
Before the morning sun had risen,
And, bowing, begged to know her name.
“Miralda.” “Faith! it is the same.
Here, men, conduct the girl to prison!”

X.

“By whose authority?” she said.
“The Governor's!” “Nay, then 't is folly
To question more.” She dropped her head,

And followed where the Captain led,
O'erwhelmed with deepest melancholy.

XI.

The prison seems a league or more
From poor Miralda's humble shanty;
Was e'er such treachery before?
The Count Almonté 's at the door,
To hand her down from the volanté!

XII.

“Ah, coward!” cried the angry maid;
“This scurvy trick! If Tacon knew it,
Your precious ‘Captain,’ I'm afraid,
Would miss, for once, his dress parade!
Release me, Count, or you may rue it!”

XIII.

“Nay,” said the Count, “that may not be;
I cannot let you go at present;
I'll lock you up awhile,” said he;
“If you are lonely, send for me;
I'll try to make your prison pleasant.”

XIV.

Poor Pedro! guess the lad's dismay,
His stark astonishment, at learning
His lady-love had gone away
(But how or whither none could say),
And left no word about returning!

XV.

The man who wrote that “Love is blind”
Could ne'er have known a genuine lover;
Poor Pedro gave his anxious mind
Miralda's hiding-place to find,
And found it ere the day was over.

XVI.

Clad in a friar's garb, he hies
At night to where his love is hidden,
And, favored by his grave disguise,
He learns that she is safe,—and flies,
As he had entered, unforbidden.

XVII.

What could he do? he pondered long
On every plausible suggestion.
Alas! the rich may do a wrong,
And buy their quittance with a song,
If any dare the deed to question!

XVIII.

“Yet Rumor whispered long ago
(Although she 's very fond of lying),
‘Tacon loves justice!’ May be so;
Quien sabe? Let his answer show!
I'll go and see; it is but trying!”

XIX.

And, faith, the boatman kept his word;
To Tacon he the tale related,
Which, when the Governor had heard,
With righteous wrath his breast was stirred.
“Swear, boy,” he said, “to what you 've stated!”

XX.

He took the oath, and straight began
For speedy justice to implore him:
Great Tacon frowned, “Be silent, man!”
Then called the guard: away they ran,
And soon the culprit stood before him!

XXI.

Miralda too was standing near,
To witness to his dark transgression.
“Know you, my lord, why you are here?”
“Yes, Excellencia, it is clear
That I must plead an indiscretion.”

XXII.

“The uniform your servants wore
In this affair,—how came they by it?
Whose sword was that your Captain bore?
The crime is grave.” “Nay, I implore
Your clemency; I can't deny it.”

XXIII.

“This damsel here,—has any stain
By act of yours been put upon her?”
“No, Excellencia; all in vain
Were bribes and threats her will to gain,—
I here declare it on my honor!”

XXIV.

“Enough!” the Governor replied,
And added, in a voice of thunder,
“Go, bring a Priest!” What can betide?

To shrive? to wed? who can decide?
All stood and mused in silent wonder.

XXV.

The Priest was brought,—a reverend head,
His hands with holy emblems laden.
“Now, Holy Father, please to wed,
And let the rite be quickly sped,
Senor Almonté and this maiden!”

XXVI.

Poor Pedro stood aghast! With fear
And deep dismay Miralda trembled;
While Count Almonté, thus to hear
The words of doom that smote his ear,
His sudden horror ill dissembled.

XXVII.

Too late! for in that presence none
Had dared a whisper of negation.
The words were said; the deed was done;
The Church had joined the two in one
Ere they had breath for lamentation!

XXVIII.

The Count rode off with drooping head,
Cursing his fortune and his folly;
But ere a mile his steed had sped,
A flash!—and lo! the Count is dead,
Slain by a murderous leaden volley.

XXIX.

Soon came the officer who bore
The warrant of his execution,
With, “Excellencia, all is o'er;
Senor Almonté is no more;
Sooth!—'t was a fearful retribution!”

XXX.

“Now let the herald,” Tacon said
“(That none these doings may disparage),
Proclaim Senor Almonté dead;
And that Miralda take, instead,
His lands, now hers by lawful marriage!”

XXXI.

And so it was the lovers came
To happiness beyond their dreaming,
And ever after blessed the name
Of him who spared a maiden shame,
And spoiled a villain's wicked scheming.

LE JARDIN MABILLE.

I.

Should you e'er go to France—as of course you intend—
(Though the Great Exposition is now at an end,)
And in Paris should stroll—as I'm certain you will—
In the Gardens adorned with such exquisite skill
To call them “Elysian” is scarcely to reach
What the grammars entitle a “figure of speech,”—
Don't fail, ere you go, for a moment to steal
A look at the spot called the Jardin Mabille.

II.

'T is a place of enchantment! a rural retreat
Where Nature and Art in such harmony meet
To form an Elysium of music and flowers,
Of moss-covered grottoes and fairylike bowers,
Where lamps blaze in tulips, and glow-worms of gas
Illumine the roses and gleam in the grass,—
That, merely to see it, one cannot but feel
If there 's Heaven on Earth, 't is the Jardin Mabille!

III.

But wait until midnight, or, say, one o'clock,
When hither by hundreds the citizens flock,
And strangers unnumbered are strolling around
In the serpentine walks of the beautiful ground;
Just wait, if you please, till the dance is begun,
And then, at the height of the frolic and fun,
Pray look where the bacchanals caper and reel,
And say what you think of the Jardin Mabille!

IV.

The music—the maddest that ever you heard—
Strikes up from the stand, and away, at the word,
The dancers revolve,—'t is the waltz, that is all;
The same you have witnessed at many a ball.
There 's nothing extremely surprising in this,
The motion is swift, but there 's little amiss;
You merely remark, “There is plenty of zeal
In the dancers who dance in the Jardin Mabille!”

V.

But see! where the people are closing about
Two brazen-browed women; and hark to the shout,
“La Can-can!—they 're at it!”—No wonder you stare,
One foot on the pavement,—now two in the air!
A Cockney, intent on this rarest of shows,
Retreats from the shoe that is grazing his nose!
Good lack! till he dies, he'll remember the heel
That spoiled his new hat in the Jardin Mabille!

VI.

There 's drinking and gaming at many a stand;
There 's feasting and flirting on every hand;
The Paphian queen, it were easy to tell,
Is the Abbess, to-night, of yon anchorite cell;
And the marveling Turk (for the Sultan is here!)
Cries, “Allah! Meshallah! these Christians are queer!
Such orgies as these very plainly reveal
Why they don't take their wives to the Jardin Mabille!”

VII.

“A pity!” you sigh,—and a pity it is
Such revels should shame such a garden as this;
Where all that is charming in Nature and Art
Serves only to sully and harden the heart.
“The Devil's own hot-house!” you musingly say,
While turning in sadness and sorrow away;
Reflecting that Sin—as you potently feel—
Is the thriftiest plant in the Jardin Mabille!

1867.

THE BEAUTY OF BALLSTON.

AFTER PRAED.

This piece is an imitation of a poem by Praed, entitled “My Partner.” There are two other pieces in this collection, which, in deference to certain critics, I ought to mention as imitations of the same author. There is, indeed, a resemblance, in the form of the stanza and in the antithetic style of treatment, to several poems of Praed; but as both the metre and the method are of ancient date, and are fairly the property of whomsoever may employ them, no further acknowledgment seems necessary than that which is contained in this note. The same remark will apply to “The proud Miss MacBride,” which is written in the measure, and (longo intervallo) after the manner of Hood's incomparable “Golden Legend.”

In Ballston—once a famous spot,
Ere Saratoga came in fashion—
I had a transient fit of what
The poets call the “tender passion”;
In short, when I was young and gay,
And Fancy held the throne of Reason,
I fell in love with Julia May,
The reigning beauty of the season.

Her eyes were blue, and such a pair!
No star in heaven was ever brighter;
Her skin was most divinely fair;
I never saw a shoulder whiter.
And there was something in her form
(Juste en-bon-point, I think they term it)
That really was enough to warm
The icy bosom of a hermit!

In sooth, she was a witching girl,
And even women called her pretty,
Who saw her in the waltz's whirl,
Beneath the glare of spermaceti;
Or if they carped—as Candor must
When wounded pride and envy rankle—
'T was only that so full a bust
Should heave above so trim an ankle!

One eve, remote from festive mirth,
We talked of Nature and her treasures;
I said:—“Of all the joys of earth,
Pray name the sweetest of her pleasures.”
She gazed with rapture at the moon
That struggled through the spreading beeches,

And answered thus:—“A grove—at noon—
A friend—and lots of cream and peaches!”

I spoke of trees,—the stately oak
That stands the forest's royal leader;
The whispering pine; and then I spoke
Of Lebanon's imperial cedar;
The maple of our colder clime;
The elm with branches intermeeting,—
She thought the palm must be sublime,
And—dates were very luscious eating!

I talked about the sea and sky,
And spoke, with something like emotion,
Of countless pearly gems that lie
Ungathered by the sounding ocean.
She smiled, and said, (was it in jest?)
Of all the shells that Nature boasted
She thought that oysters were the best,
“And, dearest, don't you love 'em roasted!”

I talked of books and classic lore;
I spoke of Cooper's latest fiction,
Recited melodies from Moore,
And lauded Irving's charming diction;—
She sat entranced; then raised her head,
And with a smile that seemed of heaven,
“We must return,” the siren said,
“Or we shall lose the lunch at 'leven!”

I can't describe the dreadful shock,
The mingled sense of love and pity,
With which, next day, at ten o'clock,
I started for Manhattan city;
'T was years ago,—that sad “Good-by,”
Yet o'er the scene fond memory lingers;
I see the crystals in her eye,
And berry-stains upon her fingers!

Ah me! of so much loveliness
It had been sweet to be the winner;
I know she loved me only less—
The merest fraction—than her dinner.
'T was hard to lose so fair a prize,
But then (I thought) 't were vastly harder
To have before my jealous eyes
A constant rival in my larder!

WHEN I MEAN TO MARRY.

When do I mean to marry?—Well,
'T is idle to dispute with fate;
But if you choose to hear me tell,
Pray listen while I fix the date.

When daughters haste, with eager feet,
A mother's daily toil to share;
Can make the puddings which they eat,
And mend the stockings which they wear;

When maidens look upon a man
As in himself what they would marry,
And not as army-soldiers scan
A sutler or a commissary;

When gentle ladies, who have got
The offer of a lover's hand,
Consent to share his earthly lot,
And do not mean his lot of land;

When young mechanics are allowed
To find and wed the farmers' girls
Who don't expect to be endowed
With rubies, diamonds, and pearls;

When wives, in short, shall freely give
Their hearts and hands to aid their spouses,
And live as they were wont to live
Within their sires' one-story houses;

Then, madam,—if I'm not too old,—
Rejoiced to quit this lonely life,
I'll brush my beaver; cease to scold;
And look about me for a wife!

A REFLECTIVE RETROSPECT.

'T is twenty years, and something more,
Since, all athirst for useful knowledge,
I took some draughts of classic lore,
Drawn very mild, at ---rd College;
Yet I remember all that one
Could wish to hold in recollection;
The boys, the joys, the noise, the fun;
But not a single Conic Section.

I recollect those harsh affairs,
The morning bells that gave us panics;
I recollect the formal prayers,
That seemed like lessons in Mechanics;
I recollect the drowsy way
In which the students listened to them,
As clearly, in my wig, to-day,
As when, a boy, I slumbered through them.

I recollect the tutors all
As freshly now, if I may say so,
As any chapter I recall
In Homer or Ovidius Naso.
I recollect, extremely well,
“Old Hugh,” the mildest of fanatics;
I well remember Matthew Bell,
But very faintly, Mathematics.

I recollect the prizes paid
For lessons rathomed to the bottom;
(Alas that pencil-marks should fade!)
I recollect the chaps who got 'em,—
The light equestrians who soared
O'er every passage reckoned stony;
And took the chalks,—but never scored
A single honor to the pony!

Ah me! what changes Time has wrought,
And how predictions have miscarried!
A few have reached the goal they sought,
And some are dead, and some are married!
And some in city journals war;
And some as politicians bicker;
And some are pleading at the bar—
For jury-verdicts, or for liquor!

And some on Trade and Commerce wait;
And some in schools with dunces battle;
And some the Gospel propagate;
And some the choicest breeds of cattle;
And some are living at their ease;
And some were wrecked in “the revulsion”;
Some served the State for handsome fees,
And one, I hear, upon compulsion!

Lamont, who, in his college days,
Thought e'en a cross a moral scandal,
Has left his Puritanic ways,
And worships now with bell and candle;
And Mann, who mourned the negro's fate,
And held the slave as most unlucky,
Now holds him, at the market rate,
On a plantation in Kentucky!

Tom Knox—who swore in such a tone
It fairly might be doubted whether
It really was himself alone,
Or Knox and Erebus together—
Has grown a very altered man,
And, changing oaths for mild entreaty,
Now recommends the Christian plan
To savages in Otaheite!

Alas for young ambition's vow!
How envious Fate may overthrow it!—
Poor Harvey is in Congress now,
Who struggled long to be a poet;
Smith carves (quite well) memorial stones,
Who tried in vain to make the law go;
Hall deals in hides; and “Pious Jones”
Is dealing faro in Chicago!

And, sadder still, the brilliant Hays,
Once honest, manly, and ambitious,
Has taken latterly to ways
Extremely profligate and vicious;
By slow degrees—I can't tell how—
He 's reached at last the very groundsel,
And in New York he figures now,
A member of the Common Council!

THE KNOWING CHILD.

“L'Enfant terrible!”

“ Mais , gardez-vous, mon cher,” she said
And then the mother smiled;
“Speak very softly, if you please,
He 's such a knowing child!”

My simple sister spoke the truth;
There is n't, I suppose,

A thing on earth he should n't know
But what that urchin knows!

And all he knows the younker tells
In such a knowing way;
For what he knows, you may be sure,
He does not fear to say.

He knows he is an arrant churl,
Although he looks so mild;
And—worst of all—full well he knows
He is a knowing child.

He knows—I 've often told him so—
I am averse to noise;
He knows his uncle is n't fond
Of martial little boys;

And that, no doubt, is why he pounds
His real soldier drum
Beneath my window, morn and night,
Until my ear is numb!

He knows my age—that dreadful boy—
Exactly to a day;
He knows precisely why my locks
Have not a thread of gray.

He knows—and says (what shocking talk
For one so very small!)
My head—without my curly scratch—
Looks like a billiard ball!

He knows that Mary's headache means
She does n't wish to go;
And lets the sacred secret out
Before her waiting beau!

He knows why Clara always coughs
When she is asked to sing;
He knows (and blabs!) that Julia's bust
Is not the real thing!

He knows about the baby too;
Though he has often heard
The nurse's old, convenient tale,
He don't believe a word

And when those ante-natal caps
Their future use disclose,
He knows again—the knowing imp—
Just what his uncle knows!

Ah! well; no doubt, what Time may bring
'T is better not to see;
I know not what the changeful Fates
May have in store for me;

But if within the nuptial noose
My neck should be beguiled,
Heaven save the house from childlessness
And from a knowing child!

IDEAL AND REAL.

IDEAL.

Some years ago, when I was young,
And Mrs. Jones was Miss Delancy;
When wedlock's canopy was hung
With curtains from the loom of fancy;
I used to paint my future life
With most poetical precision,—
My special wonder of a wife;
My happy days; my nights Elysian.

I saw a lady, rather small
(A Juno was my strict abhorrence),
With flaxen hair, contrived to fall
In careless ringlets, à la Lawrence;
A blonde complexion; eyes that drew
From autumn clouds their azure brightness;
The foot of Hebe; arms whose hue
Was perfect in its milky whiteness!

I saw a party, quite select,—
There might have been a baker's dozen;
A parson, of the ruling sect;
A bridemaid, and a city cousin;
A formal speech to me and mine
(Its meaning I could scarce discover);
A taste of cake; a sip of wine;
Some kissing—and the scene was over!

I saw a baby—one—no more;
A cherub pictured, rather faintly,
Beside a pallid dame who wore
A countenance extremely saintly.
I saw,—but nothing could I hear,
Except the softest prattle, maybe,
The merest breath upon the ear,—
So quiet was the blesséd baby!

REAL.

I see a woman, rather tall,
And yet, I own, a comely lady

Complexion—such as I must call
(To be exact) a little shady;
A hand not handsome, yet confessed
A generous one for love or pity;
A nimble foot, and—neatly dressed
In No. 5—extremely pretty!

I see a group of boys and girls
Assembled round the knee paternal
With ruddy cheeks and tangled curls,
And manners not at all supernal.
And one has reached a manly size;
And one aspires to woman's stature;
And one is quite a recent prize,
And all abound in human nature!

The boys are hard to keep in trim;
The girls are often rather trying;
And baby—like the cherubim—
Seems very fond of steady crying!
And yet the precious little one,
His mother's dear, despotic master,
Is worth a thousand babies done
In Parian or in alabaster!

And oft that stately dame and I,
When laughing o'er our early dreaming,
And marking, as the years go by,
How idle was our youthful scheming,
Confess the wiser Power that knew
How Duty every joy enhances,
And gave us blessings rich and true,
And better far than all our fancies.

THE GAME OF LIFE.

A HOMILY.

There's a game much in fashion,—I think it's called Euchre
(Though I never have played it, for pleasure or lucre),
In which, when the cards are in certain conditions,
The players appear to have changed their positions,
And one of them cries, in a confident tone,
“I think I may venture to go it alone!

While watching the game, 't is a whim of the bard's
A moral to draw from that skirmish of cards,
And to fancy he finds in the trivial strife
Some excellent hints for the battle of Life;
Where—whether the prize be a ribbon or throne—
The winner is he who can go it alone!

When great Galileo proclaimed that the world
In a regular orbit was ceaselessly whirled,
And got—not a convert—for all of his pains,
But only derision and prison and chains,
“It moves, for all that!” was his answering tone,
For he knew, like the Earth, he could go it alone!

When Kepler, with intellect piercing afar,
Discovered the laws of each planet and star,
And doctors, who ought to have lauded his name,
Derided his learning, and blackened his fame,
“I can wait!” he replied, “till the truth you shall own”;
For he felt in his heart he could go it alone!

Alas! for the player who idly depends,
In the struggle of life, upon kindred or friends;
Whatever the value of blessings like these,
They can never atone for inglorious ease,
Nor comfort the coward who finds, with a groan,
That his crutches have left him to go it alone!

There 's something, no doubt, in the hand you may hold,
Health, family, culture, wit, beauty, and gold
The fortunate owner may fairly regard
As, each in its way, a most excellent card;
Yet the game may be lost, with all these for your own,
Unless you 've the courage to go it alone!

In battle or business, whatever the game,
In law or in love, it is ever the same;

In the struggle for power, or the scramble for pelf,
Let this be your motto,—Rely on yourself!
For, whether the prize be a ribbon or throne,
The victor is he who can go it alone!

THE PUZZLED CENSUS TAKER.

“Got any boys?” the Marshal said
To a lady from over the Rhine;
And the lady shook her flaxen head,
And civilly answered, “Nein!”

“Got any girls?” the Marshal said
To the lady from over the Rhine;
And again the lady shook her head,
And civilly answered, “Nein!”

“But some are dead?” the Marshal said
To the lady from over the Rhine;
And again the lady shook her head,
And civilly answered, “Nein!”

“Husband of course?” the Marshal said
To the lady from over the Rhine;
And again she shook her flaxen head,
And civilly answered, “Nein!”

“The devil you have!” the Marshal said
To the lady from over the Rhine;
And again she shook her flaxen head,
And civilly answered, “Nein!”

“Now what do you mean by shaking your head,
And always answering, ‘Nine’?”
“Ich kann nicht Englisch!” civilly said
The lady from over the Rhine.

Nein, pronounced nine, is the German for “No.”

THE HEART AND THE LIVER.

MUSINGS OF A DYSPEPTIC.

I.

She's broken-hearted, I have heard,
Whate'er may be the reason
(Such things will happen now and then
In Love's tempestuous season);
But still I marvel she should show
No plainer outward token,
If such a vital inward part
Were very badly broken!

II.

She 's broken-hearted, I am told,
And so, of course, believe it;
When truth is fairly certified
I modestly receive it;
But after such an accident,
It surely is a blessing,
It does n't in the least impair
Her brilliant style of dressing!

III.

She 's broken-hearted: who can doubt
The noisy voice of Rumor?
And yet she seems—for such a wreck—
In no unhappy humor;
She sleeps (I hear) at proper hours,
When other folks are dozy;
Her eyes are sparkling as of yore,
And still her cheeks are rosy!

IV.

She 's broken-hearted, and they say
She never can recover;
And then—in not the mildest way—
They blame some fickle lover;
I know she 's dying—by degrees—
But, sure as I'm a sinner,
I saw her eat, the other day,
A most prodigious dinner!

V.

Alas! that I, in idle rhyme,
Should e'er profanely question
(As I have done while musing o'er
My chronic indigestion)
If one should not receive the blow
With blessings on the Giver,
That only falls upon the heart,
And kindly spares the Liver!

ABOUT HUSBANDS.

“A man is, in general, better pleased when he has a good dinner upon his table, than when his wife speak Greek.”—

Sam. Johnson.

Johnson was right. I don't agree to all
The solemn dogmas of the rough old stager;

But very much approve what one may call
The minor morals of the “Ursa Major.”

Johnson was right. Although some men adore
Wisdom in woman, and with learning cram her,
There is n't one in ten but thinks far more
Of his own grub than of his spouse's grammar.

I know it is the greatest shame in life;
But who among them (save, perhaps, myself)
Returning hungry home, but asks his wife
What beef—not books—she has upon the shelf?

Though Greek and Latin be the lady's boast,
They 're little valued by her loving mate;
The kind of tongue that husband's relish most
Is modern, boiled, and served upon a plate.

Or if, as fond ambition may command,
Some home-made verse the happy matron show him,
What mortal spouse but from her dainty hand
Would sooner see a pudding than a poem?

Young lady,—deep in love with Tom or Harry,—
'T is sad to tell you such a tale as this;
But here 's the moral of it: Do not marry;
Or, marrying, take your lover as he is,

A very man, with something of the brute
(Unless he prove a sentimental noddy),
With passions strong and appetite to boot,
A thirsty soul within a hungry body.

A very man,—not one of nature's clods,—
With human failings, whether saint or sinner;
Endowed, perhaps, with genius from the gods,
But apt to take his temper from his dinner.

WHERE THERE 'S A WILL THERE 'S A WAY.

“Aut viam inveniam, aut faciam.”

It was a noble Roman,
In Rome's imperial day,
Who heard a coward croaker,
Before the Castle, say:
“They 're safe in such a fortress;
There is no way to shake it!”
“On—on!” exclaimed the hero,
“I'll find a way, or make it!”

Is Fame your aspiration?
Her path is steep and high;
In vain he seeks her temple,
Content to gaze and sigh:
The shining throne is waiting,
But he alone can take it
Who says, with Roman firmness,
“I'll find a way, or make it!”

Is Learning your ambition?
There is no royal road;
Alike the peer and peasant
Must climb to her abode:
Who feels the thirst of knowledge,
In Helicon may slake it,
If he has still the Roman will
“To find a way, or make it!”

Are Riches worth the getting?
They must be bravely sought;
With wishing and with fretting
The boon cannot be bought:
To all the prize is open,
But only he can take it
Who says, with Roman courage,
“I'll find a way, or make it!”

In Love's impassioned warfare
The tale has ever been,
That victory crowns the valiant,—
The brave are they who win:
Though strong is Beauty's castle,
A lover still make take it,
Who says, with Roman daring,
“I'll find a way, or make it!”

A BENEDICT'S APPEAL TO A BACHELOR.

“Double! double!”—
Shakespeare.

I.

Dear Charles, be persuaded to wed,—
For a sensible fellow like you,
It 's high time to think of a bed,
And muffins and coffee for two!
So have done with your doubt and delaying,—
With a soul so adapted to mingle,
No wonder the neighbors are saying
'T is singular you should be single!

II.

Don't say that you have n't got time,
That business demands your attention,
There 's not the least reason nor rhyme
In the wisest excuse you can mention
Don't tell me about “other fish,”—
Your duty is done when you buy 'em;
And you never will relish the dish,
Unless you 've a woman to fry 'em!

III.

Don't listen to querulous stories
By desperate damsels related,
Who sneer at connubial glories,
Because they 've known couples mismated.
Such people, if they had their pleasure,
Because silly bargains are made,
Would deem it a rational measure
To lay an embargo on trade!

IV.

You may dream of poetical fame,
But your wishes may chance to miscarry;
The best way of sending one's name
To posterity, Charles, is to marry!
And here I am willing to own,
After soberly thinking upon it,
I 'd very much rather be known
For a beautiful son, than a sonnet!

V.

To Procrastination be deaf
(A homily sent from above),—
The scoundrel 's not only “the thief
Of time,” but of beauty and love!
Oh, delay not one moment to win
A prize that is truly worth winning;
Celibacy, Charles, is a sin,
And sadly prolific of sinning!

VI.

Then pray bid your doubting good-by,
And dismiss all fantastic alarms.
I'll be sworn you 've a girl in your eye
'T is your duty to have in your arms!
Some trim little maiden of twenty,
A beautiful, azure-eyed elf,
With virtues and graces in plenty,
And no failing but loving yourself!

VII.

Don't search for “an angel” a minute;
For granting you win in the sequel,
The deuce, after all, would be in it,
With a union so very unequal!
The angels, it must be confessed,
In this world are rather uncommon;
And allow me, dear Charles, to suggest
You'll be better content with a woman!

VIII.

I could furnish a bushel of reasons
For choosing a conjugal mate:
It agrees with all climates and seasons,
And gives you a “double estate”!
To one's parents 't is (gratefully) due,—
Just think what a terrible thing
'T would have been, sir, for me and for you,
If ours had forgotten the ring!

IX.

Then there 's the economy—clear,
By poetical algebra shown,—
If your wife has a grief or a fear,
One half, by the law, is your own!
And as to the joys—by division,
They 're nearly quadrupled, 't is said
(Though I never could see the addition
Quite plain in the item of bread).

X.

Remember, I do not pretend
There 's anything “perfect” about it,
But this I'll aver to the end,
Life 's very imperfect without it.
'T is not that there 's “poetry” in it,—
As, doubtless, there may be to those
Endowed with a genius to win it,—
But I'll warrant you excellent prose!

XI.

Then, Charles, be persuaded to wed,—
For a sensible fellow like you,
It 's high time to think of a bed,
And muffins and coffee for two;
So have done with your doubt and delaying,—
With a soul so adapted to mingle,
No wonder the neighbors are saying
'T is singular you should be single!

THE GHOSTS-PLAYER.

A BALLAD.

Tom Goodwin was an actor-man,
Old Drury's pride and boast
In all the light and sprite-ly parts,
Especially the Ghost.

Now, Tom was very fond of drink,
Of almost every sort,
Comparative and positive,
From porter up to port.

But grog, like grief, is fatal stuff
For any man to sup;
For when it fails to pull him down,
It 's sure to blow him up.

And so it fared with ghostly Tom,
Who day by day was seen
A-swelling, till (as lawyers say)
He fairly lost his lean.

At length the manager observed
He 'd better leave his post,
And said he played the very deuce
Whene'er he played the Ghost.

'T was only t' other night he saw
A fellow swing his hat,
And heard him cry, “By all the gods!
The Ghost is getting fat!”

'T would never do, the case was plain;
His eyes he could n't shut;
Ghosts should n't make the people laugh,
And Tom was quite a butt.

Tom's actor friends said ne'er a word
To cheer his drooping heart;
Though more than one was burning up
With zeal to “take his part.”

Tom argued very plausibly;
He said he did n't doubt
That Hamlet's father drank, and grew,
In years, a little stout.

And so 't was natural, he said,
And quite a proper plan,
To have his spirit represent
A portly sort of man.

'T was all in vain, the manager
Said he was not in sport,
And, like a gen'ral, bade poor Tom
Surrender up his forte.

He 'd do, perhaps, in heavy parts,
Might answer for a monk,
Or porter to the elephant,
To carry round his trunk;

But in the Ghost his day was past,—
He 'd never do for that;
A Ghost might just as well be dead
As plethoric and fat!

Alas! next day poor Tom was found
As stiff as any post;
For he had lost his character,
And given up the Ghost!

“DO YOU THINK HE IS MARRIED?”

Madam,—you are very pressing,
And I can't decline the task;
With the slightest gift of guessing,
You would scarcely need to ask.

Don't you see a hint of marriage
In his sober-sided face?
In his rather careless carriage,
And extremely rapid pace?

If he 's not committed treason,
Or some wicked action done,
Can you see the faintest reason
Why a bachelor should run?

Why should he be in a flurry?
But a loving wife to greet
Is a circumstance to hurry
The most dignified of feet.

When afar the man has spied her,
If the grateful, happy elf

Does not haste to be beside her,
He must be beside himself!

It is but a trifle, maybe,—
But observe his practiced tone,
When he calms your stormy baby,
Just as if it were his own!

Do you think a certain meekness
You have mentioned in his looks
Is a chronic optic weakness
That has come of reading books?

Did you ever see his vision
Peering underneath a hood,
Save enough for recognition,
As a civil person should?

Could a Capuchin be colder
When he glances, as he must,
At a finely rounded shoulder,
Or a proudly swelling bust?

Madam, think of every feature,
Then deny it, if you can,
He 's a fond connubial creature,
And a very married man!

A COLLEGE REMINISCENCE.

ADDRESSED TO THOMAS B. THORPE, ESQ., OF NEW ORLEANS.

Dear Tom, have you forgot the day
When, long ago, we used to stray
Among the “Haddams”?
Where, in the mucky road, a man
(The road was built on Adam's plan,
And not McAdam's!)

Went down—down—down, one stormy night,
And disappeared from human sight
All save his hat,—
Which raised in sober minds a sense
Of some mysterious Providence
In sparing that?

I think 't will please you, Tom, to hear
The man who in that night of fear
Went down terrestrial,
Worked out a passage like a miner,
And, pricking through somewhere in China,
Came up Celestial!

Ah! those were memorable times,
And worth embalming in my rhymes,
When, at the summons
Of chapel bell, we left our sport
For lessons most uncommon short,
Or shorter commons!

I mind me, Tom, you often drew
Nice portraits, and exceeding true—
To your intention!
The most impracticable faces
Discovered unsuspected graces,
By your invention.

On brainless heads the finest bumps
(Erected by your pencil-thumps)
Were plainly seen;
Your Yankees all were very Greek,
Unchosen aunts grew “choice antique,”
And blues turned green!

The swarthy suddenly were fair,
And yellow changed to auburn hair
Or sunny flax;
And people very thin and flat,
Like Aldermen grew round and fat
On canvas-backs!

I well remember all your art
To make the best of every part,—
I am certain no man
Could better coax a wrinkle out,
Or elevate a lowly snout,
Or snub a Roman!

Young gentlemen with leaden eyes
Stared wildly out on lowering skies,
Quite Corsair-fashion;
And greenish orbs got very blue,
And linsey-woolsey maidens grew
Almost Circassian!

And many an ancient maiden aunt
As lean and lank as John O'Gaunt,
Or even lanker,
By art transformed and newly drest,
Could boast for once as full a chest
As—any banker!

Ah! we were jolly youngsters then,
But now we 're sober-sided men,
Half through life's journey;
And you 've turned author, Tom, I hear,—
And I—you'll think it very queer—
Have turned attorney!

Heaven bless you, Tom, in house and heart!
(That we should live so far apart
Is much a pity,)
And may you multiply your name,
And have a very “crescent” fame,
Just like your city!

EARLY RISING.

“God bless the man who first invented sleep!”
So Sancho Panza said, and so say I:
And bless him, also, that he did n't keep
His great discovery to himself; nor try
To make it—as the lucky fellow might—
A close monopoly by patent-right!

Yes; bless the man who first invented sleep
(I really can't avoid the iteration);
But blast the man, with curses loud and deep,
Whate'er the rascal's name, or age, or station,
Who first invented, and went round advising,
That artificial cut-off,—Early Rising!

“Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed,”
Observes some solemn, sentimental owl;
Maxims like these are very cheaply said;
But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl,
Pray just inquire about his rise and fall,
And whether larks have any beds at all!

The time for honest folks to be abed
Is in the morning, if I reason right;
And he who cannot keep his precious head
Upon his pillow till it 's fairly light,
And so enjoy his forty morning winks,
Is up to knavery; or else—he drinks!

Thomson, who sung about the “Seasons,” said
It was a glorious thing to rise in season;
But then he said it—lying—in his bed,
At ten o'clock, A. M.,—the very reason
He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is,
His preaching was n't sanctioned by his practice.

'T is, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake,—
Awake to duty, and awake to truth,—
But when, alas! a nice review we take
Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth,
The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep
Are those we passed in childhood or asleep!

'T is beautiful to leave the world awhile
For the soft visions of the gentle night;
And free, at last, from mortal care or guile,
To live as only in the angels' sight,
In sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in,
Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin!

So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise.
I like the lad who, when his father thought
To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase
Of vagrant worm by early songster caught,
Cried, “Served him right!—it's not at all surprising;
The worm was punished, sir, for early rising!”

THE LADY ANN.

A BALLAD.

“She'll soon be here, the Lady Ann,”
The children cried in glee;
“She always comes at four o'clock,
And now it 's striking three.”

At stroke of four the lady came,
A lady passing fair;
And she sat and gazed down the road,
With a long and eager stare.

“The mail! the mail!” the idlers cried,
At sight of a coach-and-four;
“The mail! the mail!” and at the word,
The coach was at the door.

Up sprang in haste the Lady Ann,
And marked with anxious eye
The travelers, who, one by one,
Were slowly passing by.

“Alack! alack!” the lady cried,
“He surely named to-day;
He'll come to-morrow, then,” she sighed,
And, turning, strolled away.

“'T is passing odd, upon my word,”
The landlord now began;
“A strange romance!—that woman sirs,
Is called the Lady Ann.

“She dwells hard by upon the hill,
The widow of Sir John,
Who died abroad, come August next,
Just twenty years agone.

“A hearty neighbor, sirs, was he,
A bold, true-hearted man;
And a fonder pair was seldom seen
Than he and Lady Ann.

“They scarce had been a twelvemonth wed,
When—ill betide the day!—
Sir John was called to go in haste
Some hundred miles away.

“Ne'er lovers in the fairy tales
A truer love could boast;
And many were the gentle words
That came and went by post.

“A month or more had passed away,
When by the post came down
The joyous news that such a day
Sir John would be in town.

“Full gleesome was the Lady Ann
To read the welcome word,
And promptly at the hour she came,
To meet her wedded lord.

“Alas! alas! he came not back.
There only came instead
A mournful message by the post,
That good Sir John was dead!

“One piercing shriek, and Lady Ann
Had swooned upon the floor:
Good sirs, it was a fearful grief
That gentle lady bore!

“We raised her up; her ebbing life
Began again to dawn;
She muttered wildly to herself,—
'T was plain her wits were gone.

“A strange forgetfulness came o'er
Her sad, bewildered mind,
And to the grief that drove her mad
Her memory was blind!

“Ah! since that hour she little wots
Full twenty years are fled!
She little wots, poor Lady Ann!
Her wedded lord is dead.

“But each returning day she deems
The day he fixed to come;
And ever at the wonted hour
She 's here to greet him home.

“And when the coach is at the door,
She marks with eager eye
The travelers, as one by one
They 're slowly passing by.

“‘Alack!’ she cries, in plaintive tone,
‘He surely named to-day!
He'll come to-morrow, then,’ she sighs,
And, turning, strolls away.”

HOW THE MONEY GOES.

How goes the Money?—Well,
I'm sure it is n't hard to tell;
It goes for rent and water-rates,
For bread and butter, coal and grates,
Hats, caps, and carpets, hoops and hose,—
And that 's the way the Money goes!

How goes the Money?—Nay
Don't everybody know the way?
It goes for bonnets, coats, and capes,
Silks, satins, muslins, velvets, crapes,
Shawls, ribbons, furs, and furbelows,—
And that 's the way the Money goes!

How goes the Money?—Sure,
I wish the ways were something fewer;
It goes for wages, taxes, debts;
It goes for presents, goes for bets,

For paint, pommade, and eau de rose,—
And that 's the way the Money goes!

How goes the Money?—Now,
I 've scarce begun to mention how;
It goes for laces, feathers, rings,
Toys, dolls—and other baby-things,
Whips, whistles, candies, bells, and bows,—
And that 's the way the Money goes!

How goes the Money?—Come,
I know it does n't go for rum;
It goes for schools and sabbath chimes,
It goes for charity—sometimes;
For missions, and such things as those,—
And that 's the way the Money goes!

How goes the Money?—There!
I'm out of patience, I declare;
It goes for plays, and diamond pins,
For public alms, and private sins,
For hollow shams, and silly shows,—
And that 's the way the Money goes!

SAINT JONATHAN.

There's many an excellent Saint,—
St. George, with his dragon and lance;
St. Patrick, so jolly and quaint;
St. Vitus, the saint of the dance;
St. Denis, the saint of the Gaul;
St. Andrew, the saint of the Scot;
But Jonathan, youngest of all.
Is the mightiest saint of the lot!

He wears a most serious face,
Well worthy a martyr's possessing;
But it is n't all owing to grace,
But partly to thinking and guessing;
In sooth, our American Saint
Has rather a secular bias,
And I never have heard a complaint
Of his being excessively pious!

He 's fond of financial improvement,
And is always extremely inclined
To be starting some practical movement
For mending the morals and mind.
Do you ask me what wonderful labors
St. Jonathan ever has done
To rank with his Calendar neighbors?
Just listen, a moment, to one:

One day when a flash in the air
Split his meeting-house fairly asunder,
Quoth Jonathan, “Now, I declare,
They 're dreadfully careless with thunder!”
So he fastened a rod to the steeple;
And now, when the lightning comes round,
He keeps it from building and people,
By running it into the ground!

Reflecting, with pleasant emotion,
On the capital job he had done,
Quoth Jonathan: “I have a notion
Improvements have barely begun;
If nothing 's created in vain,—
As ministers often inform us,—
The lightning that 's wasted, 't is plain
Is really something enormous!”

While ciphering over the thing,
At length he discovered a plan
To catch the Electrical King,
And make him the servant of man;
And now, in an orderly way,
He flies on the fleetest of pinions,
And carries the news of the day
All over his master's dominions!

One morning, while taking a stroll,
He heard a lugubrious cry,—
Like the shriek of a suffering soul,—
In a Hospital standing near by;
Anon, such a terrible groan
Saluted St. Jonathan's ear
That his bosom—which was n't of stone—
Was melted with pity to hear.

That night he invented a charm
So potent that folks who employ it,
In losing a leg or an arm,
Don't suffer, but rather enjoy it!
A miracle, you must allow,
As good as the best of his brothers,—
And blesséd St. Jonathan now
Is patron of cripples and mothers!

There 's many an excellent Saint,—
St. George, with his dragon and lance
St. Patrick, so jolly and quaint;
St. Vitus, the saint of the dance;
St. Denis, the saint of the Gaul;
St. Andrew, the saint of the Scot;
But Jonathan, youngest of all,
Is the mightiest saint of the lot!

SONG OF SARATOGA.

“Pray, what do they do at the Springs?”
The question is easy to ask;
But to answer it fully, my dear,
Were rather a serious task.
And yet, in a bantering way,
As the magpie or mocking-bird sings,
I'll venture a bit of a song
To tell what they do at the Springs!

Imprimis, my darling, they drink
The waters so sparkling and clear;
Though the flavor is none of the best,
And the odor exceedingly queer;
But the fluid is mingled, you know,
With wholesome medicinal things,
So they drink, and they drink, and they drink,—
And that 's what they do at the Springs!

Then with appetites keen as a knife,
They hasten to breakfast or dine
(The latter precisely at three,
The former from seven till nine).
Ye gods! what a rustle and rush
When the eloquent dinner-bell rings!
Then they eat, and they eat, and they eat,—
And that 's what they do at the Springs!

Now they stroll in the beautiful walks,
Or loll in the shade of the trees;
Where many a whisper is heard
That never is told by the breeze;
And hands are commingled with hands,
Regardless of conjugal rings;
And they flirt, and they flirt, and they flirt,—
And that 's what they do at the Springs!

The drawing-rooms now are ablaze,
And music is shrieking away;
Terpsichore governs the hour,
And Fashion was never so gay!
An arm round a tapering waist,
How closely and fondly it clings!
So they waltz, and they waltz, and they waltz,—
And that 's what they do at the Springs!

In short—as it goes in the world—
They eat, and they drink, and they sleep;
They talk, and they walk, and they woo;
They sigh, and they laugh, and they weep;
They read, and they ride, and they dance
(With other unspeakable things);
They pray, and they play, and they pay,—
And that 's what they do at the Springs!

TALE OF A DOG.

IN TWO PARTS.

PART FIRST.

I.

“Curse on all curs!” I heard a cynic cry;
A wider malediction than he thought,—
For what 's a cynic?—Had he cast his eye
Within his dictionary, he had caught
This much of learning,—the untutored elf,—
That he, unwittingly, had cursed himself!

II.

“Beware of dogs,” the great Apostle writes;
A rather brief and sharp philippic sent
To the Philippians. The paragraph invites
Some little question as to its intent,
Among the best expositors; but then
I find they all agree that “dogs” meant men!

III.

Beware of men! a moralist might say,
And women, too; 't were but a prudent hint,
Well worth observing in a general way,
But having surely no conclusion in 't
(As saucy satirists are wont to rail),
All men are faithless, and all women frail.

IV.

And so of dogs 't were wrong to dogmatize
Without discrimination or degree;
For one may see, with half a pair of eyes,
That they have characters as well as we:
I hate the rascal who can walk the street
Caning all canines he may chance to meet.

V.

I had a dog that was not all a dog,
For in his nature there was something human;
Wisely he looked as any pedagogue;
Loved funerals and weddings, like a woman;
With this (still human) weakness, I confess,
Of always judging people by their dress.

VI.

He hated beggars, it was very clear,
And oft was seen to drive them from the door;
But that was education;—for a year,
Ere yet his puppyhood was fairly o'er,
He lived with a Philanthropist, and caught
His practices; the precepts he forgot!

VII.

Which was a pity; yet the dog, I grant,
Led, on the whole, a very worthy life.
To teach you industry, “Go to the ant”
(I mean the insect, not your uncle's wife);
But—though the counsel sounds a little rude—
Go to the dogs, for love and gratitude.

PART SECOND.

VIII.

“Throw physic to the dogs,” the poet cries;
A downright insult to the canine race;
There 's not a puppy but is far too wise
To put a pill or powder in his face.
Perhaps the poet merely meant to say,
That physic, thrown to dogs, is thrown away,—

IX.

Which (as the parson said about the dice)
Is the best throw that any man can choose;
Take, if you 're ailing, medical advice,—
Minus the medicine,—which, of course, refuse.
Drugging, no doubt, occasioned Homœopathy,
And all the dripping horrors of Hydropathy.

X.

At all events, 't is fitting to remark,
Dogs spurn at drugs; their daily bark and whine
Are not at all the musty wine and bark
The doctors give to patients in decline;
And yet a dog who felt a fracture's smart
Once thanked a kind chirurgeon for his art.

XI.

I 've heard a story, and believe it true,
About a dog that chanced to break his leg;
His master set it, and the member grew
Once more a sound and serviceable peg;
And how d' ye think the happy dog exprest
The grateful feelings of his glowing breast?

XII.

'T was not in words; the customary pay
Of human debtors for a friendly act;
For dogs their thoughts can neither sing nor say
E'en in “dog-latin,” which (a curious fact)
Is spoken only—as a classic grace—
By grave Professors of the human race!

XIII.

No, 't was in deed; the very briefest tail
Declared his deep emotions at his cure;
Short, but significant;—one could not fail,
From the mere wagging of his cyno sure

(“Surgens e puppi”), and his ears agog,
To see the fellow was a grateful dog!

XIV.

One day—still mindful of his late disaster—
He wandered off the village to explore;
And brought another dog unto his master,
Lame of a leg, as he had been before;
As who should say, “You see!—the dog is lame:
You doctored me, pray doctor him the same!”

XV.

So runs the story, and you have it cheap,—
Dog-cheap, as doubtless such a tale should be;
The moral, surely, is n't hard to reap:—
Be prompt to listen unto mercy's plea;
The good you get, diffuse; it will not hurt you
E'en from a dog to learn a Christian virtue!

THE JOLLY MARINER.

A BALLAD.

It was a jolly mariner
As ever hove a log;
He wore his trousers wide and free,
And always ate his prog,
And blessed his eyes, in sailor-wise,
And never shirked his grog.

Up spoke this jolly mariner,
Whilst walking up and down:—
“The briny sea has pickled me,
And done me very brown;
But here I goes, in these here clo'es,
A-cruising in the town!”

The first of all the curious things
That chanced his eye to meet,
As this undaunted mariner
Went sailing up the street,
Was, tripping with a little cane,
A dandy all complete!

He stopped,—that jolly mariner,—
And eyed the stranger well:—
“What that may be,” he said, says he,
“Is more than I can tell;
But ne'er before, on sea or shore,
Was such a heavy swell!”

He met a lady in her hoops,
And thus she heard him hail:—
“Now blow me tight! but there 's a sight
To manage in a gale!
I never saw so small a craft
With such a spread o' sail!

“Observe the craft before and aft,—
She 'd make a pretty prize!”
And then in that improper way
He spoke about his eyes,
That mariners are wont to use
In anger or surprise.

He saw a plumber on a roof,
Who made a mighty din:—
“Shipmate, ahoy!” the rover cried,
“It makes a sailor grin
To see you copper-bottoming
Your upper decks with tin!”

He met a yellow-bearded man,
And asked about the way;
But not a word could he make out
Of what the chap would say,
Unless he meant to call him names,
By screaming, “Nix furstay!”

Up spoke this jolly mariner,
And to the man said he:—
“I have n't sailed these thirty years
Upon the stormy sea,
To bear the shame of such a name
As I have heard from thee!

“So take thou that!”—and laid him flat;
But soon the man arose,
And beat the jolly mariner
Across his jolly nose,
Till he was fain, from very pain,
To yield him to the blows.

'T was then this jolly mariner,
A wretched jolly tar,
Wished he was in a jolly-boat
Upon the sea afar,
Or riding fast, before the blast,
Upon a single spar!

'T was then this jolly mariner
Returned unto his ship,

And told unto the wondering crew
The story of his trip,
With many oaths and curses, too,
Upon his wicked lip!

As hoping—so this mariner
In fearful words harangued—
His timbers might be shivered, and
His le'ward scuppers danged,
(A double curse, and vastly worse
Than being shot or hanged!)

If ever he—and here again
A dreadful oath he swore,—
If ever he, except at sea,
Spoke any stranger more,
Or like a son of—something—went
A-cruising on the shore!

TOM BROWN'S DAY IN GOTHAM.

“Qui mores hominum multorum vidit et urbem.”

I'll tell you a story of Thomas Brown,—
I don't mean the poet of Shropshire town;
Nor the Scotch Professor of wide renown;
But “Honest Tom Brown”; so called, no doubt,
Because with the same
Identical name,
A good many fellows were roving about
Of whom the sheriff might prudently swear
That “honest” with them was a non-est affair!

Now Tom was a Yankee of wealth and worth,
Who lived and throve by tilling the earth;
For Tom had wrought
As a farmer ought,
Who, doomed to toil by original sinning,
Began—like Adam—at the beginning.
He ploughed, he harrowed, and he sowed;
He drilled, he planted, and he hoed;
He dug and delved, and reaped and mowed.
(I wish I could—but I can't—tell now
Whether he used a subsoil-plough;
Or whether, in sooth, he had ever seen
A regular reaping and raking machine.)

He took most pains
With the nobler grains
Of higher value, and finer tissues,
Which, possibly, one
Inclined to a pun,
Would call—like Harper—his “cereal issues!”
With wheat his lands were all ablaze;
'T was amazing to look at his fields of maize;
And there were places
That showed rye-faces
As pleasant to see as so many Graces.
And as for hops,
His annual crops
(So very extensive that, on my soul,
They fairly reached from pole to pole!)
Would beat the guess of any old fogie,
Or—the longest season at Saratoga!
Whatever seed did most abound,
In the grand result that Autumn found,
It was his plan,
Though a moderate man,
To be early running it into the ground;
That is to say,
In another way:—
Whether the seed was barley or hay,
Large or little, or green or gray,—
Provided only it promised to “pay,”—
He never chose to labor in vain
By stupidly going against the grain,
But hastened away, without stay or stop,
And carefully put it into his crop.
And he raised tomatoes
And lots of potatoes,
More sorts, in sooth, than I could tell;
Turnips, that always turned up well;
Celery, all that he could sell;
Grapes by the bushel, sour and sweet;
Beets, that certainly could n't be beat;
Cabbage—like some sartorial mound;
Vines, that fairly cu-cumbered the ground;
Some pumpkins—more than he could house, and
Ten thousand pears; (that 's twenty thousand!)
Fruit of all kinds and propagations,
Baldwins, Pippins, and Carnations,
And apples of other appellations.
To sum it all up in the briefest space,
As you may suppose, Brown flourished apace,

Just because he proceeded, I venture to say,
In the nulla-retrorsum vestigi-ous way;
That is—if you 're not University-bred—
He took Crocket's advice about going ahead.
At all the State Fairs he held a fair station,
Raised horses and cows and his own reputation;
Made butter and money; took a Justice's niche;
Grew wheat, wool, and hemp; corn, cattle, and—rich!
But who would be always a country-clown?
And so Tom Brown
Sat himself down
And, knitting his brow in a studious frown,
He said, says he:—
It 's plain to see,
And I think Mrs. B. will be apt to agree
(If she don't, it 's much the same to me),
That I, Tom Brown,
Should go to town!
But then, says he, what town shall it be?
Boston-town is consid'rably nearer.
And York is farther, and so will be dearer,
But then, of course, the sights will be queerer;
Besides, I'm told, you 're surely a lost 'un,
If you once get astray in the streets of Boston.
York is right-angled;
And Boston, right-tangled;
And both, I 've no doubt, are uncommon new-fangled.
Ah!—the “Smiths,” I remember, belong to York
('T was ten years ago I sold them my pork),
Good, honest traders—I'd like to know them—
And so—'t is settled—I'll go to Gotham!

And so Tom Brown
Sat himself down,
With many a smile and never a frown,
And rode, by rail, to that notable town
Which I really think well worthy of mention
As being America's greatest invention!
Indeed, I'll be bound that if Nature and Art
(Though the former, being older, has gotten the start),
In some new Crystal Palace of suitable size
Should show their chefs-d'œuvre, and contend for the prize
The latter would prove, when it came to the scratch,
Whate'er you may think, no contemptible match;
For should old Mrs. Nature endeavor to stagger her
By presenting, at last, her majestic Niagara,
Miss Art would produce an equivalent work
In her great, overwhelming, unfinished New York!

And now Mr. Brown
Was fairly in town,
In that part of the city they used to call “down,”
Not far from the spot of ancient renown
As being the scene
Of the Bowling Green,
A fountain that looked like a huge tureen
Piled up with rocks, and a squirt between;
But the “Bowling” now has gone where they tally
“The Fall of the Ten,” in a neighboring alley;
And as to the “Green”—why, that you will find
Whenever you see the “invisible” kind!—
And he stopped at an Inn that 's known very well,
“Delmonico's” once—now “Steven's Hotel”;
(And, to venture a pun which I think rather witty,
There 's no better Inn in this Inn-famous city!)

And Mr. Brown
Strolled up town,
And I'm going to write his travels down;
But if you suppose Tom Brown will disclose

The usual sins and follies of those
Who leave rural regions to see city-shows,—
You could n't well make
A greater mistake;
For Brown was a man of excellent sense;
Could see very well through a hole in a fence,
And was honest and plain, without sham or pretence;
Of sharp city-learning he could n't have boasted,
But he was n't the chap to be easily roasted.
And here let me say,
In a very dogmatic, oracular way
(And I'll prove it, before I have done with my lay),
Not only that honesty 's likely to “pay,”
But that one must be, as a general rule,
At least half a knave to be wholly a fool!

Or pocketbook-dropping Tom never had heard
(Or at least if he had, he 'd forgotten the word),
And now when, at length, the occasion occurred,
For that sort of chaff he was n't the bird.
The gentleman argued with eloquent force,
And begged him to pocket the money, of course;
But Brown, without thinking at all what he said,
Popped out the first thing that entered his head
(Which chanced to be wondrously fitting and true),
“No, no, my dear Sir, I'll be burnt if I do!”
Two lively young fellows, of elegant mien,
Amused him awhile with a pretty machine,—
An ivory ball, which he never had seen.
But though the unsuspecting stranger
In the “patent safe” saw no patent danger,
He easily dodged the nefarious net,
Because “he was n't accustomed to bet.”

Ah! here, I wot,
Is exactly the spot
To make a small fortune as easy as not!
That man with the watch—what lungs he has got!
It's “Going—the best of that elegant lot—
To close a concern, at a desperate rate,
The jeweler ruined as certain as fate!
A capital watch!—you may see by the weight—
Worth one hundred dollars as easy as eight—
Or half of that sum to melt down into plate—
(Brown does n't know “Peter” from Peter the Great)
But then I can't dwell,
I'm ordered to sell,
And mus 'n't stand weeping—just look at the shell,—
I warrant the ticker to operate well—
Nine dollars!—it's hard to be selling it under
A couple of fifties—it's cruel, by Thunder!
Ten dollars!—I'm offered—the man who secures
This splendid—ten dollars!—say twelve, and it 's yours!”
“Don't want it” quoth Brown—“I don't wish to buy;
Fifty dollars, I'm sure, one could n't call high—
But to see the man ruined!—Dear Sir, I declare—
Between two or three bidders, it does n't seem fair;
To knock it off now were surely a sin;
Just wait, my dear Sir, till the people come in!
Allow me to say, you disgrace your position
As Sheriff—consid'ring the debtor's condition—
To sell such a watch without more competition!”
And here Mr. Brown
Gave a very black frown,
Stepped leisurely out, and walked farther up town.
To see him stray along Broadway
In the afternoon of a summer's day,
And note what he chanced to see and say;
And what people he meets
In the narrower streets,
Were a pregnant theme for a longer lay.

How he marveled at those geological chaps
Who go poking about in crannies and gaps,
Those curious people in tattered breeches
The rag-wearing, rag-picking sons of—ditches,
Who find in the very nastiest niches
A “decent living,” and sometimes riches;
How he thought city prices exceedingly queer,
The 'busses too cheap, and the hacks too dear;
How he stuck in the mud, and got lost in the question—
A problem too hard for his mental digestion—
Why—in cleaning the city, the city employs
Such a very small corps of such very small boys;
How he judges by dress, and accordingly makes,
By mixing up classes, the drollest mistakes.
How—as if simple vanity ever were vicious,
Or women of merit could be meretricious,—
He imagines the dashing Fifth-Avenue dames
The same as the girls with unspeakable names!
An exceedingly natural blunder in sooth,
But, I'm happy to say, very far from the truth;
For e'en at the worst, whate'er you suppose,
The one sort of ladies can choose their beaux,
While, as to the other—but every one knows
What—if 't were a secret—I would n't disclose.

And Mr. Brown
Returned from town,
With a bran new hat, and a muslin gown,
And he told the tale, when the sun was down,
How he spent his eagles, and saved his crown;
How he showed his pluck by resisting the claim
Of an impudent fellow who asked his name;
But paid—as a gentleman ever is willing—
At the old Park-Gate, the regular shilling!

YE TAILYOR-MAN.

A CONTEMPLATIVE BALLAD.

Right jollie is ye tailyor-man,
As annie man may be;
And all ye daye upon ye benche
He worketh merrilie.

And oft ye while in pleasante wise
He coileth up his lymbes,
He singeth songs ye like whereof
Are not in Watts his hymns.

And yet he toileth all ye while
His merrie catches rolle;
As true unto ye needle as
Ye needle to ye pole.

What cares ye valiant tailyor-man
For all ye cowarde feares?
Against ye scissors of ye Fates
He pointes his mightie shears.

He heedeth not ye anciente jests
That witlesse sinners use;
What feareth ye bolde tailyor-man
Ye hissinge of a goose?

He pulleth at ye busie threade,
To feede his lovinge wife
And eke his childe; for unto them
It is ye threade of life.

He cutteth well ye riche man's coate,
And with unseemlie pride
He sees ye little waiscoate in
Ye cabbage bye his side.

Meanwhile ye tailyor-man his wife,
To labor nothinge loth,
Sits bye with readie hande to baste
Ye urchin and ye cloth.

Full happie is ye tailyor-man,
Yet is he often tried,
Lest he, from fullnesse of ye dimes,
Wax wanton in his pride.

Full happie is ye tailyor-man,
And yet he hath a foe,
A cunninge enemie that none
So well as tailyors knowe.

It is ye slipperie customer
Who goes his wicked wayes,
And weares ye tailyor-man his coate
But never, never payes!

THE DEVIL OF NAMES.

A LEGEND.

At an old-fashioned inn, with a pendulous sign,
Once graced with the head of the king of the kine,
But innocent now of the slightest “design,”
Save calling low people to spurious wine,—
While the villagers, drinking, and playing “all fours,”
And cracking small jokes, with vociferous roars,
Were talking of horses, and hunting, and—scores
Of similar topics a bar-room adores,
But which rigid morality greatly deplores,
Till as they grew high in their bacchanal revels,
They fell to discoursing of witches and devils,—
A neat single rap,
Just the ghost of a tap,
That would scarcely have wakened a flea from his nap,
Not at all in its sound like your “Rochester Knocking”
(Where asses in herds are diurnally flocking),
But twice as mysterious, and vastly more shocking,
Was heard at the door by the people within,
Who stopped in a moment their clamorous din,
And ceased in a trice from their jokes and their gin:
When who should appear
But an odd-looking stranger somewhat “in the sere”
(He seemed at the least in his sixtieth year),
And he limped in a manner exceedingly queer,
Wore breeches uncommonly wide in the rear,
And his nose was turned up with a comical sneer,
And he had in his eye a most villainous leer,
Quite enough to make any one tremble with fear!
Whence he came,
And what was his name,
And what his purpose in venturing out,
And whether his lameness was “gammon” or gout,
Or merely fatigue from strolling about,
Were questions involved in a great deal of doubt,—
When, taking a chair,
With a sociable air,
Like that which your “Uncle” 's accustomed to wear,
Or a broker determined to sell you a share
In his splendid “New England Goldmining” affair,
He opened his mouth and went on to declare
That he was a devil!—“The devil you are!”
Cried one of the guests assembled there,
With a sudden start, and a frightened stare!
“Nay, don't be alarmed,” the stranger exclaims,
“At the name of the devil,—I'm the Devil of Names!
You'll wonder why
Such a devil as I,
Who ought, you would say, to be devilish shy,
Should venture in here with never a doubt,
And let the best of his secrets out;
But mind you, my boys,
It 's one of the joys
Of the cunningest woman and craftiest man,
To run as quickly as ever they can,
And put a confidante under ban
Not to publish their favorite plan!
And even the de'il
Will sometimes feel
A little of that remarkable zeal,
And (when it 's safe) delights to tell
The very deepest arcana of—well;—
Besides, my favor this company wins,

For I value next to capital sins
Those out-and-outers who revel in inns!
So, not to delay,
I'm going to say,
In the very fullest and frankest way,
All about my honors and claims,
Projects and plans, and objects and aims,
And why I'm called ‘The Devil of Names!’
I cheat by false graces,
And duplicate faces,
And treacherous praises,
And by hiding bad things under plausible phrases!
I'll give you a sample,
By way of example:
Here 's a bottle before me, will suit to a T
For a nice illustration: this liquor, d'ye see,
Is the water of death, though topers agree
To think it, and drink it, as pure ‘eau de vie;’
I know what it is,—that 's sufficient for me!
For the blackest of sins, and crimes, and shames,
I find soft words and innocent names.
The Hells devoted to Satan's games
I christen ‘Saloons’ and ‘Halls,’ and then,
By another contrivance of mine again,
The 're only haunted by ‘sporting men,’—
A phrase which many a gamester begs,
In spite of the saw that ‘eggs is eggs,’
To whiten his nigritudinous legs!

“To debauchees I graciously grant
The favor to be ‘a little gallant,’
And soften vicious vagrancy down,
By civilly speaking of ‘men about town;’
There 's cheating and lying
In selling and buying,
And all sorts of frauds and dishonest exactions
I 've brought to the smallest of moral infractions,
Merely by naming them ‘business transactions’!
There 's swindling, now, is vastly more fine
As ‘Banking,’—a lucky invention of mine,
Worth ten in the old diabolical line!

“In lesser matters it 's all the same,
I gain the thing by yielding the name;
It 's really quite the broadest of jokes,
But, on my honor, there 's plenty of folks
So uncommonly fond of verbal cloaks,
They can't enjoy the dinners they eat,
Court the ‘muse of the twinkling feet,’
Laugh or sing, or do anything meet
For Christian people, without a cheat
To make their happiness quite complete!
The Boston saints
Are fond of these feints;
A theatre rouses the loudest complaints,
Till it 's thoroughly purged from pestilent taints,
By the charm of a name and a pious Te Deum,—
Yet they patronize actors, and handsomely fee 'em!
Keep (shade of ‘the Howards!’) a gay ‘Athenæum,’
And have, above all, a harmless ‘Museum,’
Where folks who love plays may religiously see 'em!

“But leaving a trifle which cost me more trouble
By far than the worth of so flimsy a bubble,
I come to a matter which really claims
The studious care of the Devil of Names.
There 's ‘Charity’ now”—

But the lecture was done,
Like old Goody Morey's when scarcely begun;
The devil's discourse by its serious teaching
Had set 'em a-snoring, like regular preaching!
One look of disdain on the sleepers he threw,
As in bitter contempt of the slumbering crew,
And the devil had vanished without more ado,—
A trick, I suspect, that he seldom plays you!

YE PEDAGOGUE

A BALLAD.

I.

Righte learnéd is ye Pedagogue,
Fulle apt to reade and spelle,
And eke to teache ye parts of speeche,
And strap ye urchins welle.

II.

For as 't is meete to soake ye feete,
Ye ailinge heade to mende,
Ye younker's pate to stimulate,
He beats ye other ende!

III.

Righte lordlie is ye Pedagogue
As any turbaned Turke;
For welle to rule ye District Schoole,
It is no idle worke.

IV.

For oft Rebellion lurketh there
In breaste of secrete foes,
Of malice fulle, in waite to pulle
Ye Pedagogue his nose!

V.

Sometimes he heares, with trembling feares,
Of ye ungodlie rogue
On mischieffe bent, with felle intent
To licke ye Pedagogue!

VI.

And if ye Pedagogue be smalle,
When to ye battell led,
In such a plighte, God sende him mighte
To breake ye rogue his heade!

VII.

Daye after daye, for little paye,
He teacheth what he can,
And bears ye yoke, to please ye folke,
And ye Committee man.

VIII.

Ah! many crosses hath he borne,
And many trials founde,
Ye while he trudged ye district through,
And boarded rounde and rounde!

IX.

Ah! many a steake hath he devoured,
That, by ye taste and sighte,
Was in disdaine, 't was very plaine,
Of Daye his patent righte!

X.

Fulle solemn is ye Pedagogue,
Amonge ye noisy churls,
Yet other while he hath a smile
To give ye handsome girls;

XI.

And one,—ye fayrest mayde of all,—
To cheere his wayninge life,
Shall be, when Springe ye flowers shall bringe,
Ye Pedagogue his wife!

THE STAMMERING WIFE.

I.

When, deeply in love with Miss Emily Cline,
I vowed, if the maiden would only be mine,
I would always endeavor to please her.
She blushed her consent, though the stuttering lass
Said never a word, except “You 're an ass—
An ass—an ass-iduous teaser!”

II.

But when we were married I found to my ruth
The stammering lady had spoken the truth,
For often, in obvious dudgeon,
She'd say,—if I ventured to give her a jog
In the way of reproof,—“You 're a dog—you 're a dog—
A dog—a dog-matic curmudgeon!”

III.

And once when I said, “We can hardly afford
This extravagant style, with our moderate hoard,”
And hinted we ought to be wiser,
She looked, I assure you, exceedingly blue,
And fretfully cried, “You 're a ju—you 're a ju—
A very ju-dicious adviser!”

IV.

Again, when it happened that, wishing to shirk
Some rather unpleasant and arduous work,
I begged her to go to a neighbor;
She wanted to know why I made such a fuss,
And saucily said, “You 're a cus—cus—cus—
You were always ac-cus-tomed to labor!”

V.

Out of temper at last with the insolent dame,
And feeling that Madam was greatly to blame
To scold me instead of caressing,
I mimicked her speech—like a churl as I am—
And angrily said, “You 're a dam—dam—dam—
A dam-age instead of a blessing!”

A RHYMED EPISTLE.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKER-BOCKER MAGAZINE.

Dear Knick: While myself and my spouse
Sat tea-ing last evening, and chatting,
And, mindful of conjugal vows,
Were nicely agreed in combating,
It chanced that myself and my wife,
('T was Madam occasioned the pother!)
Falling suddenly into a strife,
Came near falling out with each other!

In a brisk, miscellaneous chat,
Quite in tune with the chime of the tea-things,
We were talking of this and of that,
Just as each of us happened to see things,
When somehow or other it chanced
(I don't quite remember the cue),
That as talking and tea-ing advanced,
We found we were talking of you!

I think—but perhaps I am wrong,
Such a subtle old chap is Suggestion,
As he forces each topic along
By the trick of the “previous question”—
Some remarks on a bacchanal revel
Suggested that horrible elf
With the hoof and the horus,—and the Devil,
Excuse me, suggested yourself!

“Ah! Knick, to be sure; by the way,”
Quoth Madam, “what sort of a man
Do you take him to be!—nay, but stay,
And let me guess him out if I can.
He's young, and quite handsome, no doubt;
Rather slender, and not over-tall;
And he loves a snug little turn-out,
And turns out ‘quite a love’ at a ball!”

And then she went on to portray
Such a very delightful ideal,
That a sensible stranger would say
It really could n't be real.
“And his wife, what a lady must she be?
(Knick's married, that I know, and you know:)
You'll find her a delicate Hebe,
And not your magnificent Juno!”

Now I am a man, you must learn,
Less famous for beauty than strength,
And, for aught I could ever discern,
Of rather superfluous length.
In truth 't is but seldom one meets
Such a Titan in human abodes,
And when I stalk over the streets,
I'm a perfect Colossus of roads!

So I frowned like a tragedy-Roman,
For in painting the beautiful elf
As the form of your lady, the woman
Took care to be drawing herself;
While, mark you, the picture she drew
So deuced con amore and free,
That fanciful likeness of you,
Was by no means a portrait of me!

“How lucky for ladies,” I hinted,
“That in our republican land
They may prattle, without being stinted,
Of matters they don't understand;
I'll show you, dear Madam, that ‘Knick’
Is n't dapper nor daintily slim,
But a gentleman decently thick,
With a manly extension of limb.

“And as to his youth,—talk of flowers
Blooming gayly in frosty December!
I'll warrant his juvenile hours
Are things he can scarcely remember!
Here, Madam, quite plain to be seen,
Is the chap you would choose for a lover!”
And, producing your own Magazine,
I pointed elate to the cover!

“You see, ma'am, 't is just as I said,
His locks are as gray as a rat;
Here, look at the crown of his head,
'T is bald as the crown of my hat!”
“Nay, my dear,” interrupted my wife,
Who began to be casting about
To get the last word in the strife,
“'T is his grandfather's picture, no doubt!”

TOWN AND COUNTRY.

AN ECLOGUE.

CLOVERTOP.
I've thought, my Cousin, it's extremely queer
That you, who love to spend your August here,
Don't bring, at once, your wife and children down,
And quit, for good, the noisy, dusty town.

SHILLINGSIDE.
Ah! simple swain, this sort of life may do
For such a verdant Clovertop as you,
Content to vegetate in summer air,
And hibernate in winter—like a bear!

CLOVERTOP.
Here we have butter pure as virgin gold,
And milk from cows that can a tail unfold
With bovine pride; and new-laid eggs, whose praise
Is sung by pullets with their morning lays;
Trout from the brook; good water from the well;
And other blessings more than I can tell!

SHILLINGSIDE.
There, simple rustic, we have nightly plays,
And operatic music,—charming ways
Of spending time and money,—lots of fun;
The Central Park—whene'er they get it done;
Barnum's Museum, full of things erratic,
Terrene, amphibious, airy, and aquatic!

CLOVERTOP.
Here we have rosy, radiant, romping girls,
With lips of rubies, and with teeth of pearls;
I dare not mention half their witching charms;
But, ah! the roundness of their milky arms,
And, oh! what polished shoulders they display,
Bending o'er tubs upon a washing day!

SHILLINGSIDE.
There we have ladies most superbly made
(By fine artistes, who understand their trade),
Who dance the German, flirt a graceful fan,
And speak such French as no Parisian can;
Who sing much louder than your country thrushes,
And wear (thank Phalon!) far more brilliant blushes!

CLOVERTOP.
Here, boastful Shilling, we have flowery walks,
Where you may stroll, and hold delightful talks,
(No saucy placard frowning as you pass,
“Ten dollars' fine for walking on the grass!”)
Dim-lighted groves, where love's delicious words
Are breathed to music of melodious birds.

SHILLINGSIDE.
There, silly Clover, dashing belles we meet,
Sweeping with silken robes the dusty street;

May gaze into their faces as they pass,
Beneath the rays of dimly burning gas,
Or, standing at a crossing when it rains,
May see some pretty ankles for our pains.

CLOVERTOP.
Here you may angle for the speckled trout,
Play him awhile, with gentle hand, about,
Then, like a sportsman, pull the fellow out!

SHILLINGSIDE.
There, too, is fishing quite as good, I ween,
Where careless, gaping gudgeons oft are seen,
Rich as yon pasture, and almost as green!

CLOVERTOP.
Here you may see the meadow's grassy plain,
Ripe, luscious fruits, and shocks of golden grain;
And view, luxuriant in a hundred fields,
The gorgeous wealth that bounteous Nature yields!

SHILLINGSIDE.
There you may see Trade's wondrous strength and pride,
Where merchant-navies throng on every side,
And view, collected in Columbia's mart,
Alike the wealth of Nature and of Art!

CLOVERTOP.
Cease, clamorous cit! I love these quiet nooks,
Where one may sleep, or dawdle over books,
Or, if he wish of gentle love to dream,
May sit and muse by yonder babbling stream—

SHILLINGSIDE.
Dry up your babbling stream! my Clovertop—
You 're getting garrulous; it's time to stop.
I love the city, and the city's smoke;
The smell of gas; the dust of coal and coke;
The sound of bells; the tramp of hurrying feet;
The sight of pigs and Paphians in the street;
The jostling crowd; the never-ceasing noise
Of rattling coaches, and vociferous boys;
The cry of “Fire!” and the exciting scene
Of heroes running with their mad “mersheen;”
Nay, now I think that I could even stand
The direful din of Barnum's brazen band,
So much I long to see the town again!
Good-by! I'm going by the evening train!
Don't fail to call whene'er you come to town,
We'll do the city, boy, and do it brown;
I've really had a pleasant visit here,
And mean to come again another year.

THE FAMILY MAN.

I once was a jolly young beau,
And knew how to pick up a fan,
But I've done with all that, you must know,
For now I'm a family man!

When a partner I ventured to take,
The ladies all favored the plan;
They vowed I was certain to make
“Such an excellent family man!”

If I travel by land or by water,
I have charge of some Susan or Ann;
Mrs. Brown is so sure that her daughter
Is safe with a family man!

The trunks and the bandboxes round 'em
With something like horror I scan,
But though I may mutter, “Confound 'em!”
I smile—like a family man!

I once was as gay as a templar,
But levity's now under ban;
Young people must have an exemplar,
And I am a family man!

The club-men I meet in the city
All treat me as well as they can;
And only exclaim, “What a pity
Poor Tom is a family man!”

I own I am getting quite pensive;
Ten children, from David to Dan,
Is a family rather extensive;
But then—I'm a family man!

THE SNAKE IN THE GLASS.

A HOMILY.

Come listen awhile to me, my lad;
Come listen to me for a spell;
Let that terrible drum
For a moment be dumb,
For your uncle is going to tell
What befell
A youth who loved liquor too well.

A clever young man was he, my lad;
And with beauty uncommonly blest,
Ere, with brandy and wine,
He began to decline,
And behaved like a person possessed;
I protest
The temperance plan is the best.

One evening he went to a tavern, my lad;
He went to a tavern one night,
And drinking too much
Rum, brandy, and such,
The chap got exceedingly “tight;”
And was quite
What your aunt would entitle a fright.

The fellow fell into a snooze, my lad;
'T is a horrible slumber he takes;
He trembles with fear,
And acts very queer;
My eyes! how he shivers and shakes
When he wakes,
And raves about horrid great snakes!

'T is a warning to you and to me, my lad;
A particular caution to all,—
Though no one can see
The vipers but he,—
To hear the poor lunatic bawl:—
“How they crawl!—
All over the floor and the wall!”

Next morning he took to his bed, my lad;
Next morning he took to his bed;
And he never got up
To dine or to sup,
Though properly physicked and bled;
And I read,
Next day, the poor fellow was dead!

You 've heard of the snake in the grass, my lad;
Of the viper concealed in the grass;
But now, you must know,
Man's deadliest foe
Is a snake of a different class;
Alas!—
'T is the viper that lurks in the glass!

A warning to you and to me, my lad;
A very imperative call:
Of liquor keep clear;
Don't drink even beer,
If you'd shun all occasion to fall;
If at all,
Pray take it uncommonly small.

And if you are partial to snakes, my lad
(A passion I think rather low),
Don't enter, to see 'em,
The Devil's Museum!—
'T is very much better to go
(That's so!)
And visit a regular show!

NE CREDE COLORI:

OR, TRUST NOT TO APPEARANCES.

The musty old maxim is wise,
Although with antiquity hoary;
What an excellent homily lies
In the motto, Ne crede colori!

A blustering minion of Mars
Is vaunting his battles so gory;
You see some equivocal scars,
And mutter, Ne crede colori!

A fellow solicits your tin
By telling a runaway story;
You look at his ebony skin,
And think of, Ne crede colori!

You gaze upon beauty that vies
With the rose and the lily in glory,
But certain “inscrutable dyes”
Remind you, Ne crede colori!

There 's possibly health in the flush
That rivals the red of Aurora;
But brandy-and-water can blush,
And whisper, Ne crede colori!

My story is presently done,
Like the ballad of good Mother Morey,

But all imposition to shun,
Remember, Ne crede colori!

CLARA TO CLOE.

AN EPISTLE FROM A CITY LADY TO A COUNTRY COUSIN.

Dear Cloe,—I'm deeply your debtor
(Though the mail was uncommonly slow)
For the very agreeable letter
You wrote me a fortnight ago.
I know you are eagerly waiting
For all that I promised to write,
But my pen is unequal to stating
One half that my heart would indite.

The weather is terribly torrid;
And writing 's a serious task;
The new style of bonnet is horrid;
And so is the new-fashioned basque;
The former—but language would fail
Were its epithets doubly as strong—
The latter is worn with a tail
Very ugly and tediously long!

And then as to crinoline—Gracious!
If you only could see Cousin Ruth!
The pictures, for once, are veracious,
And editors utter the truth!
I know you will think it a pity;
And every one makes such a sneer of it;
But there is n't a saint in the city
Whose skirts are entirely clear of it!

And then what a fortune of stuff
To cover the skeleton over!—
Charles says the idea is enough
To frighten a sensible lover;
And, pretending that we are to blame
For every financial declension,
Swears husbands must soon do the same,
If wives have another “extension”!

The town is exceedingly dull,
And so is the latest new farce;
The parks are uncommonly full,
But beaux are deplorably scarce;
They 're gone to the “Springs” and the “Falls,”
To exhibit their greyhounds and graces,
And recruit at—what Frederick calls—
The Brandy-and-Watering Places!

Since my former epistle, which carried
The news of that curious plot,—
Of Miss S. who ran off—and was married;
Of Miss B. who ran off—and was not,—
There is n't a whisper of scandal
To keep gentle ladies in humor,
And Gossip, the pleasant old Vandal,
Is dying for want of a rumor!

Clara.

P. S.—But was n't it funny?—
Mrs. Jones, at a party last week
(The lady so proud of her money,
Of whom you have oft heard me speak),
Appeared so delightfully stupid,
When she spoke, through the squeak of her phthisic,
Of the statue of Psyche and Cupid
As “the statute of Cuppid and Physic”!

CLOE TO CLARA.

A SARATOGA LETTER.

Dear Clara,—I wish you were here:
The prettiest spot upon earth!
With everything charming, my dear,—
Beaux, badinage, music, and mirth!
Such rows of magnificent trees,
Overhanging such beautiful walks,
Where lovers may stroll, if they please,
And indulge in the sweetest of talks!

We go every morning, like geese,
To drink at the favorite Spring;
Six tumblers of water apiece
Is simply the regular thing;
For such is its wonderful virtue,
Though rather unpleasant at first,
No quantity ever can hurt you,
Unless you should happen to burst!

And then, what a gossiping sight!
What talk about William and Harry;
How Julia was spending last night;
And why Miss Morton should marry!
Dear Clara, I've happened to see
Full many a tea-table slaughter;
But, really, scandal with tea
Is nothing to scandal with water!

Apropos of the Spring—have you heard
The quiz of a gentleman here
On a pompous M. C. who averred
That the name was remarkably queer?
“The Spring—to keep it from failing—
With wood is encompassed about,
And derives, from its permanent railing,
The title of ‘Congress,’ no doubt!”

'T is pleasant to guess at the reason,
The genuine motive, which brings
Such all sorts of folks, in the season,
To stop a few days at the Springs.
Some come to partake of the waters
(The sensible, old-fashioned elves);
Some come to dispose of their daughters,
And some to dispose of—themselves!

Some come to exhibit their faces
To new and admiring beholders;
Some come to exhibit their graces,
And some to exhibit their shoulders;
Some come to make people stare
At the elegant dresses they 've got;
Some to show what a lady may wear,
And some—what a lady should not!

Some come to squander their treasure,
And some their funds to improve;
And some for mere love of pleasure,
And some for the pleasure of love;
And some to escape from the old,
And some to see what is new;
But most—it is plain to be told—
Come here—because other folks do!

And that, I suppose, is the reason
Why I am enjoying, to-day,
What 's called “the height—of the season”
In rather the loftiest way.
Good-by—for now I must stop—
To Charley's command I resign,—
So I'm his for the regular hop,
But ever most tenderly thine,

Cloe.

THE GREAT MAGICIAN.

Once, when a lad, it was my hap
To gain my mother's kind permission
To go and see a foreign chap
Who called himself “The Great Magician”;
I recollect his wondrous skill
In divers mystic conjurations,
And how the fellow wrought at will
The most prodigious transformations.

I recollect the nervous man
Within whose hat the great deceiver
Broke eggs, as in a frying-pan,
And took 'em, smoking, from the beaver!
I recollect the lady's shawl
Which the magician rent asunder,
And then restored; but, best of all,
I recollect the Ribbon-Wonder!

I mean, of course, the funny freak
In which the wizard, at his pleasure,
Spins lots of ribbons from his cheek
(Where he had hid 'em, at his leisure).
Yard after yard, of every hue,
Comes blazing out, and still the fellow
Keeps spinning ribbons, red and blue,
And black and white, and green and yellow!

I ne'er shall see another show
To rank with the immortal “Potter's”;

“Potter, the Great Magician,”—a clever conjurer of a former generation,—is still vividly remembered by many people in New Hampshire and Vermont.

He 's dead and buried long ago,
And others charm our sons and daughters;
Years—years have fled—alas! how quick,
Since I beheld the Great Magician,
And yet I've seen the Ribbon-Trick
In many a curious repetition!

Thus, when an author I have read
Who much amazed the world of letters
With gems his fluent pen has shed
(All nicely pilfered from his betters),
Presto!—'t is done!—and all complete,
As in my youth's enraptured vision,
I've seen again the Ribbon-Feat,
And thought about the Great Magician!

So, when a sermon I have heard
Made up of bits of borrowed learning,
Some cheap mosaic which has stirred
The wonder of the undiscerning,
Swift as a flash has memory then
Recalled the ancient exhibition;

I saw the Ribbon-Trick again,
And thought about the Great Magician!

So when some flippant man-o'-jokes,
Though in himself no dunce was duller,
Has dazzled all the simple folks
With brilliant jests of every color,
I've whispered thus (while fast and thick
The changes flashed across my vision):—
“How well he plays the Ribbon-Trick!
By Jove! he beats the Great Magician.”

I ne'er shall see another show
To rank with the immortal “Potter's”;
He 's dead and buried long ago,
And others charm our sons and daughters;
Years—years have fled—alas! how quick,
Since I beheld the Great Magician,
And yet I 've seen the Ribbon-Trick
In many a curious repetition!

THE BLARNEY STONE.

I.

In Blarney, Castle, on a crumbling tower,
There lies a stone (above your ready reach),
Which to the lips imparts, 't is said, the power
Of facile falsehood, and persuasive speech;
And hence, of one who talks in such a tone,
The peasants say, “He's kissed the Blarney Stone!”

II.

Thus, when I see some flippant tourist-swell
With secrets wrested from an Emperor.
And hear him vaunt his bravery, and tell
How once he snubbed a Marquis, I infer
The man came back—if but the truth were known—
By way of Cork, and kissed the Blarney Stone!

III.

So, when I hear a shallow dandy boast
(In the long ear that marks a brother dunce)
What precious favors ladies' lips have lost,
To his advantage, I suspect, at once.
The fellow 's lying; that the dog alone
(Enough for him!) has kissed the Blarney Stone!

IV.

When some fine lady,—ready to defame
An absent beauty, with as sweet a grace,—
With seeming rapture greets a hated name,
And lauds her rival to her wondering face;
E'en Charity herself must freely own
Some women, too, have kissed the Blarney Stone!

V

When sleek attorneys, whose seductive tongues,
Smooth with the unction of a golden fee,
“Breathe forth huge falsehoods from capacious lungs”
(The words are Juvenal's), 't is plain to see
A lawyer's genius is n't all his own;
The specious rogue has kissed the Blarney Stone!

VI.

When the false pastor, from his fainting flock
Withholds the Bread of Life, the gospel news,
To give them dainty words, lest he should shock
The fragile fabric of the paying pews,
Who but must feel, the man, to Grace unknown,
Has kissed,—not Calvary,—but the Blarney Stone!

“Immensa cavi spirant mendacia folles.”

ODE TO THE PRINCE OF WALES.

INVITING HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS TO A COUNTRY COTTAGE.

O prince of Wales!
Unless my judgment fails,
You 've found your recent travel rather dreary;
I don't expect an answer to the query,—
But are n't you getting weary?
Weary of Bells, and Balls, and grand Addresses?
Weary of Military and their messes?
Weary of adulation and caresses?
Weary of shouts from the admiring masses?
Weary of worship from the upper classes?
Weary of horses, may'rs, and asses?
Of course 't was kindly meant,—
But don't you now repent
Your good Mamma's consent
That you should be,
This side the sea,
The “British Lion” which you represent?
Pray leave your city courtiers and their capers,
And come to us; we've no pictorial papers;
And no Reporters to distort your nose;
Or mark the awkward carriage of your toes;
Your style of sneezing, and such things as those;
Or, meaner still, in democratic spite,
Measure your Royal Highness by your height!

Then come to us!
We 're not the sort of folk to make a fuss,
E'en for the President; but then, my boy,
We plumply promise you a special joy,
To Princes rarely known,
And one you 'll never find about a throne,
To wit, the bliss of being let alone!
No scientific bores from Athenænums;
No noisy guns, nor tedious te-deums,
Shall vex your Royal Highness for a minute;
A glass of lemonade, with “something in it,”
A fragrant meerschaum, with the morning news,
Or sweet Virginia “fine-cut,” if you choose,—
These, and what else your Highness may demand
Of simple luxury, shall be at hand,
And at your royal service. Come!
O come where you may gain
(What advertisers oft have sought in vain)
“The comforts of a home”!
Come, Prince of Wales! we greatly need
Your royal presence, Sir,—we do indeed:
For why? we have a pretty hamlet here,
But then, you see, 't is equally as clear
(Your Highness understands Shakesperian hints)
A Hamlet is n't much without a Prince!

MOTHERS-IN-LAW.

If you ever should marry, said Major McGarth,
While smoking a pipe by my bachelor-hearth,
If you ever should wed,—and I would n't employ
A word to prevent it, my broth of a boy,—
Remember that wedlock 's a company where
The parties, quite often, are more than a pair;
'T is a lott'ry in which you are certain to draw
A wife, and, most likely, a mother-in-law!

What the latter may be all conjecture defies:
She is never a blank; she is seldom a prize;
Sometimes she is silly; sometimes she is bold;
Sometimes—rather worse!—she 's a virulent scold.

You dreamed of an angel to gladden your home,
And with her—God help you!—a harpy has come;
You fished for a wife without failing or flaw,
And find you have netted—a mother-in-law!

“Dear Anna,” she says, “as you clearly may see,
Has always been used to depending on me;
Poor child! though the gentlest that ever was known,
She could never be trusted a moment alone;
Such sensitive nerves, and such delicate lungs!”
Cries the stoutest of dames with the longest of tongues.
“Like mother like child; you remember the saw;
I'm weakly myself,” says your mother-in-law!

But your mother-in-law, you discover erelong,
Though feeble in body, in temper is strong;
And so you surrender,—what else can you do?
She governs your wife, and your servants, and you;
And calls you a savage, the coarsest of brutes,
For trampling the carpet with mud on your boots;
And vows she committed a stupid “foxpaw”
In rashly becoming your mother-in-law!

And so, said the Major, pray, let me advise
The carefullest use of your ears and your eyes;
And ceteris paribus, take you a maid
(Of widows, my boy, I am something afraid!)
Who gives you—the darling!—her hand and her love,
With a sigh for her “dear sainted mother above!”
From which the conclusion you safely may draw,
She will never appear as your mother-in-law!

NIL ADMIRARI.

I.

When Horace in Vendusian groves
Was scribbling wit or sipping “Massic,”
Or singing those delicious loves
Which after ages reckon classic,
He wrote one day—'t was no vagary—
These famous words:—Nil admirari!

II.

“Wonder at nothing!” said the bard;
A kingdom's fall, a nation's rising,
A lucky or a losing card,
Are really not at all surprising;
However men or manners vary,
Keep cool and calm; Nil admirari!

III.

If kindness meet a cold return;
If friendship prove a dear delusion;
If love, neglected, cease to burn,
Or die untimely of profusion,—
Such lessons well may make us wary,
But need n't shock; Nil admirari!

IV.

Does disappointment follow gain?
Or wealth elude the keen pursuer?
Does pleasure end in poignant pain?
Does fame disgust the lucky wooer,
Or haply prove perversely chary?
'T was ever thus; Nil admirari!

V.

Does January wed with May,
Or ugliness consort with beauty?
Does Piety forget to pray?
And, heedless of connubial duty,
Leave faithful Ann for wanton Mary?
'T is the old tale; Nil admirari!

VI.

Ah! when the happy day we reach
When promisers are ne'er deceivers;
When parsons practice what they preach,
And seeming saints are all believers,
Then the old maxim you may vary,
And say no more, Nil admirari!

THE COQUETTE.

A PORTRAIT.

“You're clever at drawing, I own,”
Said my beautiful cousin Lisette,
As we sat by the window alone,
“But say, can you paint a Coquette?”

“She 's painted already,” quoth I;
“Nay, nay!” said the laughing Lisette,
“Now none of your joking,—but try
And paint me a thorough Coquette.”

“Well, cousin,” at once I began
In the ear of the eager Lisette,
“I'll paint you as well as I can
That wonderful thing, a Coquette.

“She wears a most beautiful face”
(“Of course!” said the pretty Lisette),
“And is n't deficient in grace,
Or else she were not a Coquette.

“And then she is daintily made”
(A smile from the dainty Lisette),
“By people expert in the trade
Of forming a proper Coquette.

“She 's the winningest ways with the beaux”
(“Go on!”—said the winning Lisette),
“But there is n't a man of them knows
The mind of the fickle Coquette!

“She knows how to weep and to sigh”
(A sigh from the tender Lisette),
“But her weeping is all in my eye,—
Not that of the cunning Coquette!

“In short, she 's a creature of art”
(“Oh hush!” said the frowning Lisette),
“With merely the ghost of a heart,—
Enough for a thorough Coquette.

“And yet I could easily prove”
(“Now don't!” said the angry Lisette),
“The lady is always in love,—
In love with herself,—the Coquette!

“There,—do not be angry!—you know,
My dear little cousin Lisette,
You told me a moment ago
To paint you—a thorough Coquette!”

CARMEN LÆTUM.

RECITED, AFTER DINNER, BEFORE THE ALUMNI OF MIDDLEBURY COLLEGE, AT THEIR SEMI-CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, AUGUST 22, 1850.

A right loving welcome, my true hearted Brothers,
Who have come out to visit the kindest of mothers;
You may think as you will, but there is n't a doubt
Alma Mater rejoices, and knows you are out!
Rejoices to see you in gratitude here,
Returning to honor her fiftieth year.
And while the good lady is so overcome
With maternal emotion, she 's stricken quite dumb
(A thing, I must own, that 's enough to perplex
A shallow observer, who thinks that the sex,
Whatever may be their internal revealings,
Can never be pained with unspeakable feelings),
Indulge me, dear Brothers, nor think me ill-bred,
If I venture a moment to speak in her stead.
I, who, though the humblest and homeliest one,
Feel the natural pride of a dutiful son,
And esteem it to-day the profoundest of joys,
That, not less than yourselves, I am one of the boys!

First as to her health, which, I 'm sorry to say,
Has been better, no doubt, than she finds it to-day;
Yet when you reflect she's been somewhat neglected,
She 's really as well as could well be expected;

And, spite of ill-treatment and premature fears,
Is a hearty old lady, for one of her years.
Indeed, I must tell you a bit of a tale,
To show you she's feeling remarkably hale;
How she turned up her nose, but a short time ago,
At a rather good-looking importunate beau,
And how she refused, with a princess-like carriage
“A very respectable offer of marriage.”

You see, my dear Brothers, a neighboring College
Who values himself on the depth of his knowledge,
With a prayer for her love, and an eye to her land,
Walked up to the lady and offered his hand.
For a minute or so she was all in a flutter,
And had not a word she could audibly utter;
For she felt in her bosom, beyond all concealing,
A kind of a—sort of a—widow-like feeling!
But recovering soon from the delicate shock,
She held up her head like an old-fashioned clock,
And, with proper composure, went on and defined,
In suitable phrases, the state of her mind;
Said she would n't mind changing her single condition
Could she fairly expect to improve her position;
And thus, by some words of equivocal scope,
Gave her lover decided “permission to hope.”
It were idle to talk of the billing and cooing
The amorous gentleman used in his wooing;
Or how she replied to his pressing advances,
His oscular touches and ocular glances:
'T is enough that his courtship, by all that is known,
Was quite the old story, and much like your own!

Thus the matter went on, till the lady found out,
One very fine day, what the rogue was about,
That all that he wanted was merely that power
By marital license to pocket her dower,
And then to discard her in sorrow and shame,
Bereaved of her home and her name and her fame.
In deep indignation she turned on her heel,
With such withering scorn as a lady might feel
For a knave, who, in stealing her miniature case,
Should take the gold setting, and leave her the face!
But soon growing calm as the breast of the deep,
When the breezes are hushed that the waters may sleep,
She sat in her chair, like a dignified elf,
And thus, while I listened, she talked to herself:—
“Nay, 't was idle to think of so foolish a plan
As a match with this pert University-man,
For I have n't a chick but would redden with shame
At the very idea of my losing my name;
And would feel that no sorrow so heavy could come
To his mother as losing her excellent home.
'T is true I am weak, but my children are strong,
And won't see me suffer privation or wrong;
So, away with the dream of connubial joys,
I'll stick to the homestead, and look to the boys!”

How joyous, my friends, is the cordial greeting
Which gladdens the heart at a family meeting;

When brothers assemble at Friendship's old shrine
To look at the present, and talk of “Lang Syne”!
Ah! well I remember the halcyon years,
Too earnest for laughter, too pleasant for tears,
When life was a boon in yon classical court,
Though lessons were long, and though commons were short!
Ah! well I remember those excellent men,
Professors and tutors, who reigned o'er us then;
Who guided our feet over Science's bogs,
And led us quite safe through Philosophy's fogs.
Ah! well I remember the President's face,
As he sat at the lecture with dignified grace,
And neatly unfolded the mystical themes
Of various deep metaphysical schemes,—
How he brightened the path of his studious flock,
As he gave them a key to that wonderful Locke;
How he taught us to feel it was fatal indeed
With too much reliance to lean upon Reid;
That Stewart was sounder, but wrong at the last,
From following his master a little too fast,—
Then closed the discourse in a scholarly tone,
With a clear and intelligent creed of his own.
That the man had his faults it were safe to infer,—
Though I really don't recollect what they were,—
I barely remember this one little truth,
When his case was discussed by the critical youth,
The Seniors and Freshmen were sure to divide,
And the former were all on the President's side!

And well I remember another, whose praise
Were a suitable theme for more elegant lays;
But even in numbers ungainly and rough,
I must mention the name of our glorious Hough!
Who does not remember? for who can forget,
Till Memory's star shall forever have set,
How he sat in his place unaffected and bold,
And taught us more truths than the lesson had told?
Gave a lift to “Old Nol,” for the love of the right,
And a slap at the Stuarts, with cordial spite;
And, quite in the teeth of conventional rules,
Hurled his adjectives down upon tyrants and fools?
But, chief, he excelled in his proper vocation
Of giving the classics a classic translation;
In Latin and Greek he was almost oracular,
And, what's more to his praise, understood the vernacular.
Oh, 't was pleasant to hear him make English of Greek,
Till you felt that [illeg.] tongue was inherently weak;
While Horace in Latin seemed quite understated,
And rejoiced like old Enoch in being translated!

And others there were—but the hour would fail,
To bring them all up in historic detail;
And yet I would give, ere the moment has fled,
A sigh for the absent, a tear for the dead.
There's not one of them all, where'er he may rove,
In the shadows of earth, or the glories above,
In the home of his birth, or in lands far away,
But comes back to be kindly remembered to-day!

One little word more, and my duty is done;—
A health to our Mother, from each mother's son!
Unfading in beauty, increasing in strength,

May she flourish in health through the century's length;
And next when her children come round her to boast,
May Esto perpetua then be the toast!

Allusion is had, in this and subsequent lines, to an unsuccessful attempt to unite Middlebury College with the University of Vermont. The affair is here treated with the license of a dinner poem, and with the partiality permitted to the occasion.

Joshua Bates, D. D.

MY BOYHOOD.

Ah me! those joyous days are gone!
I little dreamt, till they were flown,
How fleeting were the hours!
For, lest he break the pleasing spell,
Time bears for youth a muffled bell,
And hides his face in flowers!

Ah! well I mind me of the days,
Still bright in memory's flattering rays,
When all was fair and new;
When knaves were only found in books,
And friends were known by friendly looks,
And love was always true!

While yet of sin I scarcely dreamed,
And everything was what it seemed,
And all too bright for choice;
When fays were wont to guard my sleep,
And Crusoe still could make me weep,
And Santa Claus, rejoice!

When heaven was pictured to my thought
(In spite of all my mother taught
Of happiness serene)
A theatre of boyish plays,—
One glorious round of holidays,
Without a school between!

POST-PRANDIAL VERSES.

RECITED AT THE FESTIVAL OF THE PSI UPSILON FRATERNITY, IN BOSTON, JULY 21, 1853.

Dear Brothers, who sit at this bountiful board,
With excellent viands so lavishly stored
That, in newspaper phrase, t would undoubtedly groan,
If groaning were but a convivial tone,
Which it is n't,—and therefore, by sympathy led,
The table, no doubt, is rejoicing instead.
Dear Brothers, I rise,—and it won't be surprising
If you find me, like bread, all the better for rising,—
I rise to express my exceeding delight
In our cordial reunion this glorious night!

Success to “Psi Upsilon!”—Beautiful name!—
To the eye and the ear it is pleasant the same;
Many thanks to old Cadmus who made us his debtors,
By inventing, one day, those capital letters
Which still, from the heart, we shall know how to speak
When we've fairly forgotten the rest of our Greek!
To be open and honest in all that you do;
To every high trust to be faithful and true;
In aught that concerns morality's scheme,
To be more ambitious to be than to seem;
To cultivate honor as higher in worth
Than favor of fortune, or genius, or birth;
By every endeavor to render your lives
As spotless and fair as your—possible wives;
To treat with respect all the innocent rules
That keep us at peace with society's fools;
But to face every canon that e'er was designed
To batter a town or beleaguer a mind,
Ere you yield to the Moloch that Fashion has reared
One jot of your freedom, or hair of your beard,—
All this, and much more, I might venture to teach,
Had I only a “call”—and a “license to preach”;
But since I have not, to my modesty true,
I'll lay it all by, as a layman should do.

And drop a few lines, tipt with Momus's flies,
To angle for shiners—that lurk in your eyes!

May you ne'er get in love or in debt with a doubt
As to whether or no you will ever get out;
May you ne'er have a mistress who plays the coquette,
Or a neighbor who blows on a cracked clarionet;
May you learn the first use of a lock on your door,
And ne'er, like Adonis, be killed by a bore;
Shun canting and canters with resolute force
(A “canter” is shocking, except in a horse);
At jovial parties mind what you are at,
Beware of your head and take care of your hat,
Lest you find that a favorite son of your mother
Has a brick in the one and an ache in the other;
May you never, I pray, to worry your life,
Have a weak-minded friend, or a strong-minded wife;
A tailor distrustful, or partner suspicious;
A dog that is rabid, or nag that is vicious;
Above all—the chief blessing the gods can impart—
May you keep a clear head and a generous heart;
Remember 't is blesséd to give and forgive;
Live chiefly to love, and love while you live;
And dying, when life's little journey is done,
May your last, fondest sigh, be PSI Upsilon!

THE SILVER WEDDING.

TO JOHN NEWMAN, D. D.

“A wedding of Silver!—and what shall we do?”
I said in response to my excellent spouse,
Who hinted, this morning, we ought to renew
According to custom, our conjugal vows.

“I would n't much mind it, now—if—and suppose—
The bride were a blooming—Ah! well—on my life,
I think—to be candid—(don't turn up your nose!)
That every new wedding should bring a new wife!”

“And what if it should?” was the laughing reply;
“Do you think, my dear John, you could ever obtain
Another so fond and so faithful as I,
Should you purchase a wig, and go courting again?”

“Ah! darling,” I answered, “'t is just as you say;”
And clasping a waist rather shapely than small,
I kissed the dear girl in so ardent a way
You would n't have guessed we were married at all!

My wedding-day, Doctor, is also your own!
And so I send greeting to bridegroom and bride,—
The latter a wife good as ever was known;
The former well worthy her homage and pride.

God bless your new nuptials!—Still happy at home,
May you both grow serenely and gracefully old;
And, till the auriferous wedding shall come,
Find the years that are past were as silver to gold!

September 9, 1866.

LOOKING OUT INTO THE NIGHT.

Looking out into the night,
I behold in space afar
Yonder beaming, blazing star;

And I marvel at the might
Of the Giver of the rays,
And I worship as I gaze,
Looking out into the night.

Looking out into the night,
I espy two lovers near,
And their happy words I hear,
While their solemn troth they plight;
And I bless the loving twain,
Half in pleasure, half in pain,—
Looking out into the night.

Looking out into the night,
Lo! a woman passing by,
Glancing round with anxious eye,
Tearful, fearful of the light;
And I think what might have been
But for treachery and sin,—
Looking out into the night.

Looking out into the night,
I behold a distant sail
Roughly beaten by the gale
Till it vanishes from sight;
And I ponder on the strife
Of our fleeting human life,
Looking out into the night.

Looking out into the night,
I bethink me of the rest
And the rapture of the blest
In the land where all is light;
Sitting on the heavenly shore,
Weeping never,—nevermore
Looking out into the night!

THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW.

Good-by, Old Year! I can but say,
Sadly I see thee passing away;
Passing away with the hopes and fears,
The bliss and pain, the smiles and tears,
That come to us all in all the years.

Good-by, Old Year! Little indeed
Thy friendly voice we were wont to heed,
Telling us, warning us every day:—
“Transient mortals! work and pray;
You, like me, are passing away!”

Good-by, Old Year! Whatever may be
The sins and stains thou hast chanced to see,
Consider, O Year! to purge the same,
And wash away the sin and shame,
Whilst thou wert passing, Christmas came!

Good-by, Old Year! With words of grace
Leave us to him who takes thy place;
And say, Old Year, unto the New,
“Kindly, carefully, carry them through,
For much, I ween, they have yet to do!”

DE MUSA.

“Write a poem—solemn—earnest—
Worthy of your muse!”
Ah! when loving lips command me,
How can I refuse?
But the subject!—that's the pother—
What am I to choose?

War? The theme is something hackneyed;
Since old Homer's time,
Half the minstrels, large and little,
Have been making rhyme
With intent to prove that murder
(Wholesale) is sublime!

Love? A most delicious topic;
But how many score,
Nay, how many thousand poets
Deal in Cupid's lore,
From Anacreon to Catullus,
Not to mention Moore.

Grief? Ah! little joy has Sorrow
In the mimic art;
Can the lyre's melodious moaning
Ease the mourner's smart,
Though the strings were very fibres
Of the player's heart?

Nature,—posies, woods and waters?
Everlasting themes,—
Can the poets, in the rapture
Of their finest dreams,
Paint the lily of the valley
Fairer than she seems?

Metaphysics? Quite in fashion,—
But Apollo's curse
Blasts the syllogistic rhymer;
Why should I rehearse

Kant in cantos, or old Plato
Torture into verse?

Humor, satire, fun, and fancy,
Wit with wisdom blent,—
These, to give my Muse amusement,
Heaven has kindly lent;
Let her live and die a-laughing,
I shall be content!

AUGUSTA.

“Incedit regina!”

“Handsome and haughty!”—a comment that came
From lips which were never accustomed to malice;
A girl with a presence superb as her name,
And charmingly fitted for love—in a palace!
And oft I have wished (for in musing alone
One's fancy is apt to be very erratic)
That the lady might wear—No! I never will own
A thought so decidedly undemocratic!—
But if't were a coronet—this I'll aver,
No duchess on earth could more gracefully wear it;
And even a democrat, thinking of her,
Might surely be pardoned for wishing to share it!

ROGER BONTEMPS.

IMITATED FROM BÉRANGER.

I.

By way of good example
To all the gloomy clan,
There came into existence
Good Robin Merryman.
To laugh at those who grumble,
And be jolly as he can,—
Oh that 's the only system
Of Robin Merryman!

II.

A hat so very ancient
It might have covered Moses,
Adorned, on great occasions,
With ivy-leaves or roses;
A coat the very coarsest
Since tailoring began,—
Oh that 's the gay apparel
Of Robin Merryman!

III.

Within his cottage Robin
With joyful eye regards
A table and a bedstead,
A flute, a pack of cards,
A chest, with nothing in it,
An earthen water-can,—
Oh these are all the riches
Of Robin Merryman!

IV.

To teach the village children
The funniest kind of plays;
To tell a clever story;
To dance on holidays;
To puzzle through the almanac;
A merry song to scan,—
Oh that is all the learning
Of Robin Merryman!

V.

To drink his mug of cider,
And never sigh for wine;
To look at courtly ladies,
Yet think his Mag divine;
To take the good that's going,
Content with nature's plan,—
Oh that is the philosophy
Of Robin Merryman!

VI.

To say, “O Gracious Father!
Excuse my merry pranks;
For all thy loving-kindness
I give thee hearty thanks;
And may I still be jolly
Through life's remaining span,”—
Oh that 's the style of praying
With Robin Merryman!

VII.

Now, all ye wretched mortals
Aspiring to be rich;
And ye whose gilded coaches
Have tumbled in the ditch;
Leave off your silly whining,
Adopt a wiser plan;
Go follow the example
Of Robin Merryman!

THE KING OF NORMANDY.

FROM BÉRANGER'S “LE ROI D'YVETOT.”

I.

In Normandy there reigned a king
(I've quite forgot his name)
Who led a jolly sort of life,
And did n't care for fame.
A nightcap was his crown of state,
Which Jenny placed upon his pate.
Ha! ha! laugh and sing:
Oh was n't he a funny king?

II.

He ate his meals, like other folk,
Slept soundly and secure,
And on a donkey every year
He made his royal tour;
A little dog—it was his whim—
Was body-guard enough for him.
Ha! ha! laugh and sing:
Oh was n't he a funny king?

III.

A single foible he confessed,—
A tendency to drink;
But kings who heed their subjects' need
Should mind their own, I think;
And thus it was his tax he got,—
For every cask an extra pot.
Ha! ha! laugh and sing:
Oh was n't he a funny king?

IV.

The lasses loved this worthy king;
And many a merry youth
Would hail his majesty as “Sire,”
And often spoke the truth.
He viewed his troops in goodly ranks,
But still their cartridges were blanks.
Ha! ha! laugh and sing:
Oh was n't he a funny king?

V.

He never stole his neighbor's land
To magnify his realm;
But steered his little ship of state
With honor at the helm;
And when at last the king was dead,
No wonder all the people said,—
“Ah! ah! weep and sing:
Oh was n't he a noble king?”

THE HUNTER AND THE MILKMAID.

FROM BÉRANGER'S “LE CHASSEUR ET LA LAITIÈRE.”

I.

The lark is singing her matin lay,
Oh come with me, fair maiden, I pray;
Sweet, oh sweet is the morning hour,
And sweeter still is yon ivied bower;
Wreaths of roses I'll twine for thee,
Oh come, fair maiden, along with me!
Ah! Sir Hunter, my mother is near;
I really must n't be loitering here.

II.

Thy mother, fair maiden, is far away,
And never will listen a word we say.
I'll sing thee a song that ladies sing
In royal castles to please the king;
A wondrous song, whose magical charm
Will keep the singer from every harm.
Fie! Sir Hunter, a fig for your song,
Good by! for I must be going along.

III.

Ah! well, if singing will not prevail,
I'll tell thee, then, a terrible tale;
'T is all about a Baron so bold,
Huge and swart, and ugly and old,
Who saw the ghost of his murdered wife,—
A pleasant story, upon my life!
Ah! Sir Hunter, the story is flat;
I know one worth a dozen of that.

IV.

I'll teach thee, then, a curious prayer
Of wondrous power the wolf to scare,
And frighten the witch that hovers nigh
To blight the young with her evil eye.
O guard, fair maiden, thy beauty well,
A fearful thing is her wicked spell!
Oh, I can read my missal, you know.
Good by, Sir Hunter, for I must go.

V.

Nay, tarry a moment, my charming girl:
Here is a jewel of gold and pearl;
A beautiful cross it is, I ween,
As ever on beauty's breast was seen.
There 's nothing at all but love to pay;
Take it, and wear it, but only stay!
Ah! Sir Hunter, what excellent taste!
I'm not—in such—particular—haste!

THE POET TO HIS GARRET.

FROM BÉRANGER.

Thrice welcome the place where at twenty I sought
A nest for myself and my darling grisette;
Where I learned the queer lessons that poverty taught,
And with friendship and love banished care and regret.
'Twas here that we managed our social affairs,
Unheeding what dunces or sages might say;
How lightly I bounded up six pair o' stairs!
Ah! life in a garret at twenty is gay!

'T was only a garret! the table stood here;
And there a flock-bed,—'t was the best we could get;
And here on the plaster in charcoal appear
Three lines of a poem, unfinished as yet.
“Come back to me, Pleasures!” I eagerly shout;
“To keep you alive in my juvenile day
How oft my repeater was ‘put up the spout!’”
Ah! life in a garret at twenty is gay!

My laughing Lisette! would she only come back.
In her jaunty straw bonnet how charming was she!
Full well I remember her dexterous knack
Of hanging her shawl where the curtain should be;
Love! kiss her silk gown with your fondest caress;
You know where she got it, I venture to say.
I never was certain who paid for the dress;
Ah! life in a garret at twenty is gay!

One notable day in those glorious years,
As we sat in the midst of our feasting and fun,
A shout from the people saluted our ears,
“Napoleon is victor! Marengo is won!”
A new song of triumph at once we essayed,
While cannon were blazing and booming away,
“The free soil of France kings shall never invade!”
Ah! life in a garret at twenty is gay!

Away! I must go lest my reason should reel;
For one of those days I would cheerfully give,
With the pulses of youth that no longer I feel,
All the lingering years I am destined to live;
The love, hope, and joy that at twenty I had,
To have them condensed in one glorious day,
Like those that I spent when a light-hearted lad!
Ah! life in a garret at twenty is gay!

THE DINNER.

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.

Ah! many a guest is coming
Around my table to-day;
The fish, the flesh, and the poultry
Are smoking in goodly array;
The invitations were special,
They say they will surely appear.
Hans, go look at the window;
Time that the people were here!

Girls are coming by dozens,
Maidens whom even their foes
Never have once detected
Kissing beneath the rose;
Such are the damsels invited;
They said they would surely appear
Hans, go look at the window;
Time that the maidens were here!

Plenty of fine young fellows
Are coming to drink my health;
Civil, and moral, and modest,
Spite of their titles and wealth.

The invitations were early;
They say they will surely appear.
Hans, go look at the window;
Time that the younkers were here!

Plenty of wives are coming,
Such as the ugliest spouse
Never has driven a moment
To think of breaking their vows.
How pleasant to see them together!
They said they would surely appear.
Hans, go look at the window;
Time that the women were here!

Husbands also are coming,
Models of temperate lives;
Men who are blind to beauty,
Save in their excellent wives.
All were politely invited,
And say they will surely appear.
Hans, go look at the window;
Time that the fellows were here!

Poets are also invited;
The pleasantest ever were known;
Who list to another's verses
Cheerfully as to their own;
What capital dining companions!
They said they would surely appear.
Hans, go look at the window;
Time that the poets were here!

Alas! with watching and waiting,
The dinner is certainly spoiled;
The viands are cold in the dishes,
The roast and the baked and the boiled.
Perhaps we were over-punctilious;
Our feast is a failure, I fear.
Hans, come away from the window;
Never a one will be here!

FOOLS INCORRIGIBLE.

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.

I.

All the old sages, however indeed
They wrangle and fight in the bitterest way,
In one thing, at least, are fully agreed:
They wink at each other and laughingly say,
For the mending of fools it is foolish to wait,
Fools will be fools as certain as fate.
Sons of Wisdom! make 'em your tools;
That, only that, is the use of fools!

II.

Merlin, the ancient, long in his shroud,
Where I accosted him once in my youth,
Unto my questioning answered aloud,
Solemnly speaking this notable truth:
For the mending of fools it is foolish to wait,
Fools will be fools as certain as fate.
Sons of Wisdom! make 'em your tools;
That, only that, is the use of fools!

III.

High on the top of an Indian mound
I heard it once in the passing air;
And Egypt's vaults, deep under the ground,
The same old tale were echoing there:
For the mending of fools it is foolish to wait,
Fools will be fools as certain as fate.
Sons of Wisdom! make 'em your tools,
That, only that, is the use of fools!

THE BEST OF HUSBANDS.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Oh I have a man as good as can be,
No woman could wish for a better than he.
Sometimes, indeed, he may chance to be wrong,
But his love for me is uncommonly strong.

He has one little fault that makes me fret,
He has ever less money, by far, than debt;
Moreover, he thrashes me now and then;
But, excepting that, he 's the best of men!

I own he is dreadfully given to drink,
Besides, he is rather too fond, I think,
Of playing at cards and dice; but then,
Excepting that, he 's the best of men!

He loves to chat with the girls, I know
('T is the way with men, they are always so),
But what care I for his flirting, when,
Excepting that, he 's the best of men?

When soaked with rum, he is hardly polite,
But knocks the crockery left and right,
And pulls my hair, and growls again;
But, excepting that, he's the best of men!

I can't but say I think he is rash
To pawn my pewter, and spend the cash,
But I have n't the heart to scold him, when,
Excepting that, he's the best of men!

What joy to think he 's all my own!
The best of husbands that ever was known;
As good, indeed, as a man can be;
And who could wish for a better than he?

ADVICE TO A YOUNG FRIEND,

WHO THINKS HE SHOULD LIKE TO BE A LAWYER.

No, no, my boy! let others sweat
And wrangle in the courts;
Their Pleas are most unpleasing things;
You cannot trust Reports!

Although the law of literature
May your attention draw,
I'm very sure you would n't like
The Literature of Law!

Justinian's Novels don't compare
With those of Walter Scott;
They 've very little sentiment,
And deuce a bit of plot!

When Coke on Littleton came down,
He served him right; but who
Would say it were a civil thing
To set them both on you?

In Blackstone there is much, I own,
Well worthy of regard;
But then, my boy, like other stones,
You'll find him precious hard!

Sir William Jones is very well,
As every scholar knows;
But read, my lad, his poetry,
And never mind his prose.

Though Angell tempt you, heed him not;
For Satan, to his shame,
Full oft, to further wicked ends,
Employs a seraph's name!

Though Aiken may be very wise,
Pray what is that to you?
His reader will be apt to find
That he is achin' too!

There 's Story now, the lawyers say,
Is very fine indeed;
I only know he 's not the kind
Young fellows like to read!

And as for Cruise, though much admired,
You 'd better let him be,
And use, instead, the milder sort
That people take at sea!

No, no, my boy! let others sweat
And wrangle in the courts;
There 's nothing pleasing in a Plea;
You cannot trust Reports!

Although the law of literature
May your attention draw,
I'm very sure you would n't like
The Literature of Law!

THE EDITOR'S CRIME.

With a gloomy air,
And a dreamy stare,
An Editor sits in his sanctum-chair,
Musing like one in trouble or doubt;
And what do you think he is thinking about?

“I'm sorely afraid
This wearisome trade
Will waste me away to the veriest shade;
And force me, perhaps,—but that cannot be—
A murder's a horrible crime!” said he.

“I never shirk
Editorial work,
Nor mind the libel that in it may lurk;
Miscellaneous matter is easy to choose;
But the News!—the News!—they will have News!

“A leader to write
Or a tale to indite,
Is easy as lying—that is n't the ‘bite’;
All wholesome reading the public refuse;
'T is ‘News!’—‘News!’—‘News!’—they will have News!

“That 's not the worst,
My paper is curs'd,
Unless it is crammed, till it 's ready to burst,
With doings at which humanity quails,—
Rapes, Riots, and Murders, with all the details!

“A bloodless row,
Or a five-legged cow,
Is quite too tame for an item now;
‘News,’—‘News,’—‘News!’—is still the song,
And then they will have it so horribly strong!

“'T was but t' other day
I heard a man say,
He wa'n't to be done in so shabby a way,—
For, of all the crimes my paper could boast,
The worst, for a month, was a ‘Murder!—almost.’

“Ah! malheureux!
'T is true!—'t is true!
But what the deuce can an Editor do?
If crimes won't happen, they don't suppose
I'm going to make 'em?—(Ha! ha!—who knows?)

“I will—I won't—
I dare—I don't!—
I tremble to think I am thinking upon't!”
The blackest of frowns is clouding his brow,—
Oh, what is the Editor muttering now?

On the following day,
In a flaming way,
The Pepperville Post was “shocked to say,
Our slumbering city was roused last night
By a startling sound, and a horrible sight!

“Diabolical Crime!
Last night,—sometime,—
Not far from the stroke of the midnight chime,
By some person unknown, with a pistol or gun,
A most unnatural Murder was Done

“On Jonathan Brown!—
While walking down
The principal street of our beautiful town,—
A citizen held in the highest regard;
And the Mayor should offer a handsome reward

“For the infamous wretch,
That the rascal may stretch
The best bit of rope in the hands of Jack Ketch!
Post scriptum. A chap has been lurking about
Whom nobody knows,—the assassin, no doubt.

“Still Later! 'T is said
That the murderous lead
Had a conical shape, and went quite through the head:
Of our wide-awake journal we don't wish to boast,
But no Pepperville print has the news, but the Post!”

I grieve to tell
Suspicion fell
On the man who had told the story so well!
Namely, the Editor!—none but he
Knew aught of the case,—who else could it be?

On looking around,
A bullet was found
(Of a conical shape) not far from the ground
Whereon it was known the murder was done,—
A bullet that fitted the Editor's gun!

'T is sad to relate
How the merciless State
Doomed him to suffer a murderer's fate;
And how on the gallows the wicked Editor
Died,—lamented by many a creditor!

But I'm glad to say
It was told, that day,
Such things are out of the usual way,
And, to the honor of all the corps,
Never was Editor hanged before!

FIRST MORAL.

Don't edit a journal!
(That is, a diurnal,)
The labors and dangers are really infernal;
And will drive you, at last, to some folly or other;
Perhaps to the fate of your Pepperville brother!

SECOND MORAL.

If you choose to regard
Such advice as too hard,
And will edit a Daily, in spite of the bard,
Go to Babylon,—where, in the dullest of times,
You won't have occasion to do your own “Crimes!”

THIRD MORAL.

If you must have a bite
At eleven at night,
Don't eat lobster-salad, but take something light;
Or,—crede experto,—you'd better beware
Of taking a nap in your sanctum chair!

PADDY'S ODE TO THE PRINCE.

O mighty Prince!
It's no offense,
Your worship, that I mane ye,
While I confiss
'T was ra-al bliss,
A moment to have sane ye!

That you should see
The likes o' me,
The while I stud adjacent,
I don't suppose,
Although me clo'es
Was mighty clane and dacent.

Av coorse, ye know
'T was long ago,
I looked at Jukes and such men,
And longer since,
And English Prince
Begotten by a Dutchman!

But by me troth,
And Bible-oath!
Wid all me Irish shyness,
I've passed the word
Wid many a lord,
Much taller than your Highness!

Ah! well,—bedad,
No doubt ye had,
In token of allagiance,
As good a cup
As ye could sup
Among thim black Canajans;

But wha'd 'ye think
Of Christian dhrink,
Now tell me that, me tulip!
When through a sthraw
Your Highness saw,
The flavor of a julep?

Thim haythen chaps,
The nayger Japs,
Wid all their curst expinses,
Just tuk their fill,
And left a bill
At which the paple winces;

But thin, no doubt,
Ye'll ride about
Wid Boole and all the Aldermen
They 've little sinse,
But, for expinse,
There 's not a set of boulder men!

Fernandy Wud
Has dacent blood,
And illigant morality;
And ye may swear
Our mighty Mayor
Will show his horsepitality!

The soldiers all
Are at his call,
Wid Captains to parade 'em;
And at the laste,
Ye'll get a taste
Of dimmecratic fraydem.

But plase to note,
Ye 're not to vote,—
A privilege, by Jabers!
Ye could n't hope,
Were ye the Pope,
Until ye've got the papers!

Well, mighty Prince,
Accept these hints;
Most frayly I indite 'em;
'T is luck, indade,
If ye can rade
As aisy as I write 'em!

And when the throne
Is all ye'r own
At which ye 're daily steerin',
Remimber what
Some kings forgot,—
Remimber poor ould Erin.

The faculty of seeing a flavor is, of course, peculiarly Hibernian.