PARTING HYMN "DUNDEE"

FATHER of Mercies, Heavenly Friend, We seek thy gracious throne; To Thee our faltering prayers ascend, Our fainting hearts are known.

From blasts that chill, from suns that smite, From every plague that harms; In camp and march, in siege and fight, Protect our men-at-arms.

Though from our darkened lives they take What makes our life most dear, We yield them for their country's sake With no relenting tear.

Our blood their flowing veins will shed, Their wounds our breasts will share; Oh, save us from the woes we dread, Or grant us strength to bear!

Let each unhallowed cause that brings The stern destroyer cease, Thy flaming angel fold his wings, And seraphs whisper Peace!

Thine are the sceptre and the sword, Stretch forth thy mighty hand,— Reign Thou our kingless nation's Lord, Rule Thou our throneless land!



THE FLOWER OF LIBERTY

WHAT flower is this that greets the morn, Its hues from Heaven so freshly born? With burning star and flaming band It kindles all the sunset land Oh tell us what its name may be,— Is this the Flower of Liberty? It is the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty!

In savage Nature's far abode Its tender seed our fathers sowed; The storm-winds rocked its swelling bud, Its opening leaves were streaked with blood, Till Lo! earth's tyrants shook to see The full-blown Flower of Liberty Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty!

Behold its streaming rays unite, One mingling flood of braided light,— The red that fires the Southern rose, With spotless white from Northern snows, And, spangled o'er its azure, see The sister Stars of Liberty! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty!

The blades of heroes fence it round, Where'er it springs is holy ground; From tower and dome its glories spread; It waves where lonely sentries tread; It makes the land as ocean free, And plants an empire on the sea! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry Flower of Liberty!

Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom's flower, Shall ever float on dome and tower, To all their heavenly colors true, In blackening frost or crimson dew,— And God love us as we love thee, Thrice holy Flower of Liberty! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry FLOWER OF LIBERTY!



THE SWEET LITTLE MAN

DEDICATED TO THE STAY-AT-HOME RANGERS

Now, while our soldiers are fighting our battles, Each at his post to do all that he can, Down among rebels and contraband chattels, What are you doing, my sweet little man?

All the brave boys under canvas are sleeping, All of them pressing to march with the van, Far from the home where their sweethearts are weeping; What are you waiting for, sweet little man?

You with the terrible warlike mustaches, Fit for a colonel or chief of a clan, You with the waist made for sword-belts and sashes, Where are your shoulder-straps, sweet little man?

Bring him the buttonless garment of woman! Cover his face lest it freckle and tan; Muster the Apron-String Guards on the Common, That is the corps for the sweet little man!

Give him for escort a file of young misses, Each of them armed with a deadly rattan; They shall defend him from laughter and hisses, Aimed by low boys at the sweet little man.

All the fair maidens about him shall cluster, Pluck the white feathers from bonnet and fan, Make him a plume like a turkey-wing duster,— That is the crest for the sweet little man!

Oh, but the Apron-String Guards are the fellows Drilling each day since our troubles began,— "Handle your walking-sticks!" "Shoulder umbrellas!" That is the style for the sweet little man!

Have we a nation to save? In the first place Saving ourselves is the sensible plan,— Surely the spot where there's shooting's the worst place Where I can stand, says the sweet little man.

Catch me confiding my person with strangers! Think how the cowardly Bull-Runners ran! In the brigade of the Stay-at-Home Rangers Marches my corps, says the sweet little man.

Such was the stuff of the Malakoff-takers, Such were the soldiers that scaled the Redan; Truculent housemaids and bloodthirsty Quakers, Brave not the wrath of the sweet little man!

Yield him the sidewalk, ye nursery maidens! Sauve qui peut! Bridget, and right about! Ann;— Fierce as a shark in a school of menhadens, See him advancing, the sweet little man!

When the red flails of the battle-field's threshers Beat out the continent's wheat from its bran, While the wind scatters the chaffy seceshers, What will become of our sweet little man?

When the brown soldiers come back from the borders, How will he look while his features they scan? How will he feel when he gets marching orders, Signed by his lady love? sweet little man!

Fear not for him, though the rebels expect him,— Life is too precious to shorten its span; Woman her broomstick shall raise to protect him, Will she not fight for the sweet little man?

Now then, nine cheers for the Stay-at-Home Ranger! Blow the great fish-horn and beat the big pan! First in the field that is farthest from danger, Take your white-feather plume, sweet little man!



UNION AND LIBERTY

FLAG of the heroes who left us their glory, Borne through their battle-fields' thunder and flame, Blazoned in song and illumined in story, Wave o'er us all who inherit their fame!

Up with our banner bright, Sprinkled with starry light, Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore, While through the sounding sky Loud rings the Nation's cry,— UNION AND LIBERTY! ONE EVERMORE!

Light of our firmament, guide of our Nation, Pride of her children, and honored afar, Let the wide beams of thy full constellation Scatter each cloud that would darken a star Up with our banner bright, etc.

Empire unsceptred! what foe shall assail thee, Bearing the standard of Liberty's van? Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee, Striving with men for the birthright of man! Up with our banner bright, etc.

Yet if, by madness and treachery blighted, Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou must draw, Then with the arms of thy millions united, Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and Law! Up with our banner bright, etc.

Lord of the Universe! shield us and guide us, Trusting Thee always, through shadow and sun! Thou hast united us, who shall divide us? Keep us, oh keep us the MANY IN ONE! Up with our banner bright, Sprinkled with starry light, Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore, While through the sounding sky Loud rings the Nation's cry,— UNION AND LIBERTY! ONE EVERMORE!



SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL

AMERICA TO RUSSIA

AUGUST 5, 1866 Read by Hon. G. V. Fox at a dinner given to the Mission from the United States, St. Petersburg.

THOUGH watery deserts hold apart The worlds of East and West, Still beats the selfsame human heart In each proud Nation's breast.

Our floating turret tempts the main And dares the howling blast To clasp more close the golden chain That long has bound them fast.

In vain the gales of ocean sweep, In vain the billows roar That chafe the wild and stormy steep Of storied Elsinore.

She comes! She comes! her banners dip In Neva's flashing tide, With greetings on her cannon's lip, The storm-god's iron bride!

Peace garlands with the olive-bough Her thunder-bearing tower, And plants before her cleaving prow The sea-foam's milk-white flower.

No prairies heaped their garnered store To fill her sunless hold, Not rich Nevada's gleaming ore Its hidden caves infold,

But lightly as the sea-bird swings She floats the depths above, A breath of flame to lend her wings, Her freight a people's love!

When darkness hid the starry skies In war's long winter night, One ray still cheered our straining eyes, The far-off Northern light.

And now the friendly rays return From lights that glow afar, Those clustered lamps of Heaven that burn Around the Western Star.

A nation's love in tears and smiles We bear across the sea, O Neva of the banded isles, We moor our hearts in thee!



WELCOME TO THE GRAND DUKE ALEXIS

MUSIC HALL, DECEMBER 6, 1871

Sung to the Russian national air by the children of the public schools.

SHADOWED so long by the storm-cloud of danger, Thou whom the prayers of an empire defend, Welcome, thrice welcome! but not as a stranger, Come to the nation that calls thee its friend!

Bleak are our shores with the blasts of December, Fettered and chill is the rivulet's flow; Throbbing and warm are the hearts that remember Who was our friend when the world was our foe.

Look on the lips that are smiling to greet thee, See the fresh flowers that a people has strewn Count them thy sisters and brothers that meet thee; Guest of the Nation, her heart is thine own!

Fires of the North, in eternal communion, Blend your broad flashes with evening's bright star! God bless the Empire that loves the Great Union; Strength to her people! Long life to the Czar!



AT THE BANQUET TO THE GRAND DUKE ALEXIS

DECEMBER 9, 1871

ONE word to the guest we have gathered to greet! The echoes are longing that word to repeat,— It springs to the lips that are waiting to part, For its syllables spell themselves first in the heart.

Its accents may vary, its sound may be strange, But it bears a kind message that nothing can change; The dwellers by Neva its meaning can tell, For the smile, its interpreter, shows it full well.

That word! How it gladdened the Pilgrim yore, As he stood in the snow on the desolate shore! When the shout of the sagamore startled his ear In the phrase of the Saxon, 't was music to hear!

Ah, little could Samoset offer our sire,— The cabin, the corn-cake, the seat by the fire; He had nothing to give,—the poor lord of the land,— But he gave him a WELCOME,—his heart in his hand!

The tribe of the sachem has melted away, But the word that he spoke is remembered to-day, And the page that is red with the record of shame The tear-drops have whitened round Samoset's name.

The word that he spoke to the Pilgrim of old May sound like a tale that has often been told; But the welcome we speak is as fresh as the dew,— As the kiss of a lover, that always is new!

Ay, Guest of the Nation! each roof is thine own Through all the broad continent's star-bannered zone; From the shore where the curtain of morn is uprolled, To the billows that flow through the gateway of gold.

The snow-crested mountains are calling aloud; Nevada to Ural speaks out of the cloud, And Shasta shouts forth, from his throne in the sky, To the storm-splintered summits, the peaks of Altai!

You must leave him, they say, till the summer is green! Both shores are his home, though the waves roll between; And then we'll return him, with thanks for the same, As fresh and as smiling and tall as he came.

But ours is the region of arctic delight; We can show him auroras and pole-stars by night; There's a Muscovy sting in the ice-tempered air, And our firesides are warm and our maidens are fair.

The flowers are full-blown in the garlanded hall,— They will bloom round his footsteps wherever they fall; For the splendors of youth and the sunshine they bring Make the roses believe 't is the summons of Spring.

One word of our language he needs must know well, But another remains that is harder to spell; We shall speak it so ill, if he wishes to learn How we utter Farewell, he will have to return!



AT THE BANQUET TO THE CHINESE EMBASSY

AUGUST 21, 1868

BROTHERS, whom we may not reach Through the veil of alien speech, Welcome! welcome! eyes can tell What the lips in vain would spell,— Words that hearts can understand, Brothers from the Flowery Land!

We, the evening's latest born, Hail the children of the morn! We, the new creation's birth, Greet the lords of ancient earth, From their storied walls and towers Wandering to these tents of ours!

Land of wonders, fair Cathay, Who long hast shunned the staring day, Hid in mists of poet's dreams By thy blue and yellow streams,— Let us thy shadowed form behold,— Teach us as thou didst of old.

Knowledge dwells with length of days; Wisdom walks in ancient ways; Thine the compass that could guide A nation o'er the stormy tide, Scourged by passions, doubts, and fears, Safe through thrice a thousand years!

Looking from thy turrets gray Thou hast seen the world's decay,— Egypt drowning in her sands,— Athens rent by robbers' hands,— Rome, the wild barbarian's prey, Like a storm-cloud swept away:

Looking from thy turrets gray Still we see thee. Where are they? And to I a new-born nation waits, Sitting at the golden gates That glitter by the sunset sea,— Waits with outspread arms for thee!

Open wide, ye gates of gold, To the Dragon's banner-fold! Builders of the mighty wall, Bid your mountain barriers fall! So may the girdle of the sun. Bind the East and West in one,

Till Mount Shasta's breezes fan The snowy peaks of Ta Sieue-Shan,— Till Erie blends its waters blue With the waves of Tung-Ting-Hu,— Till deep Missouri lends its flow To swell the rushing Hoang-Ho!



AT THE BANQUET TO THE JAPANESE EMBASSY

AUGUST 2, 1872

WE welcome you, Lords of the Land of the Sun! The voice of the many sounds feebly through one; Ah! would 't were a voice of more musical tone, But the dog-star is here, and the song-birds have flown.

And what shall I sing that can cheat you of smiles, Ye heralds of peace from the Orient isles? If only the Jubilee—Why did you wait? You are welcome, but oh! you're a little too late!

We have greeted our brothers of Ireland and France, Round the fiddle of Strauss we have joined in the dance, We have lagered Herr Saro, that fine-looking man, And glorified Godfrey, whose name it is Dan.

What a pity! we've missed it and you've missed it too, We had a day ready and waiting for you; We'd have shown you—provided, of course, you had come— You 'd have heard—no, you would n't, because it was dumb.

And then the great organ! The chorus's shout Like the mixture teetotalers call "Cold without"— A mingling of elements, strong, but not sweet; And the drum, just referred to, that "couldn't be beat."

The shrines of our pilgrims are not like your own, Where white Fusiyama lifts proudly its cone, (The snow-mantled mountain we see on the fan That cools our hot cheeks with a breeze from Japan.)

But ours the wide temple where worship is free As the wind of the prairie, the wave of the sea; You may build your own altar wherever you will, For the roof of that temple is over you still.

One dome overarches the star-bannered shore; You may enter the Pope's or the Puritan's door, Or pass with the Buddhist his gateway of bronze, For a priest is but Man, be he bishop or bonze.

And the lesson we teach with the sword and the pen Is to all of God's children, "We also are men! If you wrong us we smart, if you prick us we bleed, If you love us, no quarrel with color or creed!"

You'll find us a well-meaning, free-spoken crowd, Good-natured enough, but a little too loud,— To be sure, there is always a bit of a row When we choose our Tycoon, and especially now.

You'll take it all calmly,—we want you to see What a peaceable fight such a contest can be, And of one thing be certain, however it ends, You will find that our voters have chosen your friends.

If the horse that stands saddled is first in the race, You will greet your old friend with the weed in his face; And if the white hat and the White House agree, You'll find H. G. really as loving as he.

But oh, what a pity—once more I must say— That we could not have joined in a "Japanese day"! Such greeting we give you to-night as we can; Long life to our brothers and friends of Japan!

The Lord of the mountain looks down from his crest As the banner of morning unfurls in the West; The Eagle was always the friend of the Sun; You are welcome!—The song of the cage-bird is done.



BRYANT'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY

NOVEMBER 3, 1864

O EVEN-HANDED Nature! we confess This life that men so honor, love, and bless Has filled thine olden measure. Not the less.

We count the precious seasons that remain; Strike not the level of the golden grain, But heap it high with years, that earth may gain.

What heaven can lose,—for heaven is rich in song Do not all poets, dying, still prolong Their broken chants amid the seraph throng,

Where, blind no more, Ionia's bard is seen, And England's heavenly minstrel sits between The Mantuan and the wan-cheeked Florentine?

This was the first sweet singer in the cage Of our close-woven life. A new-born age Claims in his vesper song its heritage.

Spare us, oh spare us long our heart's desire! Moloch, who calls our children through the fire, Leaves us the gentle master of the lyre.

We count not on the dial of the sun The hours, the minutes, that his sands have run; Rather, as on those flowers that one by one.

From earliest dawn their ordered bloom display Till evening's planet with her guiding ray Leads in the blind old mother of the day,

We reckon by his songs, each song a flower, The long, long daylight, numbering hour by hour, Each breathing sweetness like a bridal bower.

His morning glory shall we e'er forget? His noontide's full-blown lily coronet? His evening primrose has not opened yet;

Nay, even if creeping Time should hide the skies In midnight from his century-laden eyes, Darkened like his who sang of Paradise,

Would not some hidden song-bud open bright As the resplendent cactus of the night That floods the gloom with fragrance and with light?

How can we praise the verse whose music flows With solemn cadence and majestic close, Pure as the dew that filters through the rose?

How shall we thank him that in evil days He faltered never,—nor for blame, nor praise, Nor hire, nor party, shamed his earlier lays?

But as his boyhood was of manliest hue, So to his youth his manly years were true, All dyed in royal purple through and through!

He for whose touch the lyre of Heaven is strung Needs not the flattering toil of mortal tongue Let not the singer grieve to die unsung!

Marbles forget their message to mankind: In his own verse the poet still we find, In his own page his memory lives enshrined,

As in their amber sweets the smothered bees,— As the fair cedar, fallen before the breeze, Lies self-embalmed amidst the mouldering trees.

Poets, like youngest children, never grow Out of their mother's fondness. Nature so Holds their soft hands, and will not let them go,

Till at the last they track with even feet Her rhythmic footsteps, and their pulses beat Twinned with her pulses, and their lips repeat.

The secrets she has told them, as their own Thus is the inmost soul of Nature known, And the rapt minstrel shares her awful throne!

O lover of her mountains and her woods, Her bridal chamber's leafy solitudes, Where Love himself with tremulous step intrudes,

Her snows fall harmless on thy sacred fire Far be the day that claims thy sounding lyre To join the music of the angel choir!

Yet, since life's amplest measure must be filled, Since throbbing hearts must be forever stilled, And all must fade that evening sunsets gild,

Grant, Father, ere he close the mortal eyes That see a Nation's reeking sacrifice, Its smoke may vanish from these blackened skies!

Then, when his summons comes, since come it must, And, looking heavenward with unfaltering trust, He wraps his drapery round him for the dust,

His last fond glance will show him o'er his head The Northern fires beyond the zenith spread In lambent glory, blue and white and red,—

The Southern cross without its bleeding load, The milky way of peace all freshly strowed, And every white-throned star fixed in its lost abode!



A FAREWELL TO AGASSIZ

How the mountains talked together, Looking down upon the weather, When they heard our friend had planned his Little trip among the Andes! How they'll bare their snowy scalps To the climber of the Alps When the cry goes through their passes, "Here comes the great Agassiz!" "Yes, I'm tall," says Chimborazo, "But I wait for him to say so,— That's the only thing that lacks,—he Must see me, Cotopaxi!" "Ay! ay!" the fire-peak thunders, "And he must view my wonders! I'm but a lonely crater Till I have him for spectator!" The mountain hearts are yearning, The lava-torches burning, The rivers bend to meet him, The forests bow to greet him, It thrills the spinal column Of fossil fishes solemn, And glaciers crawl the faster To the feet of their old master! Heaven keep him well and hearty, Both him and all his party! From the sun that broils and smites, From the centipede that bites, From the hail-storm and the thunder, From the vampire and the condor, From the gust upon the river, From the sudden earthquake shiver, From the trip of mule or donkey, From the midnight howling monkey, From the stroke of knife or dagger, From the puma and the jaguar, From the horrid boa-constrictor That has scared us in the pictur', From the Indians of the Pampas Who would dine upon their grampas, From every beast and vermin That to think of sets us squirmin', From every snake that tries on The traveller his p'ison, From every pest of Natur', Likewise the alligator, And from two things left behind him,— (Be sure they'll try to find him,) The tax-bill and assessor,— Heaven keep the great Professor May he find, with his apostles, That the land is full of fossils, That the waters swarm with fishes Shaped according to his wishes, That every pool is fertile In fancy kinds of turtle, New birds around him singing, New insects, never stinging, With a million novel data About the articulata, And facts that strip off all husks From the history of mollusks. And when, with loud Te Deum, He returns to his Museum, May he find the monstrous reptile That so long the land has kept ill By Grant and Sherman throttled, And by Father Abraham bottled, (All specked and streaked and mottled With the scars of murderous battles, Where he clashed the iron rattles That gods and men he shook at,) For all the world to look at.

God bless the great Professor! And Madam, too, God bless her! Bless him and all his band, On the sea and on the land, Bless them head and heart and hand, Till their glorious raid is o'er, And they touch our ransomed shore! Then the welcome of a nation, With its shout of exultation, Shall awake the dumb creation, And the shapes of buried aeons Join the living creatures' poeans, Till the fossil echoes roar; While the mighty megalosaurus Leads the palaeozoic chorus,— God bless the great Professor, And the land his proud possessor,— Bless them now and evermore!

1865.



AT A DINNER TO ADMIRAL FARRAGUT

JULY 6, 1865

Now, smiling friends and shipmates all, Since half our battle 's won, A broadside for our Admiral! Load every crystal gun Stand ready till I give the word,— You won't have time to tire,— And when that glorious name is heard, Then hip! hurrah! and fire!

Bow foremost sinks the rebel craft,— Our eyes not sadly turn And see the pirates huddling aft To drop their raft astern; Soon o'er the sea-worm's destined prey The lifted wave shall close,— So perish from the face of day All Freedom's banded foes!

But ah! what splendors fire the sky What glories greet the morn! The storm-tost banner streams on high, Its heavenly hues new-born! Its red fresh dyed in heroes' blood, Its peaceful white more pure, To float unstained o'er field and flood While earth and seas endure!

All shapes before the driving blast Must glide from mortal view; Black roll the billows of the past Behind the present's blue, Fast, fast, are lessening in the light The names of high renown,— Van Tromp's proud besom fades from sight, And Nelson's half hull down!

Scarce one tall frigate walks the sea Or skirts the safer shores Of all that bore to victory Our stout old commodores; Hull, Bainbridge, Porter,—where are they? The waves their answer roll, "Still bright in memory's sunset ray,— God rest each gallant soul!"

A brighter name must dim their light With more than noontide ray, The Sea-King of the "River Fight," The Conqueror of the Bay,— Now then the broadside! cheer on cheer To greet him safe on shore! Health, peace, and many a bloodless year To fight his battles o'er!



AT A DINNER TO GENERAL GRANT

JULY 31, 1865

WHEN treason first began the strife That crimsoned sea and shore, The Nation poured her hoarded life On Freedom's threshing-floor; From field and prairie, east and west, From coast and hill and plain, The sheaves of ripening manhood pressed Thick as the bearded grain.

Rich was the harvest; souls as true As ever battle tried; But fiercer still the conflict grew, The floor of death more wide; Ah, who forgets that dreadful day Whose blot of grief and shame Four bitter years scarce wash away In seas of blood and flame?

Vain, vain the Nation's lofty boasts,— Vain all her sacrifice! "Give me a man to lead my hosts, O God in heaven!" she cries. While Battle whirls his crushing flail, And plies his winnowing fan,— Thick flies the chaff on every gale,— She cannot find her man!

Bravely they fought who failed to win,— Our leaders battle-scarred,— Fighting the hosts of hell and sin, But devils die always hard! Blame not the broken tools of God That helped our sorest needs; Through paths that martyr feet have trod The conqueror's steps He leads.

But now the heavens grow black with doubt, The ravens fill the sky, "Friends" plot within, foes storm without, Hark,—that despairing cry, "Where is the heart, the hand, the brain To dare, to do, to plan?" The bleeding Nation shrieks in vain,— She has not found her man!

A little echo stirs the air,— Some tale, whate'er it be, Of rebels routed in their lair Along the Tennessee. The little echo spreads and grows, And soon the trump of Fame Has taught the Nation's friends and foes The "man on horseback"'s name.

So well his warlike wooing sped, No fortress might resist His billets-doux of lisping lead, The bayonets in his fist,— With kisses from his cannons' mouth He made his passion known Till Vicksburg, vestal of the South, Unbound her virgin zone.

And still where'er his banners led He conquered as he came, The trembling hosts of treason fled Before his breath of flame, And Fame's still gathering echoes grew Till high o'er Richmond's towers The starry fold of Freedom flew, And all the land was ours.

Welcome from fields where valor fought To feasts where pleasure waits; A Nation gives you smiles unbought At all her opening gates! Forgive us when we press your hand,— Your war-worn features scan,— God sent you to a bleeding land; Our Nation found its man!



TO H. W. LONGFELLOW

BEFORE HIS DEPARTURE FOR EUROPE, MAY 27, 1868

OUR Poet, who has taught the Western breeze To waft his songs before him o'er the seas, Will find them wheresoe'er his wanderings reach Borne on the spreading tide of English speech Twin with the rhythmic waves that kiss the farthest beach.

Where shall the singing bird a stranger be That finds a nest for him in every tree? How shall he travel who can never go Where his own voice the echoes do not know, Where his own garden flowers no longer learn to grow?

Ah! gentlest soul! how gracious, how benign Breathes through our troubled life that voice of thine, Filled with a sweetness born of happier spheres, That wins and warms, that kindles, softens, cheers, That calms the wildest woe and stays the bitterest tears!

Forgive the simple words that sound like praise; The mist before me dims my gilded phrase; Our speech at best is half alive and cold, And save that tenderer moments make us bold Our whitening lips would close, their truest truth untold.

We who behold our autumn sun below The Scorpion's sign, against the Archer's bow, Know well what parting means of friend from friend; After the snows no freshening dews descend, And what the frost has marred, the sunshine will not mend.

So we all count the months, the weeks, the days, That keep thee from us in unwonted ways, Grudging to alien hearths our widowed time; And one has shaped a breath in artless rhyme That sighs, "We track thee still through each remotest clime."

What wishes, longings, blessings, prayers shall be The more than golden freight that floats with thee! And know, whatever welcome thou shalt find,— Thou who hast won the hearts of half mankind,— The proudest, fondest love thou leavest still behind!



TO CHRISTIAN GOTTFRIED EHRENBERG

FOR HIS "JUBILAEUM" AT BERLIN, NOVEMBER 5, 1868

This poem was written at the suggestion of Mr. George Bancroft, the historian.

THOU who hast taught the teachers of mankind How from the least of things the mightiest grow, What marvel jealous Nature made thee blind, Lest man should learn what angels long to know? Thou in the flinty rock, the river's flow, In the thick-moted sunbeam's sifted light Hast trained thy downward-pointed tube to show Worlds within worlds unveiled to mortal sight, Even as the patient watchers of the night,— The cyclope gleaners of the fruitful skies,— Show the wide misty way where heaven is white All paved with suns that daze our wondering eyes.

Far o'er the stormy deep an empire lies, Beyond the storied islands of the blest, That waits to see the lingering day-star rise; The forest-tinctured Eden of the West; Whose queen, fair Freedom, twines her iron crest With leaves from every wreath that mortals wear, But loves the sober garland ever best That science lends the sage's silvered hair;— Science, who makes life's heritage more fair, Forging for every lock its mastering key, Filling with life and hope the stagnant air, Pouring the light of Heaven o'er land and sea! From her unsceptred realm we come to thee, Bearing our slender tribute in our hands; Deem it not worthless, humble though it be, Set by the larger gifts of older lands The smallest fibres weave the strongest bands,— In narrowest tubes the sovereign nerves are spun,— A little cord along the deep sea-sands Makes the live thought of severed nations one Thy fame has journeyed westering with the sun, Prairies and lone sierras know thy name And the long day of service nobly done That crowns thy darkened evening with its flame!

One with the grateful world, we own thy claim,— Nay, rather claim our right to join the throng Who come with varied tongues, but hearts the same, To hail thy festal morn with smiles and song; Ah, happy they to whom the joys belong Of peaceful triumphs that can never die From History's record,—not of gilded wrong, But golden truths that, while the world goes by With all its empty pageant, blazoned high Around the Master's name forever shine So shines thy name illumined in the sky,— Such joys, such triumphs, such remembrance thine!



A TOAST TO WILKIE COLLINS

FEBRUARY 16, 1874

THE painter's and the poet's fame Shed their twinned lustre round his name, To gild our story-teller's art, Where each in turn must play his part.

What scenes from Wilkie's pencil sprung, The minstrel saw but left unsung! What shapes the pen of Collins drew, No painter clad in living hue!

But on our artist's shadowy screen A stranger miracle is seen Than priest unveils or pilgrim seeks,— The poem breathes, the picture speaks!

And so his double name comes true, They christened better than they knew, And Art proclaims him twice her son,— Painter and poet, both in one!



MEMORIAL VERSES

FOR THE SERVICES IN MEMORY OF

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

CITY OF BOSTON, JUNE 1, 1865

CHORAL: "LUTHER'S JUDGMENT HYMN."

O THOU of soul and sense and breath The ever-present Giver, Unto thy mighty Angel, Death, All flesh thou dost deliver; What most we cherish we resign, For life and death alike are thine, Who reignest Lord forever!

Our hearts lie buried in the dust With him so true and tender, The patriot's stay, the people's trust, The shield of the offender; Yet every murmuring voice is still, As, bowing to thy sovereign will, Our best-loved we surrender.

Dear Lord, with pitying eye behold This martyr generation, Which thou, through trials manifold, Art showing thy salvation Oh let the blood by murder spilt Wash out thy stricken children's guilt And sanctify our nation!

Be thou thy orphaned Israel's friend, Forsake thy people never, In One our broken Many blend, That none again may sever! Hear us, O Father, while we raise With trembling lips our song of praise, And bless thy name forever!



FOR THE COMMEMORATION SERVICES

CAMBRIDGE, JULY 21, 1865

FOUR summers coined their golden light in leaves, Four wasteful autumns flung them to the gale, Four winters wore the shroud the tempest weaves, The fourth wan April weeps o'er hill and vale;

And still the war-clouds scowl on sea and land, With the red gleams of battle staining through, When lo! as parted by an angel's hand, They open, and the heavens again are blue!

Which is the dream, the present or the past? The night of anguish or the joyous morn? The long, long years with horrors overcast, Or the sweet promise of the day new-born?

Tell us, O father, as thine arms infold Thy belted first-born in their fast embrace, Murmuring the prayer the patriarch breathed of old,— "Now let me die, for I have seen thy face!"

Tell us, O mother,—nay, thou canst not speak, But thy fond eyes shall answer, brimmed with joy,— Press thy mute lips against the sunbrowned cheek, Is this a phantom,—thy returning boy?

Tell us, O maiden,—ah, what canst thou tell That Nature's record is not first to teach,— The open volume all can read so well, With its twin rose-hued pages full of speech?

And ye who mourn your dead,—how sternly true The crushing hour that wrenched their lives away, Shadowed with sorrow's midnight veil for you, For them the dawning of immortal day!

Dream-like these years of conflict, not a dream! Death, ruin, ashes tell the awful tale, Read by the flaming war-track's lurid gleam No dream, but truth that turns the nations pale.

For on the pillar raised by martyr hands Burns the rekindled beacon of the right,

Sowing its seeds of fire o'er all the lands,— Thrones look a century older in its light!

Rome had her triumphs; round the conqueror's car The ensigns waved, the brazen clarions blew, And o'er the reeking spoils of bandit war With outspread wings the cruel eagles flew;

Arms, treasures, captives, kings in clanking chains Urged on by trampling cohorts bronzed and scarred, And wild-eyed wonders snared on Lybian plains, Lion and ostrich and camelopard.

Vain all that praetors clutched, that consuls brought When Rome's returning legions crowned their lord; Less than the least brave deed these hands have wrought, We clasp, unclinching from the bloody sword.

Theirs was the mighty work that seers foretold; They know not half their glorious toil has won, For this is Heaven's same battle,-joined of old When Athens fought for us at Marathon!

Behold a vision none hath understood! The breaking of the Apocalyptic seal; Twice rings the summons.—Hail and fire and blood! Then the third angel blows his trumpet-peal.

Loud wail the dwellers on the myrtled coasts, The green savannas swell the maddened cry, And with a yell from all the demon hosts Falls the great star called Wormwood from the sky!

Bitter it mingles with the poisoned flow Of the warm rivers winding to the shore, Thousands must drink the waves of death and woe, But the star Wormwood stains the heavens no more!

Peace smiles at last; the Nation calls her sons To sheathe the sword; her battle-flag she furls, Speaks in glad thunders from unspotted guns, No terror shrouded in the smoke-wreath's curls.

O ye that fought for Freedom, living, dead, One sacred host of God's anointed Queen, For every holy, drop your veins have shed We breathe a welcome to our bowers of green!

Welcome, ye living! from the foeman's gripe Your country's banner it was yours to wrest,— Ah, many a forehead shows the banner-stripe, And stars, once crimson, hallow many a breast.

And ye, pale heroes, who from glory's bed Mark when your old battalions form in line, Move in their marching ranks with noiseless tread, And shape unheard the evening countersign,

Come with your comrades, the returning brave; Shoulder to shoulder they await you here; These lent the life their martyr-brothers gave,— Living and dead alike forever dear!



EDWARD EVERETT

"OUR FIRST CITIZEN"

Read at the meeting of the Massachusetts Historical Society, January 30, 1865.

WINTER'S cold drift lies glistening o'er his breast; For him no spring shall bid the leaf unfold What Love could speak, by sudden grief oppressed, What swiftly summoned Memory tell, is told.

Even as the bells, in one consenting chime, Filled with their sweet vibrations all the air, So joined all voices, in that mournful time, His genius, wisdom, virtues, to declare.

What place is left for words of measured praise, Till calm-eyed History, with her iron pen, Grooves in the unchanging rock the final phrase That shapes his image in the souls of men?

Yet while the echoes still repeat his name, While countless tongues his full-orbed life rehearse, Love, by his beating pulses taught, will claim The breath of song, the tuneful throb of verse,—

Verse that, in ever-changing ebb and flow, Moves, like the laboring heart, with rush and rest, Or swings in solemn cadence, sad and slow, Like the tired heaving of a grief-worn breast.

This was a mind so rounded, so complete, No partial gift of Nature in excess, That, like a single stream where many meet, Each separate talent counted something less.

A little hillock, if it lonely stand, Holds o'er the fields an undisputed reign; While the broad summit of the table-land Seems with its belt of clouds a level plain.

Servant of all his powers, that faithful slave, Unsleeping Memory, strengthening with his toils, To every ruder task his shoulder gave, And loaded every day with golden spoils.

Order, the law of Heaven, was throned supreme O'er action, instinct, impulse, feeling, thought; True as the dial's shadow to the beam, Each hour was equal to the charge it brought.

Too large his compass for the nicer skill That weighs the world of science grain by grain; All realms of knowledge owned the mastering will That claimed the franchise of its whole domain.

Earth, air, sea, sky, the elemental fire, Art, history, song,—what meanings lie in each Found in his cunning hand a stringless lyre, And poured their mingling music through his speech.

Thence flowed those anthems of our festal days, Whose ravishing division held apart The lips of listening throngs in sweet amaze, Moved in all breasts the selfsame human heart.

Subdued his accents, as of one who tries To press some care, some haunting sadness down; His smile half shadow; and to stranger eyes The kingly forehead wore an iron crown.

He was not armed to wrestle with the storm, To fight for homely truth with vulgar power; Grace looked from every feature, shaped his form, The rose of Academe,—the perfect flower!

Such was the stately scholar whom we knew In those ill days of soul-enslaving calm, Before the blast of Northern vengeance blew Her snow-wreathed pine against the Southern palm.

Ah, God forgive us! did we hold too cheap The heart we might have known, but would not see, And look to find the nation's friend asleep Through the dread hour of her Gethsemane?

That wrong is past; we gave him up to Death With all a hero's honors round his name; As martyrs coin their blood, he coined his breath, And dimmed the scholar's in the patriot's fame.

So shall we blazon on the shaft we raise,— Telling our grief, our pride, to unborn years,— "He who had lived the mark of all men's praise Died with the tribute of a Nation's tears."



SHAKESPEARE

TERCENTENNIAL CELEBRATION

APRIL 23, 1864

"Who claims our Shakespeare from that realm unknown, Beyond the storm-vexed islands of the deep, Where Genoa's roving mariner was blown? Her twofold Saint's-day let our England keep; Shall warring aliens share her holy task?" The Old World echoes ask.

O land of Shakespeare! ours with all thy past, Till these last years that make the sea so wide; Think not the jar of battle's trumpet-blast Has dulled our aching sense to joyous pride In every noble word thy sons bequeathed The air our fathers breathed!

War-wasted, haggard, panting from the strife, We turn to other days and far-off lands,

Live o'er in dreams the Poet's faded life, Come with fresh lilies in our fevered hands To wreathe his bust, and scatter purple flowers,— Not his the need, but ours!

We call those poets who are first to mark Through earth's dull mist the coming of the dawn,— Who see in twilight's gloom the first pale spark, While others only note that day is gone; For him the Lord of light the curtain rent That veils the firmament.

The greatest for its greatness is half known, Stretching beyond our narrow quadrant-lines,— As in that world of Nature all outgrown Where Calaveras lifts his awful pines, And cast from Mariposa's mountain-wall Nevada's cataracts fall.

Yet heaven's remotest orb is partly ours, Throbbing its radiance like a beating heart; In the wide compass of angelic powers The instinct of the blindworm has its part; So in God's kingliest creature we behold The flower our buds infold.

With no vain praise we mock the stone-carved name Stamped once on dust that moved with pulse and breath, As thinking to enlarge that amplest fame Whose undimmed glories gild the night of death: We praise not star or sun; in these we see Thee, Father, only thee!

Thy gifts are beauty, wisdom, power, and love: We read, we reverence on this human soul,— Earth's clearest mirror of the light above,— Plain as the record on thy prophet's scroll, When o'er his page the effluent splendors poured, Thine own "Thus saith the Lord!"

This player was a prophet from on high, Thine own elected. Statesman, poet, sage, For him thy sovereign pleasure passed them by; Sidney's fair youth, and Raleigh's ripened age, Spenser's chaste soul, and his imperial mind Who taught and shamed mankind.

Therefore we bid our hearts' Te Deum rise, Nor fear to make thy worship less divine, And hear the shouted choral shake the skies, Counting all glory, power, and wisdom thine; For thy great gift thy greater name adore, And praise thee evermore!

In this dread hour of Nature's utmost need, Thanks for these unstained drops of freshening dew! Oh, while our martyrs fall, our heroes bleed, Keep us to every sweet remembrance true, Till from this blood-red sunset springs new-born Our Nation's second morn!



IN MEMORY OF JOHN AND ROBERT WARE

Read at the annual meeting of the Massachusetts Medical Society, May 25, 1864.

No mystic charm, no mortal art, Can bid our loved companions stay; The bands that clasp them to our heart Snap in death's frost and fall apart; Like shadows fading with the day, They pass away.

The young are stricken in their pride, The old, long tottering, faint and fall; Master and scholar, side by side, Through the dark portals silent glide, That open in life's mouldering wall And close on all.

Our friend's, our teacher's task was done, When Mercy called him from on high; A little cloud had dimmed the sun, The saddening hours had just begun, And darker days were drawing nigh: 'T was time to die.

A whiter soul, a fairer mind, A life with purer course and aim, A gentler eye, a voice more kind, We may not look on earth to find. The love that lingers o'er his name Is more than fame.

These blood-red summers ripen fast; The sons are older than the sires; Ere yet the tree to earth is cast, The sapling falls before the blast; Life's ashes keep their covered fires,— Its flame expires.

Struck by the noiseless, viewless foe, Whose deadlier breath than shot or shell Has laid the best and bravest low, His boy, all bright in morning's glow, That high-souled youth he loved so well, Untimely fell.

Yet still he wore his placid smile, And, trustful in the cheering creed That strives all sorrow to beguile, Walked calmly on his way awhile Ah, breast that leans on breaking reed Must ever bleed!

So they both left us, sire and son, With opening leaf, with laden bough The youth whose race was just begun, The wearied man whose course was run, Its record written on his brow, Are brothers now.

Brothers!—The music of the sound Breathes softly through my closing strain; The floor we tread is holy ground, Those gentle spirits hovering round, While our fair circle joins again Its broken chain.

1864.



HUMBOLDT'S BIRTHDAY

CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, SEPTEMBER 14, 1869

BONAPARTE, AUGUST 15, 1769.-HUMBOLDT, SEPTEMBER 14, 1769

ERE yet the warning chimes of midnight sound, Set back the flaming index of the year, Track the swift-shifting seasons in their round Through fivescore circles of the swinging sphere!

Lo, in yon islet of the midland sea That cleaves the storm-cloud with its snowy crest, The embryo-heir of Empires yet to be, A month-old babe upon his mother's breast.

Those little hands that soon shall grow so strong In their rude grasp great thrones shall rock and fall, Press her soft bosom, while a nursery song Holds the world's master in its slender thrall.

Look! a new crescent bends its silver bow; A new-lit star has fired the eastern sky; Hark! by the river where the lindens blow A waiting household hears an infant's cry.

This, too, a conqueror! His the vast domain, Wider than widest sceptre-shadowed lands; Earth and the weltering kingdom of the main Laid their broad charters in his royal hands.

His was no taper lit in cloistered cage, Its glimmer borrowed from the grove or porch; He read the record of the planet's page By Etna's glare and Cotopaxi's torch.

He heard the voices of the pathless woods; On the salt steppes he saw the starlight shine; He scaled the mountain's windy solitudes, And trod the galleries of the breathless mine.

For him no fingering of the love-strung lyre, No problem vague, by torturing schoolmen vexed; He fed no broken altar's dying fire, Nor skulked and scowled behind a Rabbi's text.

For God's new truth he claimed the kingly robe That priestly shoulders counted all their own, Unrolled the gospel of the storied globe And led young Science to her empty throne.

While the round planet on its axle spins One fruitful year shall boast its double birth, And show the cradles of its mighty twins, Master and Servant of the sons of earth.

Which wears the garland that shall never fade, Sweet with fair memories that can never die? Ask not the marbles where their bones are laid, But bow thine ear to hear thy brothers' cry:—

"Tear up the despot's laurels by the root, Like mandrakes, shrieking as they quit the soil! Feed us no more upon the blood-red fruit That sucks its crimson from the heart of Toil!

"We claim the food that fixed our mortal fate,— Bend to our reach the long-forbidden tree! The angel frowned at Eden's eastern gate,— Its western portal is forever free!

"Bring the white blossoms of the waning year, Heap with full hands the peaceful conqueror's shrine Whose bloodless triumphs cost no sufferer's tear! Hero of knowledge, be our tribute thine!"



POEM

AT THE DEDICATION OF THE HALLECK MONUMENT, JULY 8, 1869

SAY not the Poet dies! Though in the dust he lies, He cannot forfeit his melodious breath, Unsphered by envious death! Life drops the voiceless myriads from its roll; Their fate he cannot share, Who, in the enchanted air Sweet with the lingering strains that Echo stole, Has left his dearer self, the music of his soul!

We o'er his turf may raise Our notes of feeble praise, And carve with pious care for after eyes The stone with "Here he lies;" He for himself has built a nobler shrine, Whose walls of stately rhyme Roll back the tides of time, While o'er their gates the gleaming tablets shine That wear his name inwrought with many a golden line!

Call not our Poet dead, Though on his turf we tread! Green is the wreath their brows so long have worn,— The minstrels of the morn, Who, while the Orient burned with new-born flame, Caught that celestial fire And struck a Nation's lyre These taught the western winds the poet's name; Theirs the first opening buds, the maiden flowers of fame!

Count not our Poet dead! The stars shall watch his bed, The rose of June its fragrant life renew His blushing mound to strew, And all the tuneful throats of summer swell With trills as crystal-clear As when he wooed the ear Of the young muse that haunts each wooded dell, With songs of that "rough land" he loved so long and well!

He sleeps; he cannot die! As evening's long-drawn sigh, Lifting the rose-leaves on his peaceful mound, Spreads all their sweets around, So, laden with his song, the breezes blow From where the rustling sedge Frets our rude ocean's edge To the smooth sea beyond the peaks of snow. His soul the air enshrines and leaves but dust below!



HYMN

FOR THE CELEBRATION AT THE LAYING OF THE CORNERSTONE OF HARVARD MEMORIAL HALL, CAMBRIDGE, OCTOBER 6, 1870

NOT with the anguish of hearts that are breaking Come we as mourners to weep for our dead; Grief in our breasts has grown weary of aching, Green is the turf where our tears we have shed.

While o'er their marbles the mosses are creeping, Stealing each name and its legend away, Give their proud story to Memory's keeping, Shrined in the temple we hallow to-day.

Hushed are their battle-fields, ended their marches, Deaf are their ears to the drum-beat of morn,—

Rise from the sod, ye fair columns and arches Tell their bright deeds to the ages unborn!

Emblem and legend may fade from the portal, Keystone may crumble and pillar may fall; They were the builders whose work is immortal, Crowned with the dome that is over us all!



HYMN

FOR THE DEDICATION OF MEMORIAL HALL AT CAMBRIDGE, JUNE 23, 1874

WHERE, girt around by savage foes, Our nurturing Mother's shelter rose, Behold, the lofty temple stands, Reared by her children's grateful hands!

Firm are the pillars that defy The volleyed thunders of the sky; Sweet are the summer wreaths that twine With bud and flower our martyrs' shrine.

The hues their tattered colors bore Fall mingling on the sunlit floor Till evening spreads her spangled pall, And wraps in shade the storied hall.

Firm were their hearts in danger's hour, Sweet was their manhood's morning flower, Their hopes with rainbow hues were bright,— How swiftly winged the sudden night!

O Mother! on thy marble page Thy children read, from age to age, The mighty word that upward leads Through noble thought to nobler deeds.

TRUTH, heaven-born TRUTH, their fearless guide, Thy saints have lived, thy heroes died; Our love has reared their earthly shrine, Their glory be forever thine!



HYMN

AT THE FUNERAL SERVICES OF CHARLES SUMNER, APRIL 29, 1874

SUNG BY MALE VOICES TO A NATIONAL AIR OF HOLLAND

ONCE more, ye sacred towers, Your solemn dirges sound; Strew, loving hands, the April flowers, Once more to deck his mound. A nation mourns its dead, Its sorrowing voices one, As Israel's monarch bowed his head And cried, "My son! My son!"

Why mourn for him?—For him The welcome angel came Ere yet his eye with age was dim Or bent his stately frame; His weapon still was bright, His shield was lifted high To slay the wrong, to save the right,— What happier hour to die?

Thou orderest all things well; Thy servant's work was done; He lived to hear Oppression's knell, The shouts for Freedom won. Hark!! from the opening skies The anthem's echoing swell,— "O mourning Land, lift up thine eyes! God reigneth. All is well!"



RHYMES OF AN HOUR

ADDRESS

FOR THE OPENING OF THE FIFTH AVENUE THEATRE, NEW YORK, DECEMBER 3, 1873

HANG out our banners on the stately tower It dawns at last—the long-expected hour I The steep is climbed, the star-lit summit won, The builder's task, the artist's labor done; Before the finished work the herald stands, And asks the verdict of your lips and hands!

Shall rosy daybreak make us all forget The golden sun that yester-evening set? Fair was the fabric doomed to pass away Ere the last headaches born of New Year's Day; With blasting breath the fierce destroyer came And wrapped the victim in his robes of flame; The pictured sky with redder morning blushed, With scorching streams the naiad's fountain gushed, With kindling mountains glowed the funeral pyre, Forests ablaze and rivers all on fire,— The scenes dissolved, the shrivelling curtain fell,— Art spread her wings and sighed a long farewell!

Mourn o'er the Player's melancholy plight,— Falstaff in tears, Othello deadly white,— Poor Romeo reckoning what his doublet cost, And Juliet whimpering for her dresses lost,— Their wardrobes burned, their salaries all undrawn, Their cues cut short, their occupation gone!

"Lie there in dust," the red-winged demon cried, "Wreck of the lordly city's hope and pride!" Silent they stand, and stare with vacant gaze, While o'er the embers leaps the fitful blaze; When, to! a hand, before the startled train, Writes in the ashes, "It shall rise again,— Rise and confront its elemental foes!" The word was spoken, and the walls arose, And ere the seasons round their brief career The new-born temple waits the unborn year.

Ours was the toil of many a weary day Your smiles, your plaudits, only can repay; We are the monarchs of the painted scenes, You, you alone the real Kings and Queens! Lords of the little kingdom where we meet, We lay our gilded sceptres at your feet, Place in your grasp our portal's silvered keys With one brief utterance: We have tried to please. Tell us, ye sovereigns of the new domain, Are you content-or have we toiled in vain?

With no irreverent glances look around The realm you rule, for this is haunted ground! Here stalks the Sorcerer, here the Fairy trips, Here limps the Witch with malice-working lips, The Graces here their snowy arms entwine, Here dwell the fairest sisters of the Nine,— She who, with jocund voice and twinkling eye, Laughs at the brood of follies as they fly; She of the dagger and the deadly bowl, Whose charming horrors thrill the trembling soul; She who, a truant from celestial spheres, In mortal semblance now and then appears, Stealing the fairest earthly shape she can— Sontag or Nilsson, Lind or Malibran; With these the spangled houri of the dance,— What shaft so dangerous as her melting glance, As poised in air she spurns the earth below, And points aloft her heavenly-minded toe!

What were our life, with all its rents and seams, Stripped of its purple robes, our waking dreams? The poet's song, the bright romancer's page, The tinselled shows that cheat us on the stage Lead all our fancies captive at their will; Three years or threescore, we are children still. The little listener on his father's knee, With wandering Sindbad ploughs the stormy sea, With Gotham's sages hears the billows roll (Illustrious trio of the venturous bowl, Too early shipwrecked, for they died too soon To see their offspring launch the great balloon); Tracks the dark brigand to his mountain lair, Slays the grim giant, saves the lady fair, Fights all his country's battles o'er again From Bunker's blazing height to Lundy's Lane; Floats with the mighty captains as they sailed, Before whose flag the flaming red-cross paled, And claims the oft-told story of the scars Scarce yet grown white, that saved the stripes and stars!

Children of later growth, we love the PLAY, We love its heroes, be they grave or gay, From squeaking, peppery, devil-defying Punch To roaring Richard with his camel-hunch; Adore its heroines, those immortal dames, Time's only rivals, whom he never tames, Whose youth, unchanging, lives while thrones decay (Age spares the Pyramids-and Dejazet); The saucy-aproned, razor-tongued soubrette, The blond-haired beauty with the eyes of jet, The gorgeous Beings whom the viewless wires Lift to the skies in strontian-crimsoned fires, And all the wealth of splendor that awaits The throng that enters those Elysian gates.

See where the hurrying crowd impatient pours, With noise of trampling feet and flapping doors, Streams to the numbered seat each pasteboard fits And smooths its caudal plumage as it sits; Waits while the slow musicians saunter in, Till the bald leader taps his violin; Till the old overture we know so well, Zampa or Magic Flute or William Tell, Has done its worst-then hark! the tinkling bell! The crash is o'er—the crinkling curtain furled, And to! the glories of that brighter world!

Behold the offspring of the Thespian cart, This full-grown temple of the magic art, Where all the conjurers of illusion meet, And please us all the more, the more they cheat. These are the wizards and the witches too Who win their honest bread by cheating you With cheeks that drown in artificial tears And lying skull-caps white with seventy years, Sweet-tempered matrons changed to scolding Kates, Maids mild as moonbeams crazed with murderous hates, Kind, simple souls that stab and slash and slay And stick at nothing, if it 's in the play!

Would all the world told half as harmless lies! Would all its real fools were half as wise As he who blinks through dull Dundreary's eyes I Would all the unhanged bandits of the age Were like the peaceful ruffians of the stage! Would all the cankers wasting town and state, The mob of rascals, little thieves and great, Dealers in watered milk and watered stocks, Who lead us lambs to pasture on the rocks,— Shepherds—Jack Sheppards—of their city flocks,— The rings of rogues that rob the luckless town, Those evil angels creeping up and down The Jacob's ladder of the treasury stairs,— Not stage, but real Turpins and Macaires,— Could doff, like us, their knavery with their clothes, And find it easy as forgetting oaths!

Welcome, thrice welcome to our virgin dome, The Muses' shrine, the Drama's new-found home Here shall the Statesman rest his weary brain, The worn-out Artist find his wits again; Here Trade forget his ledger and his cares, And sweet communion mingle Bulls and Bears; Here shall the youthful Lover, nestling near The shrinking maiden, her he holds most dear, Gaze on the mimic moonlight as it falls On painted groves, on sliding canvas walls, And sigh, "My angel! What a life of bliss We two could live in such a world as this!" Here shall the timid pedants of the schools, The gilded boors, the labor-scorning fools, The grass-green rustic and the smoke-dried cit, Feel each in turn the stinging lash of wit, And as it tingles on some tender part Each find a balsam in his neighbor's smart; So every folly prove a fresh delight As in the picture of our play to-night.

Farewell! The Players wait the Prompter's call; Friends, lovers, listeners! Welcome one and all!



A SEA DIALOGUE

Cabin Passenger. Man at Wheel.

CABIN PASSENGER. FRIEND, you seem thoughtful. I not wonder much That he who sails the ocean should be sad. I am myself reflective. When I think Of all this wallowing beast, the Sea, has sucked Between his sharp, thin lips, the wedgy waves, What heaps of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, pearls; What piles of shekels, talents, ducats, crowns, What bales of Tyrian mantles, Indian shawls, Of laces that have blanked the weavers' eyes, Of silken tissues, wrought by worm and man, The half-starved workman, and the well-fed worm; What marbles, bronzes, pictures, parchments, books; What many-lobuled, thought-engendering brains; Lie with the gaping sea-shells in his maw,— I, too, am silent; for all language seems A mockery, and the speech of man is vain. O mariner, we look upon the waves And they rebuke our babbling. "Peace!" they say,— "Mortal, be still!" My noisy tongue is hushed, And with my trembling finger on my lips My soul exclaims in ecstasy—

MAN AT WHEEL. Belay!

CABIN PASSENGER. Ah yes! "Delay,"—it calls, "nor haste to break The charm of stillness with an idle word!" O mariner, I love thee, for thy thought Strides even with my own, nay, flies before. Thou art a brother to the wind and wave; Have they not music for thine ear as mine, When the wild tempest makes thy ship his lyre, Smiting a cavernous basso from the shrouds And climbing up his gamut through the stays, Through buntlines, bowlines, ratlines, till it shrills An alto keener than the locust sings, And all the great Aeolian orchestra Storms out its mad sonata in the gale? Is not the scene a wondrous and—

MAN AT WHEEL. A vast!

CABIN PASSENGER. Ah yes, a vast, a vast and wondrous scene! I see thy soul is open as the day That holds the sunshine in its azure bowl To all the solemn glories of the deep. Tell me, O mariner, dost thou never feel The grandeur of thine office,—to control The keel that cuts the ocean like a knife And leaves a wake behind it like a seam In the great shining garment of the world?

MAN AT WHEEL. Belay y'r jaw, y' swab! y' hoss-marine! (To the Captain.) Ay, ay, Sir! Stiddy, Sir! Sou'wes' b' sou'!

November 10, 1864.



CHANSON WITHOUT MUSIC

BY THE PROFESSOR EMERITUS OF DEAD AND LIVE LANGUAGES

PHI BETA KAPPA.—CAMBRIDGE, 1867

You bid me sing,—can I forget The classic ode of days gone by,— How belle Fifine and jeune Lisette Exclaimed, "Anacreon, geron ei"? "Regardez done," those ladies said,— "You're getting bald and wrinkled too When summer's roses all are shed, Love 's nullum ite, voyez-vous!"

In vain ce brave Anacreon's cry, "Of Love alone my banjo sings" (Erota mounon). "Etiam si,— Eh b'en?" replied the saucy things,— "Go find a maid whose hair is gray, And strike your lyre,—we sha'n't complain; But parce nobis, s'il vous plait,— Voila Adolphe! Voila Eugene!"

Ah, jeune Lisette! Ah, belle Fifine! Anacreon's lesson all must learn; O kairos oxiis; Spring is green, But Acer Hyems waits his turn I hear you whispering from the dust, "Tiens, mon cher, c'est toujours so,— The brightest blade grows dim with rust, The fairest meadow white with snow!"

You do not mean it! Not encore? Another string of playday rhymes? You 've heard me—nonne est?-before, Multoties,-more than twenty times; Non possum,—vraiment,—pas du tout, I cannot! I am loath to shirk; But who will listen if I do, My memory makes such shocking work?

Ginosko. Scio. Yes, I 'm told Some ancients like my rusty lay, As Grandpa Noah loved the old Red-sandstone march of Jubal's day. I used to carol like the birds, But time my wits has quite unfixed, Et quoad verba,—for my words,— Ciel! Eheu! Whe-ew!—how they're mixed!

Mehercle! Zeu! Diable! how My thoughts were dressed when I was young, But tempus fugit! see them now Half clad in rags of every tongue! O philoi, fratres, chers amis I dare not court the youthful Muse, For fear her sharp response should be, "Papa Anacreon, please excuse!"

Adieu! I 've trod my annual track How long!—let others count the miles,— And peddled out my rhyming pack To friends who always paid in smiles. So, laissez-moi! some youthful wit No doubt has wares he wants to show; And I am asking, "Let me sit," Dum ille clamat, "Dos pou sto!"



FOR THE CENTENNIAL DINNER

OF THE PROPRIETORS OF BOSTON PIER, OR THE LONG WHARF, APRIL 16, 1873

DEAR friends, we are strangers; we never before Have suspected what love to each other we bore; But each of us all to his neighbor is dear, Whose heart has a throb for our time-honored pier.

As I look on each brother proprietor's face, I could open my arms in a loving embrace; What wonder that feelings, undreamed of so long, Should burst all at once in a blossom of song!

While I turn my fond glance on the monarch of piers, Whose throne has stood firm through his eightscore of years, My thought travels backward and reaches the day When they drove the first pile on the edge of the bay.

See! The joiner, the shipwright, the smith from his forge, The redcoat, who shoulders his gun for King George, The shopman, the 'prentice, the boys from the lane, The parson, the doctor with gold-headed cane,

Come trooping down King Street, where now may be seen The pulleys and ropes of a mighty machine; The weight rises slowly; it drops with a thud; And, to! the great timber sinks deep in the mud!

They are gone, the stout craftsmen that hammered the piles, And the square-toed old boys in the three-cornered tiles; The breeches, the buckles, have faded from view, And the parson's white wig and the ribbon-tied queue.

The redcoats have vanished; the last grenadier Stepped into the boat from the end of our pier; They found that our hills were not easy to climb, And the order came, "Countermarch, double-quick time!"

They are gone, friend and foe,—anchored fast at the pier, Whence no vessel brings back its pale passengers here; But our wharf, like a lily, still floats on the flood, Its breast in the sunshine, its roots in the mud.

Who—who that has loved it so long and so well— The flower of his birthright would barter or sell? No: pride of the bay, while its ripples shall run, You shall pass, as an heirloom, from father to son!

Let me part with the acres my grandfather bought, With the bonds that my uncle's kind legacy brought, With my bank-shares,—old "Union," whose ten per cent stock Stands stiff through the storms as the Eddystone rock;

With my rights (or my wrongs) in the "Erie,"—alas! With my claims on the mournful and "Mutual Mass.;" With my "Phil. Wil. and Balt.," with my "C. B. and Q.;" But I never, no never, will sell out of you.

We drink to thy past and thy future to-day, Strong right arm of Boston, stretched out o'er the bay. May the winds waft the wealth of all nations to thee, And thy dividends flow like the waves of the sea!



A POEM SERVED TO ORDER

PHI BETA KAPPA, JUNE 26, 1873

THE Caliph ordered up his cook, And, scowling with a fearful look That meant,—We stand no gammon,— "To-morrow, just at two," he said, "Hassan, our cook, will lose his head, Or serve us up a salmon."

"Great sire," the trembling chef replied, "Lord of the Earth and all beside, Sun, Moon, and Stars, and so on (Look in Eothen,-there you'll find A list of titles. Never mind; I have n't time to go on:)

"Great sire," and so forth, thus he spoke, "Your Highness must intend a joke; It doesn't stand to reason For one to order salmon brought, Unless that fish is sometimes caught, And also is in season.

"Our luck of late is shocking bad, In fact, the latest catch we had (We kept the matter shady), But, hauling in our nets,—alack! We found no salmon, but a sack That held your honored Lady!"

"Allah is great!" the Caliph said, "My poor Zuleika, you are dead, I once took interest in you." "Perhaps, my Lord, you'd like to know We cut the lines and let her go." "Allah be praised! Continue."

"It is n't hard one's hook to bait, And, squatting down, to watch and wait, To see the cork go under; At last suppose you've got your bite, You twitch away with all your might,— You've hooked an eel, by thunder!"

The Caliph patted Hassan's head "Slave, thou hast spoken well," he said, "And won thy master's favor. Yes; since what happened t' other morn The salmon of the Golden Horn Might have a doubtful flavor.

"That last remark about the eel Has also justice that we feel Quite to our satisfaction. To-morrow we dispense with fish, And, for the present, if you wish, You'll keep your bulbous fraction."

"Thanks! thanks!" the grateful chef replied, His nutrient feature showing wide The gleam of arches dental: "To cut my head off wouldn't pay, I find it useful every day, As well as ornamental."

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

Brothers, I hope you will not fail To see the moral of my tale And kindly to receive it. You know your anniversary pie Must have its crust, though hard and dry, And some prefer to leave it.

How oft before these youths were born I've fished in Fancy's Golden Horn For what the Muse might send me! How gayly then I cast the line, When all the morning sky was mine, And Hope her flies would lend me!

And now I hear our despot's call, And come, like Hassan, to the hall,— If there's a slave, I am one,— My bait no longer flies, but worms! I 've caught—Lord bless me! how he squirms! An eel, and not a salmon!



THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

READ AT THE MEETING OF THE HARVARD ALUMNI ASSOCIATION, JUNE 25, 1873

THE fount the Spaniard sought in vain Through all the land of flowers Leaps glittering from the sandy plain Our classic grove embowers; Here youth, unchanging, blooms and smiles, Here dwells eternal spring, And warm from Hope's elysian isles The winds their perfume bring.

Here every leaf is in the bud, Each singing throat in tune, And bright o'er evening's silver flood Shines the young crescent moon. What wonder Age forgets his staff And lays his glasses down, And gray-haired grandsires look and laugh As when their locks were brown!

With ears grown dull and eyes grown dim They greet the joyous day That calls them to the fountain's brim To wash their years away. What change has clothed the ancient sire In sudden youth? For, to! The Judge, the Doctor, and the Squire Are Jack and Bill and Joe!

And be his titles what they will, In spite of manhood's claim The graybeard is a school-boy still And loves his school-boy name; It calms the ruler's stormy breast Whom hurrying care pursues, And brings a sense of peace and rest, Like slippers after shoes.—

And what are all the prizes won To youth's enchanted view? And what is all the man has done To what the boy may do? O blessed fount, whose waters flow Alike for sire and son, That melts our winter's frost and snow And makes all ages one!

I pledge the sparkling fountain's tide, That flings its golden shower With age to fill and youth to guide, Still fresh in morning flower Flow on with ever-widening stream, In ever-brightening morn,— Our story's pride, our future's dream, The hope of times unborn!



NO TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME

THERE is no time like the old time, when you and I were young, When the buds of April blossomed, and the birds of spring-time sung! The garden's brightest glories by summer suns are nursed, But oh, the sweet, sweet violets, the flowers that opened first!

There is no place like the old place, where you and I were born, Where we lifted first our eyelids on the splendors of the morn From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the clinging arms that bore, Where the dear eyes glistened o'er us that will look on us no more!

There is no friend like the old friend, who has shared our morning days, No greeting like his welcome, no homage like his praise Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold; But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold.

There is no love like the old love, that we courted in our pride; Though our leaves are falling, falling, and we're fading side by side, There are blossoms all around us with the colors of our dawn, And we live in borrowed sunshine when the day-star is withdrawn.

There are no times like the old times,—they shall never be forgot! There is no place like the old place,—keep green the dear old spot! There are no friends like our old friends,—may Heaven prolong their lives There are no loves like our old loves,—God bless our loving wives!

1865.



A HYMN OF PEACE

SUNG AT THE "JUBILEE," JUNE 15, 1869, TO THE MUSIC OF SELLER'S "AMERICAN HYMN"

ANGEL of Peace, thou hast wandered too long! Spread thy white wings to the sunshine of love! Come while our voices are blended in song,— Fly to our ark like the storm-beaten dove! Fly to our ark on the wings of the dove,— Speed o'er the far-sounding billows of song, Crowned with thine olive-leaf garland of love,— Angel of Peace, thou hast waited too long!

Joyous we meet, on this altar of thine Mingling the gifts we have gathered for thee, Sweet with the odors of myrtle and pine, Breeze of the prairie and breath of the sea,— Meadow and mountain and forest and sea! Sweet is the fragrance of myrtle and pine, Sweeter the incense we offer to thee, Brothers once more round this altar of thine!

Angels of Bethlehem, answer the strain! Hark! a new birth-song is filling the sky!— Loud as the storm-wind that tumbles the main Bid the full breath of the organ reply,— Let the loud tempest of voices reply,— Roll its long surge like the-earth-shaking main! Swell the vast song till it mounts to the sky! Angels of Bethlehem, echo the strain!



NOTES.

THE BOYS. The members of the Harvard College class of 1829 referred to in this poem are: "Doctor," Francis Thomas; "Judge," G. T. Bigelow, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Massachusetts; "O Speaker," Hon. Francis B. Crowninshield, Speaker of the Massachusetts House of Representatives; "Mr. Mayor," G. W. Richardson, of Worcester,Mass.; "Member of Congress," Hon. George T. Davis; "Reverend," James Freeman Clarke; "boy with the grave mathematical look," Benjamin Peirce; "boy with a three-decker brain," Judge Benjamin R. Curtis, of the Supreme Court of the United States; "nice youngster of excellent pith," S. F. Smith, author of "My Country, 't is of Thee."

"That lovely, bright-eyed boy." William Sturgis.

"Who faced the storm so long." Francis B. Crowninshield.

"Our many featured friend." George T. Davis.

"The close-clinging dulcamara." The "bitter-sweet" of New England is the Celastrus scandens, "bourreau des arbres" of the Canadian French.

"All armed with picks and spades." The captured slaves were at this time organized as pioneers.



THE POETICAL WORKS

OF

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

VOL. III



CONTENTS

BUNKER-HILL BATTLE AND OTHER POEMS GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE AT THE "ATLANTIC" DINNER, DECEMBER 15, 1874 "LUCY." FOR HER GOLDEN WEDDING, OCTOBER 18, 1875 HYMN FOR THE INAUGURATION OF THE STATUE OF GOVERNOR ANDREW, HINGHAM, OCTOBER 7, 1875 A MEMORIAL TRIBUTE TO DR. SAMUEL G. HOWE JOSEPH WARREN, M. D. OLD CAMBRIDGE, JULY 3, 1875 WELCOME TO THE NATIONS, PHILADELPHIA, JULY 4, 1876 A FAMILIAR LETTER UNSATISFIED HOW THE OLD HORSE WON THE BET AN APPEAL FOR "THE OLD SOUTH" THE FIRST FAN To R. B. H. THE SHIP OF STATE A FAMILY RECORD

THE IRON GATE AND OTHER POEMS. THE IRON GATE VESTIGIA QUINQUE RETRORSUM MY AVIARY ON THE THRESHOLD TO GEORGE PEABODY AT THE PAPYRUS CLUB FOR WHITTIER'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY TWO SONNETS: HARVARD THE COMING ERA IN RESPONSE FOR THE MOORE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION TO JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE WELCOME TO THE CHICAGO COMMERCIAL CLUB AMERICAN ACADEMY CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION THE SCHOOL-BOY THE SILENT MELODY OUR HOME—OUR COUNTRY POEM AT THE CENTENNIAL ANNIVERSARY DINNER OF THE MASSACHUSETTS MEDICAL SOCIETY RHYMES OF A LIFE-TIME

BEFORE THE CURFEW AT MY FIRESIDE AT THE SATURDAY CLUB OUR DEAD SINGER. H. W. L. TWO POEMS TO HARRIET BEECHER STOWE ON HER SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY. I. AT THE SUMMIT II. THE WORLD'S HOMAGE A WELCOME TO DR. BENJAMIN APTHORP GOULD TO FREDERICK HENRY HEDGE ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY PRELUDE TO A VOLUME PRINTED IN RAISED LETTERS FOR THE BLIND BOSTON TO FLORENCE AT THE UNITARIAN FESTIVAL, MARCH 8, 1882 POEM FOR THE TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE FOUNDING OF HARVARD COLLEGE POST-PRANDIAL: PHI BETA KAPPA, 1881 THE FLANEUR: DURING THE TRANSIT OF VENUS, 1882 AVE KING'S CHAPEL READ AT THE TWO HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY HYMN FOR THE SAME OCCASION HYMN.—THE WORD OF PROMISE HYMN READ AT THE DEDICATION OF THE OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES HOSPITAL AT HUDSON, WISCONSIN, JUNE 7, 1887 ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT GARFIELD THE GOLDEN FLOWER HAIL, COLUMBIA! POEM FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE FOUNTAIN AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON, PRESENTED BY GEORGE CHILDS, OF PHILADELPHIA TO THE POETS WHO ONLY READ AND LISTEN FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE NEW CITY LIBRARY FOR THE WINDOW IN ST. MARGARET'S JAMES RUSSELL LO WELL: 1819-1891

POEMS FROM OVER THE TEACUPS. TO THE ELEVEN LADIES WHO PRESENTED ME WITH A SILVER LOVING CUP THE PEAU DE CHAGRIN OF STATE STREET CACOETHES SCRIBENDI THE ROSE AND THE FERN I LIKE YOU AND I LOVE YOU LA MAISON D'OR BAR HARBOR TOO YOUNG FOR LOVE THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN; OR, THE RETURN OF THE WITCHES TARTARUS AT THE TURN OF THE ROAD INVITA MINERVA

READINGS OVER THE TEACUPS TO MY OLD READERS THE BANKER'S SECRET THE EXILE'S SECRET THE LOVER'S SECRET THE STATESMAN'S SECRET THE MOTHER'S SECRET THE SECRET OF THE STARS

VERSES FROM THE OLDEST PORTFOLIO FIRST VERSES: TRANSLATION FROM THE THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR THE TOADSTOOL THE SPECTRE PIG TO A CAGED LION THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE: "A SPANISH GIRL REVERIE" A ROMAN AQUEDUCT FROM A BACHELOR'S PRIVATE JOURNAL LA GRISETTE OUR YANKEE GIRLS L'INCONNUE STANZAS LINES BY A CLERK THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE THE POET'S LOT TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN" IN THE ATHENAEUM GALLERY THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN A NOONTIDE LYRIC THE HOT SEASON A PORTRAIT AN EVENING THOUGHT. WRITTEN AT SEA THE WASP AND THE HORNET "QUI VIVE?"

NOTES



BUNKER-HILL BATTLE

AND OTHER POEMS

1874-1877



GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE

AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY

'T is like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembers All the achings and the quakings of "the times that tried men's souls"; When I talk of Whig and Tory, when I tell the Rebel story, To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning coals.

I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle; Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red-coats still; But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me, When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill.

'T was a peaceful summer's morning, when the first thing gave us warning Was the booming of the cannon from the river and the shore: "Child," says grandma, "what 's the matter, what is all this noise and clatter? Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once more?"

Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my quaking, To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar: She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and the pillage, When the Mohawks killed her father with their bullets through his door.

Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you fret and worry any, For I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is work or play; There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a minute"— For a minute then I started. I was gone the live-long day.

No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing; Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels; God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood around her flowing, How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet house-hold feels!

In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was the stumping Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on that wooden leg he wore, With a knot of women round him,-it was lucky I had found him, So I followed with the others, and the Corporal marched before.

They were making for the steeple,—the old soldier and his people; The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair. Just across the narrow river—oh, so close it made me shiver!— Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday was bare.

Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who stood behind it, Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the stubborn walls were dumb Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon each other, And their lips were white with terror as they said, THE HOUR HAS COME!

The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we tasted, And our heads were almost splitting with the cannons' deafening thrill, When a figure tall and stately round the rampart strode sedately; It was PRESCOTT, one since told me; he commanded on the hill.

Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw his manly figure, With the banyan buckled round it, standing up so straight and tall; Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for pleasure, Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he walked around the wall.

At eleven the streets were swarming, for the red-coats' ranks were forming; At noon in marching order they were moving to the piers; How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked far down, and listened To the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted grenadiers!

At length the men have started, with a cheer (it seemed faint-hearted), In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on their backs, And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-fight's slaughter, Round the barges gliding onward blushed like blood along their tracks.

So they crossed to the other border, and again they formed in order; And the boats came back for soldiers, came for soldiers, soldiers still: The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and fasting,— At last they're moving, marching, marching proudly up the hill.

We can see the bright steel glancing all along the lines advancing,— Now the front rank fires a volley,—they have thrown away their shot; For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls above them flying, Our people need not hurry; so they wait and answer not.

Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear sometimes and tipple), He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French war) before,— Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were hearing,— And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty belfry floor:—

"Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George's shillin's, But ye 'll waste a ton of powder afore a 'rebel' falls; You may bang the dirt and welcome, they're as safe as Dan'l Malcolm Ten foot beneath the gravestone that you've splintered with your balls!"

In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepidation Of the dread approaching moment, we are well-nigh breathless all; Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety belfry railing, We are crowding up against them like the waves against a wall.

Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer,—nearer,—nearer, When a flash—a curling smoke-wreath—then a crash—the steeple shakes— The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud is rended; Like a morning mist it gathered, like a thunder-cloud it breaks!

Oh the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over! The red-coats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes his hay; Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong crowd is flying Like a billow that has broken and is shivered into spray.

Then we cried, "The troops are routed! they are beat—it can't be doubted! God be thanked, the fight is over!"—Ah! the grim old soldier's smile! "Tell us, tell us why you look so?" (we could hardly speak, we shook so), "Are they beaten? Are they beaten? ARE they beaten?"—"Wait a while."

Oh the trembling and the terror! for too soon we saw our error: They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven them back in vain; And the columns that were scattered, round the colors that were tattered, Toward the sullen, silent fortress turn their belted breasts again.

All at once, as we are gazing, lo the roofs of Charlestown blazing! They have fired the harmless village; in an hour it will be down! The Lord in heaven confound them, rain his fire and brimstone round them, The robbing, murdering red-coats, that would burn a peaceful town!

They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see each massive column As they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting walls so steep. Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless haste departed? Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are they palsied or asleep?

Now! the walls they're almost under! scarce a rod the foes asunder! Not a firelock flashed against them! up the earth-work they will swarm! But the words have scarce been spoken, when the ominous calm is broken, And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance of the storm!

So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backwards to the water, Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe; And we shout, "At last they're done for, it's their barges they have run for: They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle 's over now!"

And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier's features, Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask: "Not sure," he said; "keep quiet,—once more, I guess, they 'll try it— Here's damnation to the cut-throats!"—then he handed me his flask,

Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of old Jamaiky; I 'm afeard there 'll be more trouble afore the job is done"; So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and hollow, Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun.

All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm clock dial, As the hands kept creeping, creeping,—they were creeping round to four, When the old man said, "They're forming with their bagonets fixed for storming: It 's the death-grip that's a coming,—they will try the works once more."

With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them glaring, The deadly wall before them, in close array they come; Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold uncoiling,— Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating drum.

Over heaps all torn and gory—shall I tell the fearful story, How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea breaks over a deck; How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men retreated, With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swimmers from a wreck?

It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say I fainted, And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with me down the stair: When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening lamps were lighted,— On the floor a youth was lying; his bleeding breast was bare.

And I heard through all the flurry, "Send for WARREN! hurry! hurry! Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he 'll come and dress his wound!" Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death and sorrow, How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and bloody ground.

Who the youth was, what his name was, where the place from which he came was, Who had brought him from the battle, and had left him at our door, He could not speak to tell us; but 't was one of our brave fellows, As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying soldier wore.

For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered round him crying,— And they said, "Oh, how they'll miss him!" and, "What will his mother do?" Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has been dozing, He faintly murmured, "Mother!"—and—I saw his eyes were blue.

"Why, grandma, how you 're winking!" Ah, my child, it sets me thinking Of a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived along; So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like a—mother, Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-checked, and strong.

And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant summer weather,— "Please to tell us what his name was?" Just your own, my little dear,— There's his picture Copley painted: we became so well acquainted, That—in short, that's why I 'm grandma, and you children all are here!



AT THE "ATLANTIC" DINNER

DECEMBER 15, 1874

I SUPPOSE it's myself that you're making allusion to And bringing the sense of dismay and confusion to. Of course some must speak,—they are always selected to, But pray what's the reason that I am expected to? I'm not fond of wasting my breath as those fellows do; That want to be blowing forever as bellows do; Their legs are uneasy, but why will you jog any That long to stay quiet beneath the mahogany?

Why, why call me up with your battery of flatteries? You say "He writes poetry,"—that 's what the matter is "It costs him no trouble—a pen full of ink or two And the poem is done in the time of a wink or two; As for thoughts—never mind—take the ones that lie uppermost, And the rhymes used by Milton and Byron and Tupper most; The lines come so easy! at one end he jingles 'em, At the other with capital letters he shingles 'em,— Why, the thing writes itself, and before he's half done with it He hates to stop writing, he has such good fun with it!"

Ah, that is the way in which simple ones go about And draw a fine picture of things they don't know about! We all know a kitten, but come to a catamount The beast is a stranger when grown up to that amount, (A stranger we rather prefer should n't visit us, A felis whose advent is far from felicitous.) The boy who can boast that his trap has just got a mouse Must n't draw it and write underneath "hippopotamus"; Or say unveraciously, "This is an elephant,"— Don't think, let me beg, these examples irrelevant,— What they mean is just this—that a thing to be painted well Should always be something with which we're acquainted well.