Not ours to ask in freezing tones His race, his calling, or his creed; Each heart the tie of kinship owns, When those are human veins that bleed.

Here stand the champions to defend From every wound that flesh can feel; Here science, patience, skill, shall blend To save, to calm, to help, to heal.

Father of Mercies! Weak and frail, Thy guiding hand Thy children ask; Let not the Great Physician fail To aid us in our holy task.

Source of all truth, and love, and light, That warm and cheer our earthly days, Be ours to serve Thy will aright, Be Thine the glory and the praise!



ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT GARFIELD

I.

FALLEN with autumn's falling leaf Ere yet his summer's noon was past, Our friend, our guide, our trusted chief,— What words can match a woe so vast!

And whose the chartered claim to speak The sacred grief where all have part, Where sorrow saddens every cheek And broods in every aching heart?

Yet Nature prompts the burning phrase That thrills the hushed and shrouded hall, The loud lament, the sorrowing praise, The silent tear that love lets fall.

In loftiest verse, in lowliest rhyme, Shall strive unblamed the minstrel choir,—- The singers of the new-born time, And trembling age with outworn lyre.

No room for pride, no place for blame,— We fling our blossoms on the grave, Pale,—scentless,—faded,—all we claim, This only,—what we had we gave.

Ah, could the grief of all who mourn Blend in one voice its bitter cry, The wail to heaven's high arches borne Would echo through the caverned sky.

II.

O happiest land, whose peaceful choice Fills with a breath its empty throne! God, speaking through thy people's voice, Has made that voice for once His own.

No angry passion shakes the state Whose weary servant seeks for rest; And who could fear that scowling hate Would strike at that unguarded breast?

He stands, unconscious of his doom, In manly strength, erect, serene; Around him Summer spreads her bloom; He falls,—what horror clothes the scene!

How swift the sudden flash of woe Where all was bright as childhood's dream! As if from heaven's ethereal bow Had leaped the lightning's arrowy gleam.

Blot the foul deed from history's page; Let not the all-betraying sun Blush for the day that stains an age When murder's blackest wreath was won.

III.

Pale on his couch the sufferer lies, The weary battle-ground of pain Love tends his pillow; Science tries Her every art, alas! in vain.

The strife endures how long! how long! Life, death, seem balanced in the scale, While round his bed a viewless throng Await each morrow's changing tale.

In realms the desert ocean parts What myriads watch with tear-filled eyes, His pulse-beats echoing in their hearts, His breathings counted with their sighs!

Slowly the stores of life are spent, Yet hope still battles with despair; Will Heaven not yield when knees are bent? Answer, O thou that hearest prayer.

But silent is the brazen sky; On sweeps the meteor's threatening train, Unswerving Nature's mute reply, Bound in her adamantine chain.

Not ours the verdict to decide Whom death shall claim or skill shall save; The hero's life though Heaven denied, It gave our land a martyr's grave.

Nor count the teaching vainly sent How human hearts their griefs may share,— The lesson woman's love has lent, What hope may do, what faith can bear!

Farewell! the leaf-strown earth enfolds Our stay, our pride, our hopes, our fears, And autumn's golden sun beholds A nation bowed, a world in tears.



THE GOLDEN FLOWER

WHEN Advent dawns with lessening days, While earth awaits the angels' hymn; When bare as branching coral sways In whistling winds each leafless limb; When spring is but a spendthrift's dream, And summer's wealth a wasted dower, Nor dews nor sunshine may redeem,— Then autumn coins his Golden Flower.

Soft was the violet's vernal hue, Fresh was the rose's morning red, Full-orbed the stately dahlia grew,— All gone! their short-lived splendors shed. The shadows, lengthening, stretch at noon; The fields are stripped, the groves are dumb; The frost-flowers greet the icy moon,— Then blooms the bright chrysanthemum.

The stiffening turf is white with snow, Yet still its radiant disks are seen Where soon the hallowed morn will show The wreath and cross of Christmas green; As if in autumn's dying days It heard the heavenly song afar, And opened all its glowing rays, The herald lamp of Bethlehem's star.

Orphan of summer, kindly sent To cheer the fading year's decline, In all that pitying Heaven has lent No fairer pledge of hope than thine. Yes! June lies hid beneath the snow, And winter's unborn heir shall claim For every seed that sleeps below A spark that kindles into flame.

Thy smile the scowl of winter braves Last of the bright-robed, flowery train, Soft sighing o'er the garden graves, "Farewell! farewell! we meet again!" So may life's chill November bring Hope's golden flower, the last of all, Before we hear the angels sing Where blossoms never fade and fall!



HAIL, COLUMBIA!

1798

THE FIRST VERSE OF THE SONG

BY JOSEPH HOPKINSON

"HAIL, Columbia! Happy land! Hail, ye heroes, heaven-born band, Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, And when the storm of war was gone Enjoy'd the peace your valor won. Let independence be our boast, Ever mindful what it cost; Ever grateful for the prize, Let its altar reach the skies.

"Firm—united—let us be, Rallying round our Liberty; As a band of brothers join'd, Peace and safety we shall find."

ADDITIONAL VERSES

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE COMMITTEE FOR THE CONSTITUTIONAL CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION AT PHILADELPHIA,

1887

LOOK our ransomed shores around, Peace and safety we have found! Welcome, friends who once were foes! Welcome, friends who once were foes, To all the conquering years have gained,— A nation's rights, a race unchained!

Children of the day new-born, Mindful of its glorious morn, Let the pledge our fathers signed Heart to heart forever bind!

While the stars of heaven shall burn, While the ocean tides return, Ever may the circling sun Find the Many still are One!

Graven deep with edge of steel, Crowned with Victory's crimson seal, All the world their names shall read! All the world their names shall read, Enrolled with his, the Chief that led The hosts whose blood for us was shed. Pay our sires their children's debt, Love and honor, nor forget Only Union's golden key Guards the Ark of Liberty!

While the stars of heaven shall burn, While the ocean tides return, Ever may the circling sun Find the Many still are One!

Hail, Columbia! strong and free, Throned in hearts from sea to sea Thy march triumphant still pursue! Thy march triumphant still pursue With peaceful stride from zone to zone, Till Freedom finds the world her own.

Blest in Union's holy ties, Let our grateful song arise, Every voice its tribute lend, All in loving chorus blend!

While the stars in heaven shall burn, While the ocean tides return, Ever shall the circling sun Find the Many still are One!



POEM

FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE FOUNTAIN AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON, PRESENTED BY GEORGE W. CHILDS, OF PHILADELPHIA

WELCOME, thrice welcome is thy silvery gleam, Thou long-imprisoned stream! Welcome the tinkle of thy crystal beads As plashing raindrops to the flowery meads, As summer's breath to Avon's whispering reeds! From rock-walled channels, drowned in rayless night, Leap forth to life and light; Wake from the darkness of thy troubled dream, And greet with answering smile the morning's beam!

No purer lymph the white-limbed Naiad knows Than from thy chalice flows; Not the bright spring of Afric's sunny shores, Starry with spangles washed from golden ores, Nor glassy stream Bandusia's fountain pours, Nor wave translucent where Sabrina fair Braids her loose-flowing hair, Nor the swift current, stainless as it rose Where chill Arveiron steals from Alpine snows.

Here shall the traveller stay his weary feet To seek thy calm retreat; Here at high noon the brown-armed reaper rest; Here, when the shadows, lengthening from the west, Call the mute song-bird to his leafy nest, Matron and maid shall chat the cares away That brooded o'er the day, While flocking round them troops of children meet, And all the arches ring with laughter sweet.

Here shall the steed, his patient life who spends In toil that never ends, Hot from his thirsty tramp o'er hill and plain, Plunge his red nostrils, while the torturing rein Drops in loose loops beside his floating mane; Nor the poor brute that shares his master's lot Find his small needs forgot,— Truest of humble, long-enduring friends, Whose presence cheers, whose guardian care defends!

Here lark and thrush and nightingale shall sip, And skimming swallows dip, And strange shy wanderers fold their lustrous plumes Fragrant from bowers that lent their sweet perfumes Where Paestum's rose or Persia's lilac blooms; Here from his cloud the eagle stoop to drink At the full basin's brink, And whet his beak against its rounded lip, His glossy feathers glistening as they drip.

Here shall the dreaming poet linger long, Far from his listening throng,— Nor lute nor lyre his trembling hand shall bring; Here no frail Muse shall imp her crippled wing, No faltering minstrel strain his throat to sing! These hallowed echoes who shall dare to claim Whose tuneless voice would shame, Whose jangling chords with jarring notes would wrong The nymphs that heard the Swan if Avon's song?

What visions greet the pilgrim's raptured eyes! What ghosts made real rise! The dead return,—they breathe,—they live again, Joined by the host of Fancy's airy train, Fresh from the springs of Shakespeare's quickening brain! The stream that slakes the soul's diviner thirst Here found the sunbeams first; Rich with his fame, not less shall memory prize The gracious gift that humbler wants supplies.

O'er the wide waters reached the hand that gave To all this bounteous wave, With health and strength and joyous beauty fraught; Blest be the generous pledge of friendship, brought From the far home of brothers' love, unbought! Long may fair Avon's fountain flow, enrolled With storied shrines of old, Castalia's spring, Egeria's dewy cave, And Horeb's rock the God of Israel slave!

Land of our fathers, ocean makes us two, But heart to heart is true! Proud is your towering daughter in the West, Yet in her burning life-blood reign confest Her mother's pulses beating in her breast. This holy fount, whose rills from heaven descend, Its gracious drops shall lend,— Both foreheads bathed in that baptismal dew, And love make one the old home and the new!

August 29, 1887.



TO THE POETS WHO ONLY READ AND LISTEN

WHEN evening's shadowy fingers fold The flowers of every hue, Some shy, half-opened bud will hold Its drop of morning's dew.

Sweeter with every sunlit hour The trembling sphere has grown, Till all the fragrance of the flower Becomes at last its own.

We that have sung perchance may find Our little meed of praise, And round our pallid temples bind The wreath of fading bays.

Ah, Poet, who hast never spent Thy breath in idle strains, For thee the dewdrop morning lent Still in thy heart remains;

Unwasted, in its perfumed cell It waits the evening gale; Then to the azure whence it fell Its lingering sweets exhale.



FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE NEW CITY LIBRARY, BOSTON

PROUDLY, beneath her glittering dome, Our three-hilled city greets the morn; Here Freedom found her virgin home,— The Bethlehem where her babe was born.

The lordly roofs of traffic rise Amid the smoke of household fires; High o'er them in the peaceful skies Faith points to heaven her clustering spires.

Can Freedom breathe if ignorance reign? Shall Commerce thrive where anarchs rule? Will Faith her half-fledged brood retain If darkening counsels cloud the school?

Let in the light! from every age Some gleams of garnered wisdom pour, And, fixed on thought's electric page, Wait all their radiance to restore.

Let in the light! in diamond mines Their gems invite the hand that delves; So learning's treasured jewels shine Ranged on the alcove's ordered shelves.

From history's scroll the splendor streams, From science leaps the living ray; Flashed from the poet's glowing dreams The opal fires of fancy play.

Let in the light! these windowed walls Shall brook no shadowing colonnades, But day shall flood the silent halls Till o'er yon hills the sunset fades.

Behind the ever open gate No pikes shall fence a crumbling throne, No lackeys cringe, no courtiers wait, This palace is the people's own!

Heirs of our narrow-girdled past, How fair the prospect we survey, Where howled unheard the wintry blast, And rolled unchecked the storm-swept bay!

These chosen precincts, set apart For learned toil and holy shrines, Yield willing homes to every art That trains, or strengthens, or refines.

Here shall the sceptred mistress reign Who heeds her meanest subject's call, Sovereign of all their vast domain, The queen, the handmaid of them all!

November 26, 1888.



FOR THE WINDOW IN ST. MARGARET'S IN MEMORY OF A SON OF ARCHDEACON FARRAR

AFAR he sleeps whose name is graven here, Where loving hearts his early doom deplore; Youth, promise, virtue, all that made him dear Heaven lent, earth borrowed, sorrowing to restore.

BOSTON, April 12, 1891.



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

1819-1891

THOU shouldst have sung the swan-song for the choir That filled our groves with music till the day Lit the last hilltop with its reddening fire, And evening listened for thy lingering lay.

But thou hast found thy voice in realms afar Where strains celestial blend their notes with thine; Some cloudless sphere beneath a happier star Welcomes the bright-winged spirit we resign.

How Nature mourns thee in the still retreat Where passed in peace thy love-enchanted hours! Where shall she find an eye like thine to greet Spring's earliest footprints on her opening flowers?

Have the pale wayside weeds no fond regret For him who read the secrets they enfold? Shall the proud spangles of the field forget The verse that lent new glory to their gold?

And ye whose carols wooed his infant ear, Whose chants with answering woodnotes he repaid, Have ye no song his spirit still may hear From Elmwood's vaults of overarching shade?

Friends of his studious hours, who thronged to teach The deep-read scholar all your varied lore, Shall he no longer seek your shelves to reach The treasure missing from his world-wide store?

This singer whom we long have held so dear Was Nature's darling, shapely, strong, and fair; Of keenest wit, of judgment crystal-clear, Easy of converse, courteous, debonair,

Fit for the loftiest or the lowliest lot, Self-poised, imperial, yet of simplest ways; At home alike in castle or in cot, True to his aim, let others blame or praise.

Freedom he found an heirloom from his sires; Song, letters, statecraft, shared his years in turn; All went to feed the nation's altar-fires Whose mourning children wreathe his funeral urn.

He loved New England,—people, language, soil, Unweaned by exile from her arid breast. Farewell awhile, white-handed son of toil, Go with her brown-armed laborers to thy rest.

Peace to thy slumber in the forest shade! Poet and patriot, every gift was thine; Thy name shall live while summers bloom and fade, And grateful Memory guard thy leafy shrine!

===



POEMS FROM OVER THE TEACUPS



TO THE ELEVEN LADIES

WHO PRESENTED ME WITH A SILVER LOVING CUP ON THE TWENTY-NINTH OF AUGUST, M DCCC LXXXIX

"WHO gave this cup?" The secret thou wouldst steal Its brimming flood forbids it to reveal: No mortal's eye shall read it till he first Cool the red throat of thirst.

If on the golden floor one draught remain, Trust me, thy careful search will be in vain; Not till the bowl is emptied shalt thou know The names enrolled below.

Deeper than Truth lies buried in her well Those modest names the graven letters spell Hide from the sight; but wait, and thou shalt see Who the good angels be.

Whose bounty glistens in the beauteous gift That friendly hands to loving lips shall lift Turn the fair goblet when its floor is dry,— Their names shall meet thine eye.

Count thou their number on the beads of Heaven Alas! the clustered Pleiads are but seven; Nay, the nine sister Muses are too few,— The Graces must add two.

"For whom this gift?" For one who all too long Clings to his bough among the groves of song; Autumn's last leaf, that spreads its faded wing To greet a second spring.

Dear friends, kind friends, whate'er the cup may hold, Bathing its burnished depths, will change to gold Its last bright drop let thirsty Maenads drain, Its fragrance will remain.

Better love's perfume in the empty bowl Than wine's nepenthe for the aching soul; Sweeter than song that ever poet sung, It makes an old heart young!



THE PEAU DE CHAGRIN OF STATE STREET

How beauteous is the bond In the manifold array Of its promises to pay, While the eight per cent it gives And the rate at which one lives Correspond!

But at last the bough is bare Where the coupons one by one Through their ripening days have run, And the bond, a beggar now, Seeks investment anyhow, Anywhere!



CACOETHES SCRIBENDI

IF all the trees in all the woods were men; And each and every blade of grass a pen; If every leaf on every shrub and tree Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea Were changed to ink, and all earth's living tribes Had nothing else to do but act as scribes, And for ten thousand ages, day and night, The human race should write, and write, and write, Till all the pens and paper were used up, And the huge inkstand was an empty cup, Still would the scribblers clustered round its brink Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink.



THE ROSE AND THE FERN

LADY, life's sweetest lesson wouldst thou learn, Come thou with me to Love's enchanted bower High overhead the trellised roses burn; Beneath thy feet behold the feathery fern,— A leaf without a flower.

What though the rose leaves fall? They still are sweet, And have been lovely in their beauteous prime, While the bare frond seems ever to repeat, "For us no bud, no blossom, wakes to greet The joyous flowering time!"

Heed thou the lesson. Life has leaves to tread And flowers to cherish; summer round thee glows; Wait not till autumn's fading robes are shed, But while its petals still are burning red Gather life's full-blown rose!



I LIKE YOU AND I LOVE YOU

I LIKE YOU Met I LOVE You, face to face; The path was narrow, and they could not pass. I LIKE YOU smiled; I LOVE YOU cried, Alas! And so they halted for a little space.

"Turn thou and go before," I LOVE YOU said, "Down the green pathway, bright with many a flower; Deep in the valley, lo! my bridal bower Awaits thee." But I LIKE YOU shook his head.

Then while they lingered on the span-wide shelf That shaped a pathway round the rocky ledge, I LIKE You bared his icy dagger's edge, And first he slew I LOVE You,—then himself.



LA MAISON D'OR

(BAR HARBOR)

FROM this fair home behold on either side The restful mountains or the restless sea So the warm sheltering walls of life divide Time and its tides from still eternity.

Look on the waves: their stormy voices teach That not on earth may toil and struggle cease. Look on the mountains: better far than speech Their silent promise of eternal peace.



TOO YOUNG FOR LOVE

Too young for love? Ah, say not so! Tell reddening rose-buds not to blow Wait not for spring to pass away,— Love's summer months begin with May! Too young for love? Ah, say not so! Too young? Too young? Ah, no! no! no!

Too young for love? Ah, say not so, To practise all love learned in May. June soon will come with lengthened day While daisies bloom and tulips glow!

Too young for love? Ah, say not so! Too young? Too young? Ah, no! no! no!



THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN; OR, THE RETURN OF THE WITCHES

LOOK out! Look out, boys! Clear the track! The witches are here! They've all come back! They hanged them high,—No use! No use! What cares a witch for a hangman's noose? They buried them deep, but they wouldn't lie still, For cats and witches are hard to kill; They swore they shouldn't and wouldn't die,— Books said they did, but they lie! they lie!

A couple of hundred years, or so, They had knocked about in the world below, When an Essex Deacon dropped in to call, And a homesick feeling seized them all; For he came from a place they knew full well, And many a tale he had to tell. They longed to visit the haunts of men, To see the old dwellings they knew again, And ride on their broomsticks all around Their wide domain of unhallowed ground.

In Essex county there's many a roof Well known to him of the cloven hoof; The small square windows are full in view Which the midnight hags went sailing through, On their well-trained broomsticks mounted high, Seen like shadows against the sky; Crossing the track of owls and bats, Hugging before them their coal-black cats.

Well did they know, those gray old wives, The sights we see in our daily drives Shimmer of lake and shine of sea, Browne's bare hill with its lonely tree, (It was n't then as we see it now, With one scant scalp-lock to shade its brow;) Dusky nooks in the Essex woods, Dark, dim, Dante-like solitudes, Where the tree-toad watches the sinuous snake Glide through his forests of fern and brake; Ipswich River; its old stone bridge; Far off Andover's Indian Ridge, And many a scene where history tells Some shadow of bygone terror dwells,— Of "Norman's Woe" with its tale of dread, Of the Screeching Woman of Marblehead, (The fearful story that turns men pale Don't bid me tell it,—my speech would fail.)

Who would not, will not, if he can, Bathe in the breezes of fair Cape Ann,— Rest in the bowers her bays enfold, Loved by the sachems and squaws of old? Home where the white magnolias bloom, Sweet with the bayberry's chaste perfume, Hugged by the woods and kissed by the sea! Where is the Eden like to thee? For that "couple of hundred years, or so," There had been no peace in the world below; The witches still grumbling, "It is n't fair; Come, give us a taste of the upper air! We 've had enough of your sulphur springs, And the evil odor that round them clings; We long for a drink that is cool and nice,— Great buckets of water with Wenham ice; We've served you well up-stairs, you know; You 're a good old—fellow—come, let us go!"

I don't feel sure of his being good, But he happened to be in a pleasant mood,— As fiends with their skins full sometimes are,— (He'd been drinking with "roughs" at a Boston bar.) So what does he do but up and shout To a graybeard turnkey, "Let 'em out!"

To mind his orders was all he knew; The gates swung open, and out they flew. "Where are our broomsticks?" the beldams cried. "Here are your broomsticks," an imp replied. "They 've been in—the place you know—so long They smell of brimstone uncommon strong; But they've gained by being left alone,— Just look, and you'll see how tall they've grown." "And where is my cat?" a vixen squalled. "Yes, where are our cats?" the witches bawled, And began to call them all by name As fast as they called the cats, they came There was bob-tailed Tommy and long-tailed Tim, And wall-eyed Jacky and green-eyed Jim, And splay-foot Benny and slim-legged Beau, And Skinny and Squally, and Jerry and Joe, And many another that came at call,— It would take too long to count them all. All black,—one could hardly tell which was which, But every cat knew his own old witch; And she knew hers as hers knew her,— Ah, didn't they curl their tails and purr!

No sooner the withered hags were free Than out they swarmed for a midnight spree; I couldn't tell all they did in rhymes, But the Essex people had dreadful times. The Swampscott fishermen still relate How a strange sea-monster stole their bait; How their nets were tangled in loops and knots, And they found dead crabs in their lobster-pots. Poor Danvers grieved for her blasted crops, And Wilmington mourned over mildewed hops. A blight played havoc with Beverly beans,— It was all the work of those hateful queans! A dreadful panic began at "Pride's," Where the witches stopped in their midnight rides, And there rose strange rumors and vague alarms 'Mid the peaceful dwellers at Beverly Farms.

Now when the Boss of the Beldams found That without his leave they were ramping round, He called,—they could hear him twenty miles, From Chelsea beach to the Misery Isles; The deafest old granny knew his tone Without the trick of the telephone. "Come here, you witches! Come here!" says he,— "At your games of old, without asking me! I'll give you a little job to do That will keep you stirring, you godless crew!"

They came, of course, at their master's call, The witches, the broomsticks, the cats, and all; He led the hags to a railway train The horses were trying to drag in vain. "Now, then," says he, "you've had your fun, And here are the cars you've got to run. The driver may just unhitch his team, We don't want horses, we don't want steam; You may keep your old black cats to hug, But the loaded train you've got to lug."

Since then on many a car you 'll see A broomstick plain as plain can be; On every stick there's a witch astride,— The string you see to her leg is tied. She will do a mischief if she can, But the string is held by a careful man, And whenever the evil-minded witch Would cut some caper, he gives a twitch. As for the hag, you can't see her, But hark! you can hear her black cat's purr, And now and then, as a car goes by, You may catch a gleam from her wicked eye.

Often you've looked on a rushing train, But just what moved it was not so plain. It couldn't be those wires above, For they could neither pull nor shove; Where was the motor that made it go You couldn't guess, but now you know.

Remember my rhymes when you ride again On the rattling rail by the broomstick train!



TARTARUS

WHILE in my simple gospel creed That "God is Love" so plain I read, Shall dreams of heathen birth affright My pathway through the coming night? Ah, Lord of life, though spectres pale Fill with their threats the shadowy vale, With Thee my faltering steps to aid, How can I dare to be afraid?

Shall mouldering page or fading scroll Outface the charter of the soul? Shall priesthood's palsied arm protect The wrong our human hearts reject, And smite the lips whose shuddering cry Proclaims a cruel creed a lie? The wizard's rope we disallow Was justice once,—is murder now!

Is there a world of blank despair, And dwells the Omnipresent there? Does He behold with smile serene The shows of that unending scene, Where sleepless, hopeless anguish lies, And, ever dying, never dies? Say, does He hear the sufferer's groan, And is that child of wrath his own?

O mortal, wavering in thy trust, Lift thy pale forehead from the dust! The mists that cloud thy darkened eyes Fade ere they reach the o'erarching skies When the blind heralds of despair Would bid thee doubt a Father's care, Look up from earth, and read above On heaven's blue tablet, GOD IS LOVE!



AT THE TURN OF THE ROAD

THE glory has passed from the goldenrod's plume, The purple-hued asters still linger in bloom The birch is bright yellow, the sumachs are red, The maples like torches aflame overhead.

But what if the joy of the summer is past, And winter's wild herald is blowing his blast? For me dull November is sweeter than May, For my love is its sunshine,—she meets me to-day!

Will she come? Will the ring-dove return to her nest? Will the needle swing back from the east or the west? At the stroke of the hour she will be at her gate; A friend may prove laggard,—love never comes late.

Do I see her afar in the distance? Not yet. Too early! Too early! She could not forget! When I cross the old bridge where the brook overflowed, She will flash full in sight at the turn of the road.

I pass the low wall where the ivy entwines; I tread the brown pathway that leads through the pines; I haste by the boulder that lies in the field, Where her promise at parting was lovingly sealed.

Will she come by the hillside or round through the wood? Will she wear her brown dress or her mantle and hood? The minute draws near,—but her watch may go wrong; My heart will be asking, What keeps her so long?

Why doubt for a moment? More shame if I do! Why question? Why tremble? Are angels more true? She would come to the lover who calls her his own Though she trod in the track of a whirling cyclone!

I crossed the old bridge ere the minute had passed. I looked: lo! my Love stood before me at last. Her eyes, how they sparkled, her cheeks, how they glowed, As we met, face to face, at the turn of the road!



IN VITA MINERVA

VEX not the Muse with idle prayers,— She will not hear thy call; She steals upon thee unawares, Or seeks thee not at all.

Soft as the moonbeams when they sought Endymion's fragrant bower, She parts the whispering leaves of thought To show her full-blown flower.

For thee her wooing hour has passed, The singing birds have flown, And winter comes with icy blast To chill thy buds unblown.

Yet, though the woods no longer thrill As once their arches rung, Sweet echoes hover round thee still Of songs thy summer sung.

Live in thy past; await no more The rush of heaven-sent wings; Earth still has music left in store While Memory sighs and sings.



READINGS OVER THE TEACUPS

FIVE STORIES AND A SEQUEL

TO MY OLD READERS

You know "The Teacups," that congenial set Which round the Teapot you have often met; The grave DICTATOR, him you knew of old,— Knew as the shepherd of another fold Grayer he looks, less youthful, but the same As when you called him by a different name. Near him the MISTRESS, whose experienced skill Has taught her duly every cup to fill; "Weak;" "strong;" "cool;" "lukewarm;" "hot as you can pour;" "No sweetening;" "sugared;" "two lumps;" "one lump more." Next, the PROFESSOR, whose scholastic phrase At every turn the teacher's tongue betrays, Trying so hard to make his speech precise The captious listener finds it overnice.

Nor be forgotten our ANNEXES twain, Nor HE, the owner of the squinting brain, Which, while its curious fancies we pursue, Oft makes us question, "Are we crack-brained too?"

Along the board our growing list extends, As one by one we count our clustering friends,— The youthful DOCTOR waiting for his share Of fits and fevers when his crown gets bare; In strong, dark lines our square-nibbed pen should draw The lordly presence of the MAN OF LAW; Our bashful TUTOR claims a humbler place, A lighter touch, his slender form to trace. Mark the fair lady he is seated by,— Some say he is her lover,—some deny,— Watch them together,—time alone can show If dead-ripe friendship turns to love or no. Where in my list of phrases shall I seek The fitting words of NUMBER FIVE to speak? Such task demands a readier pen than mine,— What if I steal the Tutor's Valentine?

Why should I call her gracious, winning, fair? Why with the loveliest of her sex compare? Those varied charms have many a Muse inspired,— At last their worn superlatives have tired; Wit, beauty, sweetness, each alluring grace, All these in honeyed verse have found their place; I need them not,—two little words I find Which hold them all in happiest form combined; No more with baffled language will I strive,— All in one breath I utter: Number Five!

Now count our teaspoons—if you care to learn How many tinkling cups were served in turn,— Add all together, you will find them ten,— Our young MUSICIAN joined us now and then. Our bright DELILAH you must needs recall, The comely handmaid, youngest of us all; Need I remind you how the little maid Came at a pinch to our Professor's aid,— Trimmed his long locks with unrelenting shears And eased his looks of half a score of years?

Sometimes, at table, as you well must know, The stream of talk will all at once run low, The air seems smitten with a sudden chill, The wit grows silent and the gossip still; This was our poet's chance, the hour of need, When rhymes and stories we were used to read. One day a whisper round the teacups stole,— "No scrap of paper in the silver bowl!" (Our "poet's corner" may I not expect My kindly reader still may recollect?) "What! not a line to keep our souls alive?" Spoke in her silvery accents Number Five. "No matter, something we must find to read,— Find it or make it,—yes, we must indeed! Now I remember I have seen at times Some curious stories in a book of rhymes,— How certain secrets, long in silence sealed, In after days were guessed at or revealed. Those stories, doubtless, some of you must know,— They all were written many a year ago; But an old story, be it false or true, Twice told, well told, is twice as good as new; Wait but three sips and I will go myself, And fetch the book of verses from its shelf." No time was lost in finding what she sought,— Gone but one moment,—lo! the book is brought.

"Now, then, Professor, fortune has decreed That you, this evening, shall be first to read,— Lucky for us that listen, for in fact Who reads this poem must know how to act." Right well she knew that in his greener age He had a mighty hankering for the stage. The patient audience had not long to wait; Pleased with his chance, he smiled and took the bait; Through his wild hair his coaxing fingers ran,— He spread the page before him and began.



THE BANKER'S SECRET

THE Banker's dinner is the stateliest feast The town has heard of for a year, at least; The sparry lustres shed their broadest blaze, Damask and silver catch and spread the rays; The florist's triumphs crown the daintier spoil Won from the sea, the forest, or the soil; The steaming hot-house yields its largest pines, The sunless vaults unearth their oldest wines; With one admiring look the scene survey, And turn a moment from the bright display.

Of all the joys of earthly pride or power, What gives most life, worth living, in an hour? When Victory settles on the doubtful fight And the last foeman wheels in panting flight, No thrill like this is felt beneath the sun; Life's sovereign moment is a battle won. But say what next? To shape a Senate's choice, By the strong magic of the master's voice; To ride the stormy tempest of debate That whirls the wavering fortunes of the state. Third in the list, the happy lover's prize Is won by honeyed words from women's eyes. If some would have it first instead of third, So let it be,—I answer not a word. The fourth,—sweet readers, let the thoughtless half Have its small shrug and inoffensive laugh; Let the grave quarter wear its virtuous frown, The stern half-quarter try to scowl us down; But the last eighth, the choice and sifted few, Will hear my words, and, pleased, confess them true.

Among the great whom Heaven has made to shine, How few have learned the art of arts,—to dine! Nature, indulgent to our daily need, Kind-hearted mother! taught us all to feed; But the chief art,—how rarely Nature flings This choicest gift among her social kings Say, man of truth, has life a brighter hour Than waits the chosen guest who knows his power? He moves with ease, itself an angel charm,— Lifts with light touch my lady's jewelled arm, Slides to his seat, half leading and half led, Smiling but quiet till the grace is said, Then gently kindles, while by slow degrees Creep softly out the little arts that please; Bright looks, the cheerful language of the eye, The neat, crisp question and the gay reply,— Talk light and airy, such as well may pass Between the rested fork and lifted glass;— With play like this the earlier evening flies, Till rustling silks proclaim the ladies rise. His hour has come,—he looks along the chairs, As the Great Duke surveyed his iron squares. That's the young traveller,—is n't much to show,— Fast on the road, but at the table slow. Next him,—you see the author in his look,— His forehead lined with wrinkles like a book,— Wrote the great history of the ancient Huns,— Holds back to fire among the heavy guns. Oh, there's our poet seated at his side, Beloved of ladies, soft, cerulean-eyed. Poets are prosy in their common talk, As the fast trotters, for the most part, walk. And there's our well-dressed gentleman, who sits, By right divine, no doubt, among the wits, Who airs his tailor's patterns when he walks, The man that often speaks, but never talks. Why should he talk, whose presence lends a grace To every table where he shows his face? He knows the manual of the silver fork, Can name his claret—if he sees the cork,— Remark that "White-top" was considered fine, But swear the "Juno" is the better wine;— Is not this talking? Ask Quintilian's rules; If they say No, the town has many fools. Pause for a moment,—for our eyes behold The plain unsceptred king, the man of gold, The thrice illustrious threefold millionnaire; Mark his slow-creeping, dead, metallic stare; His eyes, dull glimmering, like the balance-pan That weighs its guinea as he weighs his man. Who's next? An artist in a satin tie Whose ample folds defeat the curious eye. And there 's the cousin,—must be asked, you know,— Looks like a spinster at a baby-show. Hope he is cool,—they set him next the door,— And likes his place, between the gap and bore. Next comes a Congressman, distinguished guest We don't count him,—they asked him with the rest; And then some white cravats, with well-shaped ties, And heads above them which their owners prize.

Of all that cluster round the genial board, Not one so radiant as the banquet's lord. Some say they fancy, but they know not why, A shade of trouble brooding in his eye, Nothing, perhaps,—the rooms are overhot,— Yet see his cheek,—the dull-red burning spot,— Taste the brown sherry which he does not pass,— Ha! That is brandy; see him fill his glass! But not forgetful of his feasting friends, To each in turn some lively word he sends; See how he throws his baited lines about, And plays his men as anglers play their trout. A question drops among the listening crew And hits the traveller, pat on Timbuctoo. We're on the Niger, somewhere near its source,— Not the least hurry, take the river's course Through Kissi, Foota, Kankan, Bammakoo, Bambarra, Sego, so to Timbuctoo, Thence down to Youri;—stop him if we can, We can't fare worse,—wake up the Congressman! The Congressman, once on his talking legs, Stirs up his knowledge to its thickest dregs; Tremendous draught for dining men to quaff! Nothing will choke him but a purpling laugh. A word,—a shout,—a mighty roar,—'t is done; Extinguished; lassoed by a treacherous pun. A laugh is priming to the loaded soul; The scattering shots become a steady roll, Broke by sharp cracks that run along the line, The light artillery of the talker's wine. The kindling goblets flame with golden dews, The hoarded flasks their tawny fire diffuse, And the Rhine's breast-milk gushes cold and bright, Pale as the moon and maddening as her light; With crimson juice the thirsty southern sky Sucks from the hills where buried armies lie, So that the dreamy passion it imparts Is drawn from heroes' bones and lovers' hearts. But lulls will come; the flashing soul transmits Its gleams of light in alternating fits. The shower of talk that rattled down amain Ends in small patterings like an April's rain;

With the dry sticks all bonfires are begun; Bring the first fagot, proser number one The voices halt; the game is at a stand; Now for a solo from the master-hand 'T is but a story,—quite a simple thing,— An aria touched upon a single string, But every accent comes with such a grace The stupid servants listen in their place, Each with his waiter in his lifted hands, Still as a well-bred pointer when he stands. A query checks him: "Is he quite exact?" (This from a grizzled, square-jawed man of fact.) The sparkling story leaves him to his fate, Crushed by a witness, smothered with a date, As a swift river, sown with many a star, Runs brighter, rippling on a shallow bar. The smooth divine suggests a graver doubt; A neat quotation bowls the parson out; Then, sliding gayly from his own display, He laughs the learned dulness all away. So, with the merry tale and jovial song, The jocund evening whirls itself along, Till the last chorus shrieks its loud encore, And the white neckcloths vanish through the door.

One savage word!—The menials know its tone, And slink away; the master stands alone. "Well played, by —-"; breathe not what were best unheard; His goblet shivers while he speaks the word,— "If wine tells truth,—and so have said the wise,— It makes me laugh to think how brandy lies! Bankrupt to-morrow,—millionnaire to-day,— The farce is over,—now begins the play!" The spring he touches lets a panel glide; An iron closet harks beneath the slide, Bright with such treasures as a search might bring From the deep pockets of a truant king. Two diamonds, eyeballs of a god of bronze, Bought from his faithful priest, a pious bonze; A string of brilliants; rubies, three or four; Bags of old coin and bars of virgin ore; A jewelled poniard and a Turkish knife, Noiseless and useful if we come to strife. Gone! As a pirate flies before the wind, And not one tear for all he leaves behind From all the love his better years have known Fled like a felon,—ah! but not alone! The chariot flashes through a lantern's glare,— Oh the wild eyes! the storm of sable hair! Still to his side the broken heart will cling,— The bride of shame, the wife without the ring Hark, the deep oath,—the wail of frenzied woe,— Lost! lost to hope of Heaven and peace below!

He kept his secret; but the seed of crime Bursts of itself in God's appointed time. The lives he wrecked were scattered far and wide; One never blamed nor wept,—she only died. None knew his lot, though idle tongues would say He sought a lonely refuge far away, And there, with borrowed name and altered mien, He died unheeded, as he lived unseen. The moral market had the usual chills Of Virtue suffering from protested bills; The White Cravats, to friendship's memory true, Sighed for the past, surveyed the future too; Their sorrow breathed in one expressive line,— "Gave pleasant dinners; who has got his wine?"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The reader paused,—the Teacups knew his ways,— He, like the rest, was not averse to praise. Voices and hands united; every one Joined in approval: "Number Three, well done!"

"Now for the Exile's story; if my wits Are not at fault, his curious record fits Neatly as sequel to the tale we've heard; Not wholly wild the fancy, nor absurd That this our island hermit well might be That story's hero, fled from over sea. Come, Number Seven, we would not have you strain The fertile powers of that inventive brain. Read us 'The Exile's Secret'; there's enough Of dream-like fiction and fantastic stuff In the strange web of mystery that invests The lonely isle where sea birds build their nests."

"Lies! naught but lies!" so Number Seven began,— No harm was known of that secluded man. He lived alone,—who would n't if he might, And leave the rogues and idiots out of sight? A foolish story,—still, I'll do my best,— The house was real,—don't believe the rest. How could a ruined dwelling last so long Without its legends shaped in tale and song? Who was this man of whom they tell the lies? Perhaps—why not?—NAPOLEON! in disguise,— So some said, kidnapped from his ocean coop, Brought to this island in a coasting sloop,— Meanwhile a sham Napoleon in his place Played Nap. and saved Sir Hudson from disgrace. Such was one story; others used to say, "No,—not Napoleon,—it was Marshal Ney." "Shot?" Yes, no doubt, but not with balls of lead, But balls of pith that never shoot folks dead. He wandered round, lived South for many a year, At last came North and fixed his dwelling here. Choose which you will of all the tales that pile Their mingling fables on the tree-crowned isle. Who wrote this modest version I suppose That truthful Teacup, our Dictator, knows; Made up of various legends, it would seem, The sailor's yarn, the crazy poet's dream. Such tales as this, by simple souls received, At first are stared at and at last believed; From threads like this the grave historians try To weave their webs, and never know they lie. Hear, then, the fables that have gathered round The lonely home an exiled stranger found.

THE EXILE'S SECRET

YE that have faced the billows and the spray Of good St. Botolph's island-studded bay, As from the gliding bark your eye has scanned The beaconed rocks, the wave-girt hills of sand, Have ye not marked one elm-o'ershadowed isle, Round as the dimple chased in beauty's smile,— A stain of verdure on an azure field, Set like a jewel in a battered shield? Fixed in the narrow gorge of Ocean's path, Peaceful it meets him in his hour of wrath; When the mailed Titan, scourged by hissing gales, Writhes in his glistening coat of clashing scales, The storm-beat island spreads its tranquil green, Calm as an emerald on an angry queen. So fair when distant should be fairer near; A boat shall waft us from the outstretched pier. The breeze blows fresh; we reach the island's edge, Our shallop rustling through the yielding sedge. No welcome greets us on the desert isle; Those elms, far-shadowing, hide no stately pile Yet these green ridges mark an ancient road; And to! the traces of a fair abode; The long gray line that marks a garden-wall, And heaps of fallen beams,—fire-branded all.

Who sees unmoved, a ruin at his feet, The lowliest home where human hearts have beat? Its hearthstone, shaded with the bistre stain A century's showery torrents wash in vain; Its starving orchard, where the thistle blows And mossy trunks still mark the broken rows; Its chimney-loving poplar, oftenest seen Next an old roof, or where a roof has been; Its knot-grass, plantain,—all the social weeds, Man's mute companions, following where he leads; Its dwarfed, pale flowers, that show their straggling heads, Sown by the wind from grass-choked garden-beds; Its woodbine, creeping where it used to climb; Its roses, breathing of the olden time; All the poor shows the curious idler sees, As life's thin shadows waste by slow degrees, Till naught remains, the saddening tale to tell, Save home's last wrecks,—the cellar and the well?

And whose the home that strews in black decay The one green-glowing island of the bay? Some dark-browed pirate's, jealous of the fate That seized the strangled wretch of "Nix's Mate"? Some forger's, skulking in a borrowed name, Whom Tyburn's dangling halter yet may claim? Some wan-eyed exile's, wealth and sorrow's heir, Who sought a lone retreat for tears and prayer? Some brooding poet's, sure of deathless fame, Had not his epic perished in the flame? Or some gray wooer's, whom a girlish frown Chased from his solid friends and sober town? Or some plain tradesman's, fond of shade and ease, Who sought them both beneath these quiet trees? Why question mutes no question can unlock, Dumb as the legend on the Dighton rock? One thing at least these ruined heaps declare,— They were a shelter once; a man lived there.

But where the charred and crumbling records fail, Some breathing lips may piece the half-told tale; No man may live with neighbors such as these, Though girt with walls of rock and angry seas, And shield his home, his children, or his wife, His ways, his means, his vote, his creed, his life, From the dread sovereignty of Ears and Eyes And the small member that beneath them lies. They told strange things of that mysterious man; Believe who will, deny them such as can; Why should we fret if every passing sail Had its old seaman talking on the rail? The deep-sunk schooner stuffed with Eastern lime, Slow wedging on, as if the waves were slime; The knife-edged clipper with her ruffled spars, The pawing steamer with her inane of stars, The bull-browed galliot butting through the stream, The wide-sailed yacht that slipped along her beam, The deck-piled sloops, the pinched chebacco-boats, The frigate, black with thunder-freighted throats, All had their talk about the lonely man; And thus, in varying phrase, the story ran. His name had cost him little care to seek, Plain, honest, brief, a decent name to speak, Common, not vulgar, just the kind that slips With least suggestion from a stranger's lips. His birthplace England, as his speech might show, Or his hale cheek, that wore the red-streak's glow; His mouth sharp-moulded; in its mirth or scorn There came a flash as from the milky corn, When from the ear you rip the rustling sheath, And the white ridges show their even teeth. His stature moderate, but his strength confessed, In spite of broadcloth, by his ample breast; Full-armed, thick-handed; one that had been strong, And might be dangerous still, if things went wrong. He lived at ease beneath his elm-trees' shade, Did naught for gain, yet all his debts were paid; Rich, so 't was thought, but careful of his store; Had all he needed, claimed to have no more.

But some that lingered round the isle at night Spoke of strange stealthy doings in their sight; Of creeping lonely visits that he made To nooks and corners, with a torch and spade. Some said they saw the hollow of a cave; One, given to fables, swore it was a grave; Whereat some shuddered, others boldly cried, Those prowling boatmen lied, and knew they lied. They said his house was framed with curious cares, Lest some old friend might enter unawares; That on the platform at his chamber's door Hinged a loose square that opened through the floor; Touch the black silken tassel next the bell, Down, with a crash, the flapping trap-door fell; Three stories deep the falling wretch would strike, To writhe at leisure on a boarder's pike. By day armed always; double-armed at night,

His tools lay round him; wake him such as might. A carbine hung beside his India fan, His hand could reach a Turkish ataghan; Pistols, with quaint-carved stocks and barrels gilt, Crossed a long dagger with a jewelled hilt; A slashing cutlass stretched along the bed;— All this was what those lying boatmen said. Then some were full of wondrous stories told Of great oak chests and cupboards full of gold; Of the wedged ingots and the silver bars That cost old pirates ugly sabre-scars; How his laced wallet often would disgorge The fresh-faced guinea of an English George, Or sweated ducat, palmed by Jews of yore, Or double Joe, or Portuguese moidore; And how his finger wore a rubied ring Fit for the white-necked play-girl of a king. But these fine legends, told with staring eyes, Met with small credence from the old and wise.

Why tell each idle guess, each whisper vain? Enough: the scorched and cindered beams remain. He came, a silent pilgrim to the West, Some old-world mystery throbbing in his breast; Close to the thronging mart he dwelt alone; He lived; he died. The rest is all unknown.

Stranger, whose eyes the shadowy isle survey, As the black steamer dashes through the bay, Why ask his buried secret to divine? He was thy brother; speak, and tell us thine!

. . . . . . . . . . .

Silence at first, a kind of spell-bound pause; Then all the Teacups tinkled their applause; When that was hushed no sound the stillness broke Till once again the soft-voiced lady spoke:

"The Lover's Secret,—surely that must need The youngest voice our table holds to read. Which of our two 'Annexes' shall we choose? Either were charming, neither will refuse; But choose we must,—what better can we do Than take the younger of the youthful two?"

True to the primal instinct of her sex, "Why, that means me," half whispered each Annex. "What if it does?" the voiceless question came, That set those pale New England cheeks aflame; "Our old-world scholar may have ways to teach Of Oxford English, Britain's purest speech,— She shall be youngest,—youngest for to-day,— Our dates we'll fix hereafter as we may; All rights reserved,—the words we know so well, That guard the claims of books which never sell." The British maiden bowed a pleased assent, Her two long ringlets swinging as she bent; The glistening eyes her eager soul looked through Betrayed her lineage in their Saxon blue. Backward she flung each too obtrusive curl And thus began,—the rose-lipped English girl.

THE LOVER'S SECRET

WHAT ailed young Lucius? Art had vainly tried To guess his ill, and found herself defied. The Augur plied his legendary skill; Useless; the fair young Roman languished still. His chariot took him every cloudless day Along the Pincian Hill or Appian Way; They rubbed his wasted limbs with sulphurous oil, Oozed from the far-off Orient's heated soil; They led him tottering down the steamy path Where bubbling fountains filled the thermal bath; Borne in his litter to Egeria's cave, They washed him, shivering, in her icy wave. They sought all curious herbs and costly stones, They scraped the moss that grew on dead men's bones, They tried all cures the votive tablets taught, Scoured every place whence healing drugs were brought, O'er Thracian hills his breathless couriers ran, His slaves waylaid the Syrian caravan. At last a servant heard a stranger speak A new chirurgeon's name; a clever Greek, Skilled in his art; from Pergamus he came To Rome but lately; GALEN was the name. The Greek was called: a man with piercing eyes, Who must be cunning, and who might be wise. He spoke but little,—if they pleased, he said, He 'd wait awhile beside the sufferer's bed. So by his side he sat, serene and calm, His very accents soft as healing balm; Not curious seemed, but every movement spied, His sharp eyes searching where they seemed to glide; Asked a few questions,—what he felt, and where? "A pain just here," "A constant beating there." Who ordered bathing for his aches and ails? "Charmis, the water-doctor from Marseilles." What was the last prescription in his case? "A draught of wine with powdered chrysoprase." Had he no secret grief he nursed alone? A pause; a little tremor; answer,—"None." Thoughtful, a moment, sat the cunning leech, And muttered "Eros!" in his native speech. In the broad atrium various friends await The last new utterance from the lips of fate; Men, matrons, maids, they talk the question o'er, And, restless, pace the tessellated floor. Not unobserved the youth so long had pined By gentle-hearted dames and damsels kind; One with the rest, a rich Patrician's pride, The lady Hermia, called "the golden-eyed"; The same the old Proconsul fain must woo, Whom, one dark night, a masked sicarius slew; The same black Crassus over roughly pressed To hear his suit,—the Tiber knows the rest. (Crassus was missed next morning by his set; Next week the fishers found him in their net.) She with the others paced the ample hall, Fairest, alas! and saddest of them all.

At length the Greek declared, with puzzled face, Some strange enchantment mingled in the case, And naught would serve to act as counter-charm Save a warm bracelet from a maiden's arm. Not every maiden's,—many might be tried; Which not in vain, experience must decide. Were there no damsels willing to attend And do such service for a suffering friend? The message passed among the waiting crowd, First in a whisper, then proclaimed aloud. Some wore no jewels; some were disinclined, For reasons better guessed at than defined; Though all were saints,—at least professed to be,— The list all counted, there were named but three. The leech, still seated by the patient's side, Held his thin wrist, and watched him, eagle-eyed. Aurelia first, a fair-haired Tuscan girl, Slipped off her golden asp, with eyes of pearl. His solemn head the grave physician shook; The waxen features thanked her with a look. Olympia next, a creature half divine, Sprung from the blood of old Evander's line, Held her white arm, that wore a twisted chain Clasped with an opal-sheeny cymophane. In vain, O daughter I said the baffled Greek. The patient sighed the thanks he could not speak.

Last, Hermia entered; look, that sudden start! The pallium heaves above his leaping heart; The beating pulse, the cheek's rekindled flame, Those quivering lips, the secret all proclaim. The deep disease long throbbing in the breast, The dread enchantment, all at once confessed! The case was plain; the treatment was begun; And Love soon cured the mischief he had done.

Young Love, too oft thy treacherous bandage slips Down from the eyes it blinded to the lips! Ask not the Gods, O youth, for clearer sight, But the bold heart to plead thy cause aright. And thou, fair maiden, when thy lovers sigh, Suspect thy flattering ear, but trust thine eye; And learn this secret from the tale of old No love so true as love that dies untold.

. . . . . . . . . .

"Bravo, Annex!" they shouted, every one,— "Not Mrs. Kemble's self had better done." "Quite so," she stammered in her awkward way,— Not just the thing, but something she must say.

The teaspoon chorus tinkled to its close When from his chair the MAN OF LAW arose, Called by her voice whose mandate all obeyed, And took the open volume she displayed. Tall, stately, strong, his form begins to own Some slight exuberance in its central zone,— That comely fulness of the growing girth Which fifty summers lend the sons of earth. A smooth, round disk about whose margin stray, Above the temples, glistening threads of gray; Strong, deep-cut grooves by toilsome decades wrought On brow and mouth, the battle-fields of thought; A voice that lingers in the listener's ear, Grave, calm, far-reaching, every accent clear,— (Those tones resistless many a foreman knew That shaped their verdict ere the twelve withdrew;) A statesman's forehead, athlete's throat and jaw, Such the proud semblance of the Man of Law. His eye just lighted on the printed leaf, Held as a practised pleader holds his brief. One whispered softly from behind his cup, "He does not read,—his book is wrong side up! He knows the story that it holds by heart,— So like his own! How well he'll act his part!" Then all were silent; not a rustling fan Stirred the deep stillness as the voice began.

THE STATESMAN'S SECRET

WHO of all statesmen is his country's pride, Her councils' prompter and her leaders' guide? He speaks; the nation holds its breath to hear; He nods, and shakes the sunset hemisphere. Born where the primal fount of Nature springs By the rude cradles of her throneless kings, In his proud eye her royal signet flames, By his own lips her Monarch she proclaims. Why name his countless triumphs, whom to meet Is to be famous, envied in defeat? The keen debaters, trained to brawls and strife, Who fire one shot, and finish with the knife, Tried him but once, and, cowering in their shame, Ground their hacked blades to strike at meaner game. The lordly chief, his party's central stay, Whose lightest word a hundred votes obey, Found a new listener seated at his side, Looked in his eye, and felt himself defied, Flung his rash gauntlet on the startled floor, Met the all-conquering, fought,—and ruled no more. See where he moves, what eager crowds attend! What shouts of thronging multitudes ascend! If this is life,—to mark with every hour The purple deepening in his robes of power, To see the painted fruits of honor fall Thick at his feet, and choose among them all, To hear the sounds that shape his spreading name Peal through the myriad organ-stops of fame, Stamp the lone isle that spots the seaman's chart, And crown the pillared glory of the mart, To count as peers the few supremely wise Who mark their planet in the angels' eyes,— If this is life— What savage man is he Who strides alone beside the sounding sea? Alone he wanders by the murmuring shore, His thoughts as restless as the waves that roar; Looks on the sullen sky as stormy-browed As on the waves yon tempest-brooding cloud, Heaves from his aching breast a wailing sigh, Sad as the gust that sweeps the clouded sky. Ask him his griefs; what midnight demons plough The lines of torture on his lofty brow; Unlock those marble lips, and bid them speak The mystery freezing in his bloodless cheek. His secret? Hid beneath a flimsy word; One foolish whisper that ambition heard; And thus it spake: "Behold yon gilded chair, The world's one vacant throne,—thy plate is there!"

Ah, fatal dream! What warning spectres meet In ghastly circle round its shadowy seat! Yet still the Tempter murmurs in his ear The maddening taunt he cannot choose but hear "Meanest of slaves, by gods and men accurst, He who is second when he might be first Climb with bold front the ladder's topmost round, Or chain thy creeping footsteps to the ground!" Illustrious Dupe! Have those majestic eyes Lost their proud fire for such a vulgar prize? Art thou the last of all mankind to know That party-fights are won by aiming low? Thou, stamped by Nature with her royal sign, That party-hirelings hate a look like thine? Shake from thy sense the wild delusive dream Without the purple, art thou not supreme? And soothed by love unbought, thy heart shall own A nation's homage nobler than its throne!

. . . . . . . . . .

Loud rang the plaudits; with them rose the thought, "Would he had learned the lesson he has taught!" Used to the tributes of the noisy crowd, The stately speaker calmly smiled and bowed; The fire within a flushing cheek betrayed, And eyes that burned beneath their penthouse shade.

"The clock strikes ten, the hours are flying fast,— Now, Number Five, we've kept you till the last!"

What music charms like those caressing tones Whose magic influence every listener owns,— Where all the woman finds herself expressed, And Heaven's divinest effluence breathes confessed? Such was the breath that wooed our ravished ears, Sweet as the voice a dreaming vestal hears; Soft as the murmur of a brooding dove, It told the mystery of a mother's love.

THE MOTHER'S SECRET

How sweet the sacred legend—if unblamed In my slight verse such holy things are named— Of Mary's secret hours of hidden joy, Silent, but pondering on her wondrous boy! Ave, Maria! Pardon, if I wrong Those heavenly words that shame my earthly song! The choral host had closed the Angel's strain Sung to the listening watch on Bethlehem's plain, And now the shepherds, hastening on their way, Sought the still hamlet where the Infant lay. They passed the fields that gleaning Ruth toiled o'er,— They saw afar the ruined threshing-floor Where Moab's daughter, homeless and forlorn, Found Boaz slumbering by his heaps of corn; And some remembered how the holy scribe, Skilled in the lore of every jealous tribe, Traced the warm blood of Jesse's royal son To that fair alien, bravely wooed and won. So fared they on to seek the promised sign, That marked the anointed heir of David's line. At last, by forms of earthly semblance led, They found the crowded inn, the oxen's shed.

No pomp was there, no glory shone around On the coarse straw that strewed the reeking ground; One dim retreat a flickering torch betrayed,— In that poor cell the Lord of Life was laid The wondering shepherds told their breathless tale Of the bright choir that woke the sleeping vale; Told how the skies with sudden glory flamed, Told how the shining multitude proclaimed, "Joy, joy to earth! Behold the hallowed morn In David's city Christ the Lord is born! 'Glory to God!' let angels shout on high, 'Good-will to men!' the listening earth reply!" They spoke with hurried words and accents wild; Calm in his cradle slept the heavenly child. No trembling word the mother's joy revealed,— One sigh of rapture, and her lips were sealed; Unmoved she saw the rustic train depart, But kept their words to ponder in her heart.

Twelve years had passed; the boy was fair and tall, Growing in wisdom, finding grace with all. The maids of Nazareth, as they trooped to fill Their balanced urns beside the mountain rill, The gathered matrons, as they sat and spun, Spoke in soft words of Joseph's quiet son. No voice had reached the Galilean vale Of star-led kings, or awe-struck shepherd's tale; In the meek, studious child they only saw The future Rabbi, learned in Israel's law.

Beyond the hills that girt the village green; Save when at midnight, o'er the starlit sands, Snatched from the steel of Herod's murdering bands, A babe, close folded to his mother's breast, Through Edom's wilds he sought the sheltering West. Then Joseph spake: "Thy boy hath largely grown; Weave him fine raiment, fitting to be shown; Fair robes beseem the pilgrim, as the priest; Goes he not with us to the holy feast?" And Mary culled the flaxen fibres white; Till eve she spun; she spun till morning light. The thread was twined; its parting meshes through From hand to hand her restless shuttle flew, Till the full web was wound upon the beam; Love's curious toil,—a vest without a seam! They reach the Holy Place, fulfil the days To solemn feasting given, and grateful praise. At last they turn, and far Moriah's height Melts in the southern sky and fades from sight. All day the dusky caravan has flowed In devious trails along the winding road; (For many a step their homeward path attends, And all the sons of Abraham are as friends.) Evening has come,—the hour of rest and joy,— Hush! Hush! That whisper,—"Where is Mary's boy?" Oh, weary hour! Oh, aching days that passed Filled with strange fears each wilder than the last,— The soldier's lance, the fierce centurion's sword, The crushing wheels that whirl some Roman lord, The midnight crypt that sucks the captive's breath, The blistering sun on Hinnom's vale of death! Thrice on his cheek had rained the morning light; Thrice on his lips the mildewed kiss of night, Crouched by a sheltering column's shining plinth, Or stretched beneath the odorous terebinth. At last, in desperate mood, they sought once more The Temple's porches, searched in vain before; They found him seated with the ancient men,— The grim old rufflers of the tongue and pen,— Their bald heads glistening as they clustered near, Their gray beards slanting as they turned to hear, Lost in half-envious wonder and surprise That lips so fresh should utter words so wise. And Mary said,—as one who, tried too long, Tells all her grief and half her sense of wrong,— What is this thoughtless thing which thou hast done? Lo, we have sought thee sorrowing, O my son! Few words he spake, and scarce of filial tone, Strange words, their sense a mystery yet unknown; Then turned with them and left the holy hill, To all their mild commands obedient still. The tale was told to Nazareth's sober men, And Nazareth's matrons told it oft again; The maids retold it at the fountain's side, The youthful shepherds doubted or denied; It passed around among the listening friends, With all that fancy adds and fiction lends, Till newer marvels dimmed the young renown Of Joseph's son, who talked the Rabbis down.

But Mary, faithful to its lightest word, Kept in her heart the sayings she had heard, Till the dread morning rent the Temple's veil, And shuddering earth confirmed the wondrous tale.

Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall A mother's secret hope outlives them all.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Hushed was the voice, but still its accents thrilled The throbbing hearts its lingering sweetness filled. The simple story which a tear repays Asks not to share the noisy breath of praise. A trance-like stillness,—scarce a whisper heard, No tinkling teaspoon in its saucer stirred; A deep-drawn sigh that would not be suppressed, A sob, a lifted kerchief told the rest.

"Come now, Dictator," so the lady spoke, "You too must fit your shoulder to the yoke; You'll find there's something, doubtless, if you look, To serve your purpose,—so, now take the book." "Ah, my dear lady, you must know full well, 'Story, God bless you, I have none to tell.' To those five stories which these pages hold You all have listened,—every one is told. There's nothing left to make you smile or weep,— A few grave thoughts may work you off to sleep."

THE SECRET OF THE STARS

Is man's the only throbbing heart that hides The silent spring that feeds its whispering tides? Speak from thy caverns, mystery-breeding Earth, Tell the half-hinted story of thy birth, And calm the noisy champions who have thrown The book of types against the book of stone!

Have ye not secrets, ye refulgent spheres, No sleepless listener of the starlight hears? In vain the sweeping equatorial pries Through every world-sown corner of the skies, To the far orb that so remotely strays Our midnight darkness is its noonday blaze; In vain the climbing soul of creeping man Metes out the heavenly concave with a span, Tracks into space the long-lost meteor's trail, And weighs an unseen planet in the scale; Still o'er their doubts the wan-eyed watchers sigh, And Science lifts her still unanswered cry "Are all these worlds, that speed their circling flight, Dumb, vacant, soulless,—baubles of the night? Warmed with God's smile and wafted by his breath, To weave in ceaseless round the dance of Death? Or rolls a sphere in each expanding zone, Crowned with a life as varied as our own?"

Maker of earth and stars! If thou hast taught By what thy voice hath spoke, thy hand hath wrought, By all that Science proves, or guesses true, More than thy poet dreamed, thy prophet knew,— The heavens still bow in darkness at thy feet, And shadows veil thy cloud-pavilioned seat! Not for ourselves we ask thee to reveal One awful word beneath the future's seal; What thou shalt tell us, grant us strength to bear; What thou withholdest is thy single care. Not for ourselves; the present clings too fast, Moored to the mighty anchors of the past; But when, with angry snap, some cable parts, The sound re-echoing in our startled hearts,— When, through the wall that clasps the harbor round, And shuts the raving ocean from its bound, Shattered and rent by sacrilegious hands, The first mad billow leaps upon the sands,— Then to the Future's awful page we turn, And what we question hardly dare to learn. Still let us hope! for while we seem to tread The time-worn pathway of the nations dead, Though Sparta laughs at all our warlike deeds, And buried Athens claims our stolen creeds, Though Rome, a spectre on her broken throne, Beholds our eagle and recalls her own, Though England fling her pennons on the breeze And reign before us Mistress of the seas,— While calm-eyed History tracks us circling round Fate's iron pillar where they all were bound, Still in our path a larger curve she finds, The spiral widening as the chain unwinds Still sees new beacons crowned with brighter flame Than the old watch-fires, like, but not the same No shameless haste shall spot with bandit-crime Our destined empire snatched before its time. Wait,—wait, undoubting, for the winds have caught From our bold speech the heritage of thought; No marble form that sculptured truth can wear Vies with the image shaped in viewless air; And thought unfettered grows through speech to deeds, As the broad forest marches in its seeds. What though we perish ere the day is won? Enough to see its glorious work begun! The thistle falls before a trampling clown, But who can chain the flying thistle-down? Wait while the fiery seeds of freedom fly, The prairie blazes when the grass is dry! What arms might ravish, leave to peaceful arts, Wisdom and love shall win the roughest hearts; So shall the angel who has closed for man The blissful garden since his woes began Swing wide the golden portals of the West, And Eden's secret stand at length confessed!

. . . . . . . . . . .

The reader paused; in truth he thought it time,— Some threatening signs accused the drowsy rhyme. The Mistress nodded, the Professor dozed, The two Annexes sat with eyelids closed,— Not sleeping,—no! But when one shuts one's eyes, That one hears better no one, sure, denies. The Doctor whispered in Delilah's ear, Or seemed to whisper, for their heads drew near. Not all the owner's efforts could restrain The wild vagaries of the squinting brain,— Last of the listeners Number Five alone The patient reader still could call his own.

"Teacups, arouse!" 'T was thus the spell I broke; The drowsy started and the slumberers woke. "The sleep I promised you have now enjoyed, Due to your hour of labor well employed. Swiftly the busy moments have been passed; This, our first 'Teacups,' must not be our last. Here, on this spot, now consecrated ground, The Order of 'The Teacups' let us found! By winter's fireside and in summer's bower Still shall it claim its ever-welcome hour, In distant regions where our feet may roam The magic teapot find or make a home; Long may its floods their bright infusion pour, Till time and teacups both shall be no more!"



VERSES FROM THE OLDEST PORTFOLIO

FROM THE "COLLEGIAN," 1830, ILLUSTRATED ANNUALS, ETC.

Nescit vox missa reverti.—Horat. Ars Poetica. Ab lis qua non adjuvant quam mollissime oportet pedem referre.— Quintillian, L. VI. C. 4.

These verses have always been printed in my collected poems, and as the best of them may bear a single reading, I allow them to appear, but in a less conspicuous position than the other productions. A chick, before his shell is off his back, is hardly a fair subject for severe criticism. If one has written anything worth preserving, his first efforts may be objects of interest and curiosity. Other young authors may take encouragement from seeing how tame, how feeble, how commonplace were the rudimentary attempts of the half-fledged poet. If the boy or youth had anything in him, there will probably be some sign of it in the midst of his imitative mediocrities and ambitious failures. These "first verses" of mine, written before I was sixteen, have little beyond a common academy boy's ordinary performance. Yet a kindly critic said there was one line which showed a poetical quality:—

"The boiling ocean trembled into calm."

One of these poems—the reader may guess which—won fair words from Thackeray. The Spectre Pig was a wicked suggestion which came into my head after reading Dana's Buccaneer. Nobody seemed to find it out, and I never mentioned it to the venerable poet, who might not have been pleased with the parody. This is enough to say of these unvalued copies of verses.

FIRST VERSES

PHILLIPS ACADEMY, ANDOVER, MASS., 1824 OR 1825

TRANSLATION FROM THE ENEID, BOOK I.

THE god looked out upon the troubled deep Waked into tumult from its placid sleep; The flame of anger kindles in his eye As the wild waves ascend the lowering sky; He lifts his head above their awful height And to the distant fleet directs his sight, Now borne aloft upon the billow's crest, Struck by the bolt or by the winds oppressed, And well he knew that Juno's vengeful ire Frowned from those clouds and sparkled in that fire. On rapid pinions as they whistled by He calls swift Zephyrus and Eurus nigh Is this your glory in a noble line To leave your confines and to ravage mine? Whom I—but let these troubled waves subside— Another tempest and I'll quell your pride! Go—bear our message to your master's ear, That wide as ocean I am despot here; Let him sit monarch in his barren caves, I wield the trident and control the waves He said, and as the gathered vapors break The swelling ocean seemed a peaceful lake; To lift their ships the graceful nymphs essayed And the strong trident lent its powerful aid; The dangerous banks are sunk beneath the main, And the light chariot skims the unruffled plain. As when sedition fires the public mind, And maddening fury leads the rabble blind, The blazing torch lights up the dread alarm, Rage points the steel and fury nerves the arm, Then, if some reverend Sage appear in sight, They stand—they gaze, and check their headlong flight,— He turns the current of each wandering breast And hushes every passion into rest,— Thus by the power of his imperial arm The boiling ocean trembled into calm; With flowing reins the father sped his way And smiled serene upon rekindled day.



THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS

Written after a general pruning of the trees around Harvard College. A little poem, on a similar occasion, may be found in the works of Swift, from which, perhaps, the idea was borrowed; although I was as much surprised as amused to meet with it some time after writing the following lines.

IT was not many centuries since, When, gathered on the moonlit green, Beneath the Tree of Liberty, A ring of weeping sprites was seen.

The freshman's lamp had long been dim, The voice of busy day was mute, And tortured Melody had ceased Her sufferings on the evening flute.

They met not as they once had met, To laugh o'er many a jocund tale But every pulse was beating low, And every cheek was cold and pale.

There rose a fair but faded one, Who oft had cheered them with her song; She waved a mutilated arm, And silence held the listening throng.

"Sweet friends," the gentle nymph began, "From opening bud to withering leaf, One common lot has bound us all, In every change of joy and grief.

"While all around has felt decay, We rose in ever-living prime, With broader shade and fresher green, Beneath the crumbling step of Time.

"When often by our feet has past Some biped, Nature's walking whim, Say, have we trimmed one awkward shape, Or lopped away one crooked limb?

"Go on, fair Science; soon to thee Shall. Nature yield her idle boast; Her vulgar fingers formed a tree, But thou halt trained it to a post.

"Go, paint the birch's silver rind, And quilt the peach with softer down; Up with the willow's trailing threads, Off with the sunflower's radiant crown!

"Go, plant the lily on the shore, And set the rose among the waves, And bid the tropic bud unbind Its silken zone in arctic caves;

"Bring bellows for the panting winds, Hang up a lantern by the moon, And give the nightingale a fife, And lend the eagle a balloon!

"I cannot smile,—the tide of scorn, That rolled through every bleeding vein, Comes kindling fiercer as it flows Back to its burning source again.

"Again in every quivering leaf That moment's agony I feel, When limbs, that spurned the northern blast, Shrunk from the sacrilegious steel.

"A curse upon the wretch who dared To crop us with his felon saw! May every fruit his lip shall taste Lie like a bullet in his maw.

"In every julep that he drinks, May gout, and bile, and headache be; And when he strives to calm his pain, May colic mingle with his tea.

"May nightshade cluster round his path, And thistles shoot, and brambles cling; May blistering ivy scorch his veins, And dogwood burn, and nettles sting.

"On him may never shadow fall, When fever racks his throbbing brow, And his last shilling buy a rope To hang him on my highest bough!"

She spoke;—the morning's herald beam Sprang from the bosom of the sea, And every mangled sprite returned In sadness to her wounded tree.



THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR

THERE was a sound of hurrying feet, A tramp on echoing stairs, There was a rush along the aisles,— It was the hour of prayers.

And on, like Ocean's midnight wave, The current rolled along, When, suddenly, a stranger form Was seen amidst the throng.

He was a dark and swarthy man, That uninvited guest; A faded coat of bottle-green Was buttoned round his breast.

There was not one among them all Could say from whence he came; Nor beardless boy, nor ancient man, Could tell that stranger's name.

All silent as the sheeted dead, In spite of sneer and frown, Fast by a gray-haired senior's side He sat him boldly down.

There was a look of horror flashed From out the tutor's eyes; When all around him rose to pray, The stranger did not rise!

A murmur broke along the crowd, The prayer was at an end; With ringing heels and measured tread, A hundred forms descend.

Through sounding aisle, o'er grating stair, The long procession poured, Till all were gathered on the seats Around the Commons board.

That fearful stranger! down he sat, Unasked, yet undismayed; And on his lip a rising smile Of scorn or pleasure played.

He took his hat and hung it up, With slow but earnest air; He stripped his coat from off his back, And placed it on a chair.

Then from his nearest neighbor's side A knife and plate he drew; And, reaching out his hand again, He took his teacup too.

How fled the sugar from the bowl How sunk the azure cream! They vanished like the shapes that float Upon a summer's dream.

A long, long draught,—an outstretched hand,— And crackers, toast, and tea, They faded from the stranger's touch, Like dew upon the sea.

Then clouds were dark on many a brow, Fear sat upon their souls, And, in a bitter agony, They clasped their buttered rolls.

A whisper trembled through the crowd, Who could the stranger be? And some were silent, for they thought A cannibal was he.

What if the creature should arise,— For he was stout and tall,— And swallow down a sophomore, Coat, crow's-foot, cap, and all!

All sullenly the stranger rose; They sat in mute despair; He took his hat from off the peg, His coat from off the chair.

Four freshmen fainted on the seat, Six swooned upon the floor; Yet on the fearful being passed, And shut the chapel door.

There is full many a starving man, That walks in bottle green, But never more that hungry one In Commons hall was seen.

Yet often at the sunset hour, When tolls the evening bell, The freshman lingers on the steps, That frightful tale to tell.



THE TOADSTOOL

THERE 's a thing that grows by the fainting flower, And springs in the shade of the lady's bower; The lily shrinks, and the rose turns pale, When they feel its breath in the summer gale, And the tulip curls its leaves in pride, And the blue-eyed violet starts aside; But the lily may flaunt, and the tulip stare, For what does the honest toadstool care? She does not glow in a painted vest, And she never blooms on the maiden's breast; But she comes, as the saintly sisters do, In a modest suit of a Quaker hue. And, when the stars in the evening skies Are weeping dew from their gentle eyes, The toad comes out from his hermit cell, The tale of his faithful love to tell.

Oh, there is light in her lover's glance, That flies to her heart like a silver lance; His breeches are made of spotted skin, His jacket 'is tight, and his pumps are thin; In a cloudless night you may hear his song, As its pensive melody floats along, And, if you will look by the moonlight fair, The trembling form of the toad is there.

And he twines his arms round her slender stem, In the shade of her velvet diadem; But she turns away in her maiden shame, And will not breathe on the kindling flame; He sings at her feet through the live-long night, And creeps to his cave at the break of light; And whenever he comes to the air above, His throat is swelling with baffled love.



THE SPECTRE PIG

A BALLAD

IT was the stalwart butcher man, That knit his swarthy brow, And said the gentle Pig must die, And sealed it with a vow.

And oh! it was the gentle Pig Lay stretched upon the ground, And ah! it was the cruel knife His little heart that found.

They took him then, those wicked men, They trailed him all along; They put a stick between his lips, And through his heels a thong;

And round and round an oaken beam A hempen cord they flung, And, like a mighty pendulum, All solemnly he swung!

Now say thy prayers, thou sinful man, And think what thou hast done, And read thy catechism well, Thou bloody-minded one;

For if his sprite should walk by night, It better were for thee, That thou wert mouldering in the ground, Or bleaching in the sea.

It was the savage butcher then, That made a mock of sin, And swore a very wicked oath, He did not care a pin.

It was the butcher's youngest son,— His voice was broke with sighs, And with his pocket-handkerchief He wiped his little eyes;

All young and ignorant was he, But innocent and mild, And, in his soft simplicity, Out spoke the tender child:—

"Oh, father, father, list to me; The Pig is deadly sick, And men have hung him by his heels, And fed him with a stick."

It was the bloody butcher then, That laughed as he would die, Yet did he soothe the sorrowing child, And bid him not to cry;—

"Oh, Nathan, Nathan, what's a Pig, That thou shouldst weep and wail? Come, bear thee like a butcher's child, And thou shalt have his tail!"

It was the butcher's daughter then, So slender and so fair, That sobbed as it her heart would break, And tore her yellow hair;

And thus she spoke in thrilling tone,— Fast fell the tear-drops big:— "Ah! woe is me! Alas! Alas! The Pig! The Pig! The Pig!"

Then did her wicked father's lips Make merry with her woe, And call her many a naughty name, Because she whimpered so.

Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones, In vain your tears are shed, Ye cannot wash his crimson hand, Ye cannot soothe the dead.

The bright sun folded on his breast His robes of rosy flame, And softly over all the west The shades of evening came.

He slept, and troops of murdered Pigs Were busy with his dreams; Loud rang their wild, unearthly shrieks, Wide yawned their mortal seams.

The clock struck twelve; the Dead hath heard; He opened both his eyes, And sullenly he shook his tail To lash the feeding flies.

One quiver of the hempen cord,— One struggle and one bound,— With stiffened limb and leaden eye, The Pig was on the ground.

And straight towards the sleeper's house His fearful way he wended; And hooting owl and hovering bat On midnight wing attended.

Back flew the bolt, up rose the latch, And open swung the door, And little mincing feet were heard Pat, pat along the floor.

Two hoofs upon the sanded floor, And two upon the bed; And they are breathing side by side, The living and the dead!

"Now wake, now wake, thou butcher man! What makes thy cheek so pale? Take hold! take hold! thou dost not fear To clasp a spectre's tail?"

Untwisted every winding coil; The shuddering wretch took hold, All like an icicle it seemed, So tapering and so cold.

"Thou com'st with me, thou butcher man!"— He strives to loose his grasp, But, faster than the clinging vine, Those twining spirals clasp;

And open, open swung the door, And, fleeter than the wind, The shadowy spectre swept before, The butcher trailed behind.

Fast fled the darkness of the night, And morn rose faint and dim; They called full loud, they knocked full long, They did not waken him.

Straight, straight towards that oaken beam, A trampled pathway ran; A ghastly shape was swinging there,— It was the butcher man.



TO A CAGED LION

Poor conquered monarch! though that haughty glance Still speaks thy courage unsubdued by time, And in the grandeur of thy sullen tread Lives the proud spirit of thy burning clime;— Fettered by things that shudder at thy roar, Torn from thy pathless wilds to pace this narrow floor!

Thou wast the victor, and all nature shrunk Before the thunders of thine awful wrath; The steel-armed hunter viewed thee from afar, Fearless and trackless in thy lonely path! The famished tiger closed his flaming eye, And crouched and panted as thy step went by!

Thou art the vanquished, and insulting man Bars thy broad bosom as a sparrow's wing; His nerveless arms thine iron sinews bind, And lead in chains the desert's fallen king; Are these the beings that have dared to twine Their feeble threads around those limbs of thine?

So must it be; the weaker, wiser race, That wields the tempest and that rides the sea, Even in the stillness of thy solitude Must teach the lesson of its power to thee; And thou, the terror of the trembling wild, Must bow thy savage strength, the mockery of a child!



THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY

THE sun stepped down from his golden throne. And lay in the silent sea, And the Lily had folded her satin leaves, For a sleepy thing was she; What is the Lily dreaming of? Why crisp the waters blue? See, see, she is lifting her varnished lid! Her white leaves are glistening through!

The Rose is cooling his burning cheek In the lap of the breathless tide;— The Lily hath sisters fresh and fair, That would lie by the Rose's side; He would love her better than all the rest, And he would be fond and true;— But the Lily unfolded her weary lids, And looked at the sky so blue.

Remember, remember, thou silly one, How fast will thy summer glide, And wilt thou wither a virgin pale, Or flourish a blooming bride? Oh, the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold, "And he lives on earth," said she; "But the Star is fair and he lives in the air, And he shall my bridegroom be."

But what if the stormy cloud should come, And ruffle the silver sea? Would he turn his eye from the distant sky, To smile on a thing like thee? Oh no, fair Lily, he will not send One ray from his far-off throne; The winds shall blow and the waves shall flow, And thou wilt be left alone.

There is not a leaf on the mountain-top, Nor a drop of evening dew, Nor a golden sand on the sparkling shore, Nor a pearl in the waters blue, That he has not cheered with his fickle smile, And warmed with his faithless beam,— And will he be true to a pallid flower, That floats on the quiet stream?

Alas for the Lily! she would not heed, But turned to the skies afar, And bared her breast to the trembling ray That shot from the rising star; The cloud came over the darkened sky, And over the waters wide She looked in vain through the beating rain, And sank in the stormy tide.



ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE

"A SPANISH GIRL IN REVERIE,"

SHE twirled the string of golden beads, That round her neck was hung,—- My grandsire's gift; the good old man Loved girls when he was young; And, bending lightly o'er the cord, And turning half away, With something like a youthful sigh, Thus spoke the maiden gray:—