MUSIC.

Spring smacks of lamb and peas and eggs,Of rural trips and pleasure,New jaunty hats, and pants with legsA yard around would measure;Of light cloth suits for gents to wear,And kilted skirts for ladies,Who sally out to get the airWhen the house is hot as Hades;It tells of times when overcoatsAre being pawned for summer,When furs are in the camphor chest,And each officious drummerCommences sale of china glueAnd extra patent polish,When heads of houses gladly wouldEach canvasser demolish;When brush and broom, and soap and sandAre order of the season;When cleaning paint and scrubbing floorsWould rob you of your reason;When home looks damp, and smells of suds,And dust and dirt are plenty;There’s not a happy husband then—I’m sure not one in twenty—And the only hope they have to cheer,The season comes but once a year.

Spring smacks of lamb and peas and eggs,

Of rural trips and pleasure,

New jaunty hats, and pants with legs

A yard around would measure;

Of light cloth suits for gents to wear,

And kilted skirts for ladies,

Who sally out to get the air

When the house is hot as Hades;

It tells of times when overcoats

Are being pawned for summer,

When furs are in the camphor chest,

And each officious drummer

Commences sale of china glue

And extra patent polish,

When heads of houses gladly would

Each canvasser demolish;

When brush and broom, and soap and sand

Are order of the season;

When cleaning paint and scrubbing floors

Would rob you of your reason;

When home looks damp, and smells of suds,

And dust and dirt are plenty;

There’s not a happy husband then—

I’m sure not one in twenty—

And the only hope they have to cheer,

The season comes but once a year.

Music, blest of all the arts,We prize thy melting measures,What other power so impartsThe magic to awaken hearts?We’d have a line of crowned MozartsTo tune our lives to pleasures.Music soothes the infant’s sighs,And lulls its baby slumbers;Its charms cement domestic ties,Each home its mellow measures prize;It kindred hearts will harmonizeAnd chain by tuneful numbers.Music cheers the bridal hours,Each happiness it heightens;It stirs, it animates, empowersThe love and hope that may be ours,And ripens buds of bliss to flowers,And every blessing brightens.Music stirs the warrior’s fire,And goads him on to glory;It kindles every brave desireThat love of country can inspire,And makes the hero’s heart beat higherTo ’dorn a patriot story.The church’s choicest gift and best;Its harmony and gladness,Music’s strains, religion’s zest,The Christian’s cheering balm and rest,When hope seems dark, and heart depressedIt charms away the sadness.Last, music of the funeral train,So slowly, sweetly sighing;It softens weeping mourners’ pain;It tells of rapture we’ll regainWhen heavenly transports we attain,And soothes the dread of dying.

Music, blest of all the arts,We prize thy melting measures,What other power so impartsThe magic to awaken hearts?We’d have a line of crowned MozartsTo tune our lives to pleasures.

Music, blest of all the arts,

We prize thy melting measures,

What other power so imparts

The magic to awaken hearts?

We’d have a line of crowned Mozarts

To tune our lives to pleasures.

Music soothes the infant’s sighs,And lulls its baby slumbers;Its charms cement domestic ties,Each home its mellow measures prize;It kindred hearts will harmonizeAnd chain by tuneful numbers.

Music soothes the infant’s sighs,

And lulls its baby slumbers;

Its charms cement domestic ties,

Each home its mellow measures prize;

It kindred hearts will harmonize

And chain by tuneful numbers.

Music cheers the bridal hours,Each happiness it heightens;It stirs, it animates, empowersThe love and hope that may be ours,And ripens buds of bliss to flowers,And every blessing brightens.

Music cheers the bridal hours,

Each happiness it heightens;

It stirs, it animates, empowers

The love and hope that may be ours,

And ripens buds of bliss to flowers,

And every blessing brightens.

Music stirs the warrior’s fire,And goads him on to glory;It kindles every brave desireThat love of country can inspire,And makes the hero’s heart beat higherTo ’dorn a patriot story.

Music stirs the warrior’s fire,

And goads him on to glory;

It kindles every brave desire

That love of country can inspire,

And makes the hero’s heart beat higher

To ’dorn a patriot story.

The church’s choicest gift and best;Its harmony and gladness,Music’s strains, religion’s zest,The Christian’s cheering balm and rest,When hope seems dark, and heart depressedIt charms away the sadness.

The church’s choicest gift and best;

Its harmony and gladness,

Music’s strains, religion’s zest,

The Christian’s cheering balm and rest,

When hope seems dark, and heart depressed

It charms away the sadness.

Last, music of the funeral train,So slowly, sweetly sighing;It softens weeping mourners’ pain;It tells of rapture we’ll regainWhen heavenly transports we attain,And soothes the dread of dying.

Last, music of the funeral train,

So slowly, sweetly sighing;

It softens weeping mourners’ pain;

It tells of rapture we’ll regain

When heavenly transports we attain,

And soothes the dread of dying.

We have just read the news,Which gave us the blues,That a monkey was born in that city;An honor so rareWe wanted to share,So jealousy seasoned our pity.To have the fair apeShow its infantile shapeFirst out in that public garden,So far away fromHer country and kind,Aloof from her comradesShe never may find,Nor the trees of the tropics,For which she has pined,Her case is truly a hard one.This young kangarooBorn out at the Zoo,Made a ripple in public feeling,Which gushes and glows,And clamors and crows,Unjointing at once,Each Darwinian nose,All love fromforeignapes stealing.A Quakeress monkeyIs a curious thing,A grave and gay combination;Its infantile antics’Twill have to bringIntosober sedateness;And, poor little thing,Away all its nativeAmusements must flingTo claim its Quaker relation.We can’t help thinking’Twould have been for the best,Could this fair young apeBeen born out West,Though the Darwin theory goes to proveItsrightto the city of “Brotherly Love.”

We have just read the news,Which gave us the blues,That a monkey was born in that city;An honor so rareWe wanted to share,So jealousy seasoned our pity.

We have just read the news,

Which gave us the blues,

That a monkey was born in that city;

An honor so rare

We wanted to share,

So jealousy seasoned our pity.

To have the fair apeShow its infantile shapeFirst out in that public garden,So far away fromHer country and kind,Aloof from her comradesShe never may find,Nor the trees of the tropics,For which she has pined,Her case is truly a hard one.

To have the fair ape

Show its infantile shape

First out in that public garden,

So far away from

Her country and kind,

Aloof from her comrades

She never may find,

Nor the trees of the tropics,

For which she has pined,

Her case is truly a hard one.

This young kangarooBorn out at the Zoo,Made a ripple in public feeling,Which gushes and glows,And clamors and crows,Unjointing at once,Each Darwinian nose,All love fromforeignapes stealing.

This young kangaroo

Born out at the Zoo,

Made a ripple in public feeling,

Which gushes and glows,

And clamors and crows,

Unjointing at once,

Each Darwinian nose,

All love fromforeignapes stealing.

A Quakeress monkeyIs a curious thing,A grave and gay combination;Its infantile antics’Twill have to bringIntosober sedateness;And, poor little thing,Away all its nativeAmusements must flingTo claim its Quaker relation.

A Quakeress monkey

Is a curious thing,

A grave and gay combination;

Its infantile antics

’Twill have to bring

Intosober sedateness;

And, poor little thing,

Away all its native

Amusements must fling

To claim its Quaker relation.

We can’t help thinking’Twould have been for the best,Could this fair young apeBeen born out West,Though the Darwin theory goes to proveItsrightto the city of “Brotherly Love.”

We can’t help thinking

’Twould have been for the best,

Could this fair young ape

Been born out West,

Though the Darwin theory goes to prove

Itsrightto the city of “Brotherly Love.”

Bring fragrant flowers, rich and rare,Let wreathes and roses scent the air.Go strew them freely o’er the gravesOf buried heroes, sainted braves.The noisy din of war is o’er,The battle drum shall wake no more.Now quietly their bosoms rest,Those silent hearts by valor blest.On sacred soil their ashes lie,Blest beneath a summer sky;Their deeds of glory, brave and bold,Their valiant will, their dying told,Their honest hearts were in the strife,For liberty they gave their life.May every patriot in our landBeside those sainted heroes stand,And fill their names with warrior praise,And deck their graves with lasting bays.May woman’s gentle, soothing voiceNow sing sweet anthems and rejoice,That, as she wreathes the flowers o’erThe mounds of loved ones, now no more,Their names and deeds will ever bloom,While flowers fade upon their tomb.They’ve fought their earthly battles well,We’d crown them all with immortelle.

Bring fragrant flowers, rich and rare,

Let wreathes and roses scent the air.

Go strew them freely o’er the graves

Of buried heroes, sainted braves.

The noisy din of war is o’er,

The battle drum shall wake no more.

Now quietly their bosoms rest,

Those silent hearts by valor blest.

On sacred soil their ashes lie,

Blest beneath a summer sky;

Their deeds of glory, brave and bold,

Their valiant will, their dying told,

Their honest hearts were in the strife,

For liberty they gave their life.

May every patriot in our land

Beside those sainted heroes stand,

And fill their names with warrior praise,

And deck their graves with lasting bays.

May woman’s gentle, soothing voice

Now sing sweet anthems and rejoice,

That, as she wreathes the flowers o’er

The mounds of loved ones, now no more,

Their names and deeds will ever bloom,

While flowers fade upon their tomb.

They’ve fought their earthly battles well,

We’d crown them all with immortelle.

With “loves” and “doves”And white kid glovesThe “honeymoon” will wane away;Each turn ’s a kiss,This new-born blissWill last for thirty days, they say.With gifts and glancesAnd wedding dances,The time speeds onward far too fast;Such blushing, sighing,There’s no denyingThis novel love ’s too sweet to last.They love and languishIn blissful anguish,Till all around swims with delight;Their vows and pledgesSet your teeth on edges,And they “bill and coo” till it dims your sight.They seem so spooneyThey’re almost luny,This pair so lately joined in one.They loll and linger,Toy with hand and finger,And think life’s pleasures just begun.Mistaken mortals!Life’s opening portalsAdmit a glare too bright too last;And “loves young dream,”Which now may seemElysian joy, will soon be past.

With “loves” and “doves”And white kid glovesThe “honeymoon” will wane away;Each turn ’s a kiss,This new-born blissWill last for thirty days, they say.

With “loves” and “doves”

And white kid gloves

The “honeymoon” will wane away;

Each turn ’s a kiss,

This new-born bliss

Will last for thirty days, they say.

With gifts and glancesAnd wedding dances,The time speeds onward far too fast;Such blushing, sighing,There’s no denyingThis novel love ’s too sweet to last.

With gifts and glances

And wedding dances,

The time speeds onward far too fast;

Such blushing, sighing,

There’s no denying

This novel love ’s too sweet to last.

They love and languishIn blissful anguish,Till all around swims with delight;Their vows and pledgesSet your teeth on edges,And they “bill and coo” till it dims your sight.

They love and languish

In blissful anguish,

Till all around swims with delight;

Their vows and pledges

Set your teeth on edges,

And they “bill and coo” till it dims your sight.

They seem so spooneyThey’re almost luny,This pair so lately joined in one.They loll and linger,Toy with hand and finger,And think life’s pleasures just begun.

They seem so spooney

They’re almost luny,

This pair so lately joined in one.

They loll and linger,

Toy with hand and finger,

And think life’s pleasures just begun.

Mistaken mortals!Life’s opening portalsAdmit a glare too bright too last;And “loves young dream,”Which now may seemElysian joy, will soon be past.

Mistaken mortals!

Life’s opening portals

Admit a glare too bright too last;

And “loves young dream,”

Which now may seem

Elysian joy, will soon be past.

I have an ambition to try to portrayIn rhythm a masculine model;So seldom such rarities brighten my wayTo the fields of wild fancy I’m driven to stray,And to paint my ideal in a rhyming arrayWill force me the muses to coddle.Well, this model of mine is married, of course,For how could a bachelor be one?So I gauge him by marital morals and force;As a husband, he merits a crown for a cross,For he acts as a beau instead of a boss—I’d go to the moon to see one.He seldom or never goes out after night,As other men do, less devoted.To lodges and clubs, and to see every sight,Whether it be wrong or whether it be right;He never comes home either cranky or tight—A fact which should be duly noted.He never comes in from the office and cowlsIf dinner is late or not ready,Nor frowns nor feazes, nor fusses nor howls,Nor goes round the house and grumbles and growls,Nor blesses the knife as he cuts up the fowls,But always seems happy and steady.He’s a model, indeed—content on a crust.No sighing for honor or riches;He’s as blind as a bat to cob-webs and dust;Nor any domestic derangement or rustWould he notice for worlds, for fear of a muss—His thoughtfulness truly bewitches.A buttonless shirt, or a hole in his hose,He views with happy contentment.Nor savagely scowls if his best Sunday clothesGet mussed in the closet; nor blusters nor blows,Nor curses the rocker for stumping his toes;My model is free from resentment.He never keeps letters for days in his hatThat I give him to mail in the morning,But mails them at once, so punctual and pat.Whether it’s from duty or fear of a spat,I’m prepared not to say; I only know thatHe mails them without further warning.He never complains of long dry goods bills,Nor squirms when the shoe bill ’s presented;Nor scolds nor scowls when the milliner fillsA long sheet of foolscap with bonnets and frills,But pays like aman, if it breaks him or kills,With an air that’s resigned and contented.And then too, he’s ever so ready to go,At the sound of the slightest suggestion,To the opera, theater, lecture, or show;Consenting at once, he never says no,Nor looks bored and cross if it’s stupid or slow,But retains the same happy expression.He does not complain, in our travels, of trunks,Or baskets, or bundles, or boxes,But smilingly looks at the over-stored bunksIn happy complacence—never worries or spunks;This model of mine ’s no cross, surly lunks,But a martyr quite equal to Fox’s.My ideal man don’t growl for a week,Should I get a few duds for my travels,But gives money and time, to sew and to seekNew dresses and wraps, too many to speak,And seems to enjoy each extravagant freakThat the mystery of toilet unravels.Some men will forget in their every-day livesThe courtesies due to their spouses;They get kind of used to their homes and their wives,Neglecting the walks, the chats, and the drives,Upon which connubial happiness thrives;But devotion in mine never drowses.Now, gents, stop your blushing; I did not intendTo step on the toes of a single male friend.Your modesty might personalities dread,So I will say that this model depicted—is dead.

I have an ambition to try to portray

In rhythm a masculine model;

So seldom such rarities brighten my way

To the fields of wild fancy I’m driven to stray,

And to paint my ideal in a rhyming array

Will force me the muses to coddle.

Well, this model of mine is married, of course,For how could a bachelor be one?So I gauge him by marital morals and force;As a husband, he merits a crown for a cross,For he acts as a beau instead of a boss—I’d go to the moon to see one.

Well, this model of mine is married, of course,

For how could a bachelor be one?

So I gauge him by marital morals and force;

As a husband, he merits a crown for a cross,

For he acts as a beau instead of a boss—

I’d go to the moon to see one.

He seldom or never goes out after night,As other men do, less devoted.To lodges and clubs, and to see every sight,Whether it be wrong or whether it be right;He never comes home either cranky or tight—A fact which should be duly noted.

He seldom or never goes out after night,

As other men do, less devoted.

To lodges and clubs, and to see every sight,

Whether it be wrong or whether it be right;

He never comes home either cranky or tight—

A fact which should be duly noted.

He never comes in from the office and cowlsIf dinner is late or not ready,Nor frowns nor feazes, nor fusses nor howls,Nor goes round the house and grumbles and growls,Nor blesses the knife as he cuts up the fowls,But always seems happy and steady.

He never comes in from the office and cowls

If dinner is late or not ready,

Nor frowns nor feazes, nor fusses nor howls,

Nor goes round the house and grumbles and growls,

Nor blesses the knife as he cuts up the fowls,

But always seems happy and steady.

He’s a model, indeed—content on a crust.No sighing for honor or riches;He’s as blind as a bat to cob-webs and dust;Nor any domestic derangement or rustWould he notice for worlds, for fear of a muss—His thoughtfulness truly bewitches.

He’s a model, indeed—content on a crust.

No sighing for honor or riches;

He’s as blind as a bat to cob-webs and dust;

Nor any domestic derangement or rust

Would he notice for worlds, for fear of a muss—

His thoughtfulness truly bewitches.

A buttonless shirt, or a hole in his hose,He views with happy contentment.Nor savagely scowls if his best Sunday clothesGet mussed in the closet; nor blusters nor blows,Nor curses the rocker for stumping his toes;My model is free from resentment.

A buttonless shirt, or a hole in his hose,

He views with happy contentment.

Nor savagely scowls if his best Sunday clothes

Get mussed in the closet; nor blusters nor blows,

Nor curses the rocker for stumping his toes;

My model is free from resentment.

He never keeps letters for days in his hatThat I give him to mail in the morning,But mails them at once, so punctual and pat.Whether it’s from duty or fear of a spat,I’m prepared not to say; I only know thatHe mails them without further warning.

He never keeps letters for days in his hat

That I give him to mail in the morning,

But mails them at once, so punctual and pat.

Whether it’s from duty or fear of a spat,

I’m prepared not to say; I only know that

He mails them without further warning.

He never complains of long dry goods bills,Nor squirms when the shoe bill ’s presented;Nor scolds nor scowls when the milliner fillsA long sheet of foolscap with bonnets and frills,But pays like aman, if it breaks him or kills,With an air that’s resigned and contented.

He never complains of long dry goods bills,

Nor squirms when the shoe bill ’s presented;

Nor scolds nor scowls when the milliner fills

A long sheet of foolscap with bonnets and frills,

But pays like aman, if it breaks him or kills,

With an air that’s resigned and contented.

And then too, he’s ever so ready to go,At the sound of the slightest suggestion,To the opera, theater, lecture, or show;Consenting at once, he never says no,Nor looks bored and cross if it’s stupid or slow,But retains the same happy expression.

And then too, he’s ever so ready to go,

At the sound of the slightest suggestion,

To the opera, theater, lecture, or show;

Consenting at once, he never says no,

Nor looks bored and cross if it’s stupid or slow,

But retains the same happy expression.

He does not complain, in our travels, of trunks,Or baskets, or bundles, or boxes,But smilingly looks at the over-stored bunksIn happy complacence—never worries or spunks;This model of mine ’s no cross, surly lunks,But a martyr quite equal to Fox’s.

He does not complain, in our travels, of trunks,

Or baskets, or bundles, or boxes,

But smilingly looks at the over-stored bunks

In happy complacence—never worries or spunks;

This model of mine ’s no cross, surly lunks,

But a martyr quite equal to Fox’s.

My ideal man don’t growl for a week,Should I get a few duds for my travels,But gives money and time, to sew and to seekNew dresses and wraps, too many to speak,And seems to enjoy each extravagant freakThat the mystery of toilet unravels.

My ideal man don’t growl for a week,

Should I get a few duds for my travels,

But gives money and time, to sew and to seek

New dresses and wraps, too many to speak,

And seems to enjoy each extravagant freak

That the mystery of toilet unravels.

Some men will forget in their every-day livesThe courtesies due to their spouses;They get kind of used to their homes and their wives,Neglecting the walks, the chats, and the drives,Upon which connubial happiness thrives;But devotion in mine never drowses.

Some men will forget in their every-day lives

The courtesies due to their spouses;

They get kind of used to their homes and their wives,

Neglecting the walks, the chats, and the drives,

Upon which connubial happiness thrives;

But devotion in mine never drowses.

Now, gents, stop your blushing; I did not intendTo step on the toes of a single male friend.Your modesty might personalities dread,So I will say that this model depicted—is dead.

Now, gents, stop your blushing; I did not intend

To step on the toes of a single male friend.

Your modesty might personalities dread,

So I will say that this model depicted—is dead.

[Summer of 1878.]

The pestilence that gaunt and grimStalks through our sunny land,Leaves traces marked with miseryIn many a broken band;It scatters friends and severs ties,And makes whole cities wail,Neglected dead unburied liesTo tell the mournful tale.One fickle moon has scarcely passedSince first that blighting blowCrushed hopes of years—all aims of lifeSeemed paralyzed with woe;Bereavement, blight, and bitternessReign o’er our stricken land,And leave the lone and desolateBeside their dead to stand.Their sunny skies in beauty smileO’er scores of scenes of woe,And seem to mock the miseryThe fatal records show;Dread burdens every waft of breezeWhich pestilence imparts;The very balmy air they breatheBrings poison to their hearts.Their streets deserted, kindred fled,All busy life is still;Their household gods all scattered lieBefore death’s dauntless will;A grave-like silence reigns supreme,No sound but moans and sighsThat echoes on the quiet airAs some new victim dies.Fond lips that prayed but yesterdayAround the social hearth,Are closed in death’s oblivionAnd mute to sounds of earth;Babes and mothers rest as oneBeneath the silent sod,Together summoned sire and sonBefore the bar of God.For bleeding hearts and stricken homesWe plead thy pitying care,And beg for mercy at thy will,Oh, God! hear thou our prayer;Relent, and stay the messengerThat lurks at every door;Retard his ruthless ravagesAnd health and hope restore.

The pestilence that gaunt and grim

Stalks through our sunny land,

Leaves traces marked with misery

In many a broken band;

It scatters friends and severs ties,

And makes whole cities wail,

Neglected dead unburied lies

To tell the mournful tale.

One fickle moon has scarcely passedSince first that blighting blowCrushed hopes of years—all aims of lifeSeemed paralyzed with woe;Bereavement, blight, and bitternessReign o’er our stricken land,And leave the lone and desolateBeside their dead to stand.

One fickle moon has scarcely passed

Since first that blighting blow

Crushed hopes of years—all aims of life

Seemed paralyzed with woe;

Bereavement, blight, and bitterness

Reign o’er our stricken land,

And leave the lone and desolate

Beside their dead to stand.

Their sunny skies in beauty smileO’er scores of scenes of woe,And seem to mock the miseryThe fatal records show;Dread burdens every waft of breezeWhich pestilence imparts;The very balmy air they breatheBrings poison to their hearts.

Their sunny skies in beauty smile

O’er scores of scenes of woe,

And seem to mock the misery

The fatal records show;

Dread burdens every waft of breeze

Which pestilence imparts;

The very balmy air they breathe

Brings poison to their hearts.

Their streets deserted, kindred fled,All busy life is still;Their household gods all scattered lieBefore death’s dauntless will;A grave-like silence reigns supreme,No sound but moans and sighsThat echoes on the quiet airAs some new victim dies.

Their streets deserted, kindred fled,

All busy life is still;

Their household gods all scattered lie

Before death’s dauntless will;

A grave-like silence reigns supreme,

No sound but moans and sighs

That echoes on the quiet air

As some new victim dies.

Fond lips that prayed but yesterdayAround the social hearth,Are closed in death’s oblivionAnd mute to sounds of earth;Babes and mothers rest as oneBeneath the silent sod,Together summoned sire and sonBefore the bar of God.

Fond lips that prayed but yesterday

Around the social hearth,

Are closed in death’s oblivion

And mute to sounds of earth;

Babes and mothers rest as one

Beneath the silent sod,

Together summoned sire and son

Before the bar of God.

For bleeding hearts and stricken homesWe plead thy pitying care,And beg for mercy at thy will,Oh, God! hear thou our prayer;Relent, and stay the messengerThat lurks at every door;Retard his ruthless ravagesAnd health and hope restore.

For bleeding hearts and stricken homes

We plead thy pitying care,

And beg for mercy at thy will,

Oh, God! hear thou our prayer;

Relent, and stay the messenger

That lurks at every door;

Retard his ruthless ravages

And health and hope restore.

Then let the sun with rosy lightNo longer shine, nor moon by nightHer mellow rays around, above,Illume—if I should cease to love.May starry heights grow dim and dark,In absence of thatheavenly spark,All Nature’s gems in skies aboveSuspend—if I should cease to love.May dancing rills and crystal brooksRejoice no more mid shady nooks,Nor wind in glee through moonlit groveOr glen—if I should cease to love.Without this magic spark divineTo warm and cheer this heart of mine,Nor earth beneath nor heaven above,Could compensate for loss of love.The moon and stars, the sun and air,The joyous birds and flowers rare,All to me would worthless prove,If ever I should cease to love.This lovely land, these sunny skies,No charm would have for loveless eyes,No song from hall or sight from groveEnchant—if I should cease to love.

Then let the sun with rosy lightNo longer shine, nor moon by nightHer mellow rays around, above,Illume—if I should cease to love.

Then let the sun with rosy light

No longer shine, nor moon by night

Her mellow rays around, above,

Illume—if I should cease to love.

May starry heights grow dim and dark,In absence of thatheavenly spark,All Nature’s gems in skies aboveSuspend—if I should cease to love.

May starry heights grow dim and dark,

In absence of thatheavenly spark,

All Nature’s gems in skies above

Suspend—if I should cease to love.

May dancing rills and crystal brooksRejoice no more mid shady nooks,Nor wind in glee through moonlit groveOr glen—if I should cease to love.

May dancing rills and crystal brooks

Rejoice no more mid shady nooks,

Nor wind in glee through moonlit grove

Or glen—if I should cease to love.

Without this magic spark divineTo warm and cheer this heart of mine,Nor earth beneath nor heaven above,Could compensate for loss of love.

Without this magic spark divine

To warm and cheer this heart of mine,

Nor earth beneath nor heaven above,

Could compensate for loss of love.

The moon and stars, the sun and air,The joyous birds and flowers rare,All to me would worthless prove,If ever I should cease to love.

The moon and stars, the sun and air,

The joyous birds and flowers rare,

All to me would worthless prove,

If ever I should cease to love.

This lovely land, these sunny skies,No charm would have for loveless eyes,No song from hall or sight from groveEnchant—if I should cease to love.

This lovely land, these sunny skies,

No charm would have for loveless eyes,

No song from hall or sight from grove

Enchant—if I should cease to love.

[Recited at the St. Paul’s Children’s Social by Joe. E. Young, 1878.]

We are happy to meet you,In gladness we greet you,A welcome to all we extend;Your happy, bright facesShow nothing but tracesWhich kindness and charity lend.While we revel in pleasure,Let’s try in a measureTo remember our brothers abroad,Who are suffering and sighing,And in misery crying,For comforts they can not afford.One short, fatal seasonHas given them reasonFor deploring their sorrows for years;Taken father and mother,And sister and brother,And left them alone in their tears.With no one to love themBut the Father above them,No home but the one in the skies;No hope for the morrowTo soften their sorrow,No mother to quiet their cries.To the cold care of strangers,And the world’s many dangers,Their lot in the future is cast:They will miss every hourThe sweet, soothing powerOf the love that now lives in the past.So, comrades, we pray you,Let no motive stay youFrom helping the orphans in need;Their friends are all taken,Their homes all forsaken,Their childhood ’s a desert indeed.

We are happy to meet you,In gladness we greet you,A welcome to all we extend;Your happy, bright facesShow nothing but tracesWhich kindness and charity lend.

We are happy to meet you,

In gladness we greet you,

A welcome to all we extend;

Your happy, bright faces

Show nothing but traces

Which kindness and charity lend.

While we revel in pleasure,Let’s try in a measureTo remember our brothers abroad,Who are suffering and sighing,And in misery crying,For comforts they can not afford.

While we revel in pleasure,

Let’s try in a measure

To remember our brothers abroad,

Who are suffering and sighing,

And in misery crying,

For comforts they can not afford.

One short, fatal seasonHas given them reasonFor deploring their sorrows for years;Taken father and mother,And sister and brother,And left them alone in their tears.

One short, fatal season

Has given them reason

For deploring their sorrows for years;

Taken father and mother,

And sister and brother,

And left them alone in their tears.

With no one to love themBut the Father above them,No home but the one in the skies;No hope for the morrowTo soften their sorrow,No mother to quiet their cries.

With no one to love them

But the Father above them,

No home but the one in the skies;

No hope for the morrow

To soften their sorrow,

No mother to quiet their cries.

To the cold care of strangers,And the world’s many dangers,Their lot in the future is cast:They will miss every hourThe sweet, soothing powerOf the love that now lives in the past.

To the cold care of strangers,

And the world’s many dangers,

Their lot in the future is cast:

They will miss every hour

The sweet, soothing power

Of the love that now lives in the past.

So, comrades, we pray you,Let no motive stay youFrom helping the orphans in need;Their friends are all taken,Their homes all forsaken,Their childhood ’s a desert indeed.

So, comrades, we pray you,

Let no motive stay you

From helping the orphans in need;

Their friends are all taken,

Their homes all forsaken,

Their childhood ’s a desert indeed.

In the silence of night,In the dullness of day,When disease and distressHold pre-eminent sway;The sad, stricken soulsIn their misery tossed,Now yearningly sighFor the coming of frost.The friends and afflictedWatch evening and morn,For a waft of cool breeze,That a hope may be borneTo the souls of the sighing,Whose life it may cost,This continued and fatalDelay of the frost.Their hopes still deferredEach day brings regret,While the suffering die,And the end is not yet.Fond wish of the weary,Chilled, blighted, and crossed,Each day disappointed,In the coming of frost.By the bed of the dying,By the side of the bier,The bereaved ones sit sighingIn sorrow and fear;And others, deserted,In agony tossedOn their feverish couchAre praying for frost.Oh, who can half measureThe sorrow and gloomThat enshrouds our fair landLike a dark, dreary tomb.May God in his mercy,Ere hope is all lost,Relentingly hastenThe coming of frost.

In the silence of night,In the dullness of day,When disease and distressHold pre-eminent sway;The sad, stricken soulsIn their misery tossed,Now yearningly sighFor the coming of frost.

In the silence of night,

In the dullness of day,

When disease and distress

Hold pre-eminent sway;

The sad, stricken souls

In their misery tossed,

Now yearningly sigh

For the coming of frost.

The friends and afflictedWatch evening and morn,For a waft of cool breeze,That a hope may be borneTo the souls of the sighing,Whose life it may cost,This continued and fatalDelay of the frost.

The friends and afflicted

Watch evening and morn,

For a waft of cool breeze,

That a hope may be borne

To the souls of the sighing,

Whose life it may cost,

This continued and fatal

Delay of the frost.

Their hopes still deferredEach day brings regret,While the suffering die,And the end is not yet.Fond wish of the weary,Chilled, blighted, and crossed,Each day disappointed,In the coming of frost.

Their hopes still deferred

Each day brings regret,

While the suffering die,

And the end is not yet.

Fond wish of the weary,

Chilled, blighted, and crossed,

Each day disappointed,

In the coming of frost.

By the bed of the dying,By the side of the bier,The bereaved ones sit sighingIn sorrow and fear;And others, deserted,In agony tossedOn their feverish couchAre praying for frost.

By the bed of the dying,

By the side of the bier,

The bereaved ones sit sighing

In sorrow and fear;

And others, deserted,

In agony tossed

On their feverish couch

Are praying for frost.

Oh, who can half measureThe sorrow and gloomThat enshrouds our fair landLike a dark, dreary tomb.May God in his mercy,Ere hope is all lost,Relentingly hastenThe coming of frost.

Oh, who can half measure

The sorrow and gloom

That enshrouds our fair land

Like a dark, dreary tomb.

May God in his mercy,

Ere hope is all lost,

Relentingly hasten

The coming of frost.

Memphis,Oct. 1878.

October winds are softly sighingThrough the stately oaks and pines,Autumn leaves are wildly flyingAs all nature now declines;Brightly through the varied branchesBreaks the slanting autumn sun,And chirping through the thinning bushesSee the swallows homeward come.As I watch decaying natureThat surrounds our rural home,Revel in these autumn glories,Listen to the soft wind’s moan.See the leaves from green to goldenChange their summer hue and fall,The flowers fade, the branches wither,It seems the “common lot of all.”In life we find a fleeting springtime,Rife with fancy’s wildest dream,But giving early place to summer,Which with ripened beauties teem;Then comes autumn, sober autumn,Roses scattered, hopes decayed,When spring dreams and summer beautyWith life’s flowery fancies fade.But the pensive, sad reflections,Musing on those autumn days,Imparts to us a saddened pleasure,Surrounds our life with gentle haze;Takes us through the faded flowers,Crushed and scattered ’neath our tread;Leads us through forsaken bowers,Shows us nature withered—dead.

October winds are softly sighing

Through the stately oaks and pines,

Autumn leaves are wildly flying

As all nature now declines;

Brightly through the varied branches

Breaks the slanting autumn sun,

And chirping through the thinning bushes

See the swallows homeward come.

As I watch decaying natureThat surrounds our rural home,Revel in these autumn glories,Listen to the soft wind’s moan.See the leaves from green to goldenChange their summer hue and fall,The flowers fade, the branches wither,It seems the “common lot of all.”

As I watch decaying nature

That surrounds our rural home,

Revel in these autumn glories,

Listen to the soft wind’s moan.

See the leaves from green to golden

Change their summer hue and fall,

The flowers fade, the branches wither,

It seems the “common lot of all.”

In life we find a fleeting springtime,Rife with fancy’s wildest dream,But giving early place to summer,Which with ripened beauties teem;Then comes autumn, sober autumn,Roses scattered, hopes decayed,When spring dreams and summer beautyWith life’s flowery fancies fade.

In life we find a fleeting springtime,

Rife with fancy’s wildest dream,

But giving early place to summer,

Which with ripened beauties teem;

Then comes autumn, sober autumn,

Roses scattered, hopes decayed,

When spring dreams and summer beauty

With life’s flowery fancies fade.

But the pensive, sad reflections,Musing on those autumn days,Imparts to us a saddened pleasure,Surrounds our life with gentle haze;Takes us through the faded flowers,Crushed and scattered ’neath our tread;Leads us through forsaken bowers,Shows us nature withered—dead.

But the pensive, sad reflections,

Musing on those autumn days,

Imparts to us a saddened pleasure,

Surrounds our life with gentle haze;

Takes us through the faded flowers,

Crushed and scattered ’neath our tread;

Leads us through forsaken bowers,

Shows us nature withered—dead.

“Oaklawn,” Memphis, Tenn.

THE WILD WIT OF THE DAY.

Variable, versatile, stormy, and wild,At times we’re entranced, and then again riledAt his wayward remarks and blustering strain,Peculiar alone to Geo. Francis Train.Original ever his words and his ways,But orthodox seldom in aught that he says;His fancy, so fertile, takes many a flight,But leaves Truth and Religion quite out of sight.Ambitious, progressive, political scion,Reminding us oft of a wild, roaring lion,Uncaged and untamed in a woody domain,A manner peculiar to Geo. Francis Train.His lectures all seem so wild and erratic,His manner, at times, so raving, dramatic,In a whirlwind of passion he prances and strides,Then subdues—and his rage into poetry glides.A perfect enigma, and a genius as well,A tornado, a storm, and then comes a spellOf brightness and sunshine, ’mid thunder and rain,Peculiar alone to Geo. Francis Train.Ambitious of honors, position and fame,Determined to win a notorious name,His wish, you will see, in every oration,Is deathless desire to govern the nation!To help on his cause, he solicits the aidOf all colors and sexes and sorts ever made;Generous indeed—he’s the workingman’s friend!To hear him—he has only a dollar to spend!Glorious republic! If the prophecy ’s true,When Train is elected—we’ll have nothing to doBut enjoy perfect peace abroad and at home,The nation will think the millennium ’s come!

Variable, versatile, stormy, and wild,At times we’re entranced, and then again riledAt his wayward remarks and blustering strain,Peculiar alone to Geo. Francis Train.

Variable, versatile, stormy, and wild,

At times we’re entranced, and then again riled

At his wayward remarks and blustering strain,

Peculiar alone to Geo. Francis Train.

Original ever his words and his ways,But orthodox seldom in aught that he says;His fancy, so fertile, takes many a flight,But leaves Truth and Religion quite out of sight.

Original ever his words and his ways,

But orthodox seldom in aught that he says;

His fancy, so fertile, takes many a flight,

But leaves Truth and Religion quite out of sight.

Ambitious, progressive, political scion,Reminding us oft of a wild, roaring lion,Uncaged and untamed in a woody domain,A manner peculiar to Geo. Francis Train.

Ambitious, progressive, political scion,

Reminding us oft of a wild, roaring lion,

Uncaged and untamed in a woody domain,

A manner peculiar to Geo. Francis Train.

His lectures all seem so wild and erratic,His manner, at times, so raving, dramatic,In a whirlwind of passion he prances and strides,Then subdues—and his rage into poetry glides.

His lectures all seem so wild and erratic,

His manner, at times, so raving, dramatic,

In a whirlwind of passion he prances and strides,

Then subdues—and his rage into poetry glides.

A perfect enigma, and a genius as well,A tornado, a storm, and then comes a spellOf brightness and sunshine, ’mid thunder and rain,Peculiar alone to Geo. Francis Train.

A perfect enigma, and a genius as well,

A tornado, a storm, and then comes a spell

Of brightness and sunshine, ’mid thunder and rain,

Peculiar alone to Geo. Francis Train.

Ambitious of honors, position and fame,Determined to win a notorious name,His wish, you will see, in every oration,Is deathless desire to govern the nation!

Ambitious of honors, position and fame,

Determined to win a notorious name,

His wish, you will see, in every oration,

Is deathless desire to govern the nation!

To help on his cause, he solicits the aidOf all colors and sexes and sorts ever made;Generous indeed—he’s the workingman’s friend!To hear him—he has only a dollar to spend!

To help on his cause, he solicits the aid

Of all colors and sexes and sorts ever made;

Generous indeed—he’s the workingman’s friend!

To hear him—he has only a dollar to spend!

Glorious republic! If the prophecy ’s true,When Train is elected—we’ll have nothing to doBut enjoy perfect peace abroad and at home,The nation will think the millennium ’s come!

Glorious republic! If the prophecy ’s true,

When Train is elected—we’ll have nothing to do

But enjoy perfect peace abroad and at home,

The nation will think the millennium ’s come!

As years roll on and ages pass,This name of martial gloryLeaves traces on the calendar,Which tell the yearly storyOf this our “prince of patriots’” birth,The bravest, boldest, best of earth,Whose mighty will and warrior worthWon battles great and gory.It tells of valor long since gone,Of victories commended,Of wonders seen and wonders told,Of buried braves and heroes bold,Cast in nature’s choicest mold,Now on earth’s bosom blended.We sigh in sadness o’er the wreckOf this historic season,We’d have its pleasures all return,We’d have its patriot bosoms burn,We’d have our nation ever spurnThe slightest trace of treason.We’d wander through memorial hallsIn quest of antique treasures,We’d linger round those storied walls,Renewing bygone pleasures,And wishing for that olden time,When our dead hero, in his prime,Contested unjust measures.We’d hear of battles lost and won,Of dangers braved and ended,We’d hear of patriots, long since gone,Whom nature most intendedTo live in fame and memoryThroughout a long eternity.We’d have our sainted warrior’s name,So famed in song and story,And rendered to our memories dearBy records of its glory,Kept green on history’s sacred pages,From now throughout the lapse of ages.

As years roll on and ages pass,

This name of martial glory

Leaves traces on the calendar,

Which tell the yearly story

Of this our “prince of patriots’” birth,

The bravest, boldest, best of earth,

Whose mighty will and warrior worth

Won battles great and gory.

It tells of valor long since gone,Of victories commended,Of wonders seen and wonders told,Of buried braves and heroes bold,Cast in nature’s choicest mold,Now on earth’s bosom blended.

It tells of valor long since gone,

Of victories commended,

Of wonders seen and wonders told,

Of buried braves and heroes bold,

Cast in nature’s choicest mold,

Now on earth’s bosom blended.

We sigh in sadness o’er the wreckOf this historic season,We’d have its pleasures all return,We’d have its patriot bosoms burn,We’d have our nation ever spurnThe slightest trace of treason.

We sigh in sadness o’er the wreck

Of this historic season,

We’d have its pleasures all return,

We’d have its patriot bosoms burn,

We’d have our nation ever spurn

The slightest trace of treason.

We’d wander through memorial hallsIn quest of antique treasures,We’d linger round those storied walls,Renewing bygone pleasures,And wishing for that olden time,When our dead hero, in his prime,Contested unjust measures.

We’d wander through memorial halls

In quest of antique treasures,

We’d linger round those storied walls,

Renewing bygone pleasures,

And wishing for that olden time,

When our dead hero, in his prime,

Contested unjust measures.

We’d hear of battles lost and won,Of dangers braved and ended,We’d hear of patriots, long since gone,Whom nature most intendedTo live in fame and memoryThroughout a long eternity.

We’d hear of battles lost and won,

Of dangers braved and ended,

We’d hear of patriots, long since gone,

Whom nature most intended

To live in fame and memory

Throughout a long eternity.

We’d have our sainted warrior’s name,So famed in song and story,And rendered to our memories dearBy records of its glory,Kept green on history’s sacred pages,From now throughout the lapse of ages.

We’d have our sainted warrior’s name,

So famed in song and story,

And rendered to our memories dear

By records of its glory,

Kept green on history’s sacred pages,

From now throughout the lapse of ages.

We seldom see a preface in the back of a book, or a frontispiece in the middle, but as I have always been considered a little eccentric, I will make a new departure, and thank my indulgent readers here for their patient perusal of these pages. I locate these honeyed words in the rear as a reward of merit to any one that is martyr enough to reach them by the regular route, and those that have not energy and endurance enough to do so deserve to lose these chunks of wisdom and words of cheer. In the preceding poems are depicted sentiments to suit my changing moods; streaks of mirth and wails of misery; childhood’s mischief and woman’s woe; a mixture of ecstasy and agony, to suit “the gay or the grave, thelively or severe.” Now, should they fail to find a responsive echo in my readers’ hearts, then is “Othello’s occupation gone,” and I will fold my hands, dry my quill, dismiss my muse, and write no more.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTEObvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources.Poetic contractions have been treated consistently. Common contractions with is or has [such as she’s, there’s, that’s] have no space, but less common ones have retained the space usually but not always found in the original book [such as night ’s, turn ’s, mine ’s].The space has been removed from other common phrases with contractions, for example ’T was has been changed to ’Twas, can ’t has been changed to can’t.Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.Table of Contents: ‘My Childhood’ replaced by ‘My Infancy’.Pg 10: ‘Another seige was’ replaced by ‘Another siege was’.Pg 13: ‘towsled hair’ replaced by ‘tousled hair’.Pg 53: ‘My trosseau’ replaced by ‘My trousseau’.Pg 55: ‘A could not see’ replaced by ‘I could not see’.Pg 56: ‘It made be overrate’ replaced by ‘It made me overrate’.Pg 92: ‘He wooes this’ replaced by ‘He woos this’.Pg 94: ‘with gilded mein’ replaced by ‘with gilded mien’.Pg 109: ‘pretty dame Stone’s is’ replaced by ‘pretty dame Stone is’.Pg 128: ‘sober sedatenees’ replaced by ‘sober sedateness’.Pg 140: ‘In absense of that’ replaced by ‘In absence of that’.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources.

Poetic contractions have been treated consistently. Common contractions with is or has [such as she’s, there’s, that’s] have no space, but less common ones have retained the space usually but not always found in the original book [such as night ’s, turn ’s, mine ’s].

The space has been removed from other common phrases with contractions, for example ’T was has been changed to ’Twas, can ’t has been changed to can’t.

Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

Table of Contents: ‘My Childhood’ replaced by ‘My Infancy’.Pg 10: ‘Another seige was’ replaced by ‘Another siege was’.Pg 13: ‘towsled hair’ replaced by ‘tousled hair’.Pg 53: ‘My trosseau’ replaced by ‘My trousseau’.Pg 55: ‘A could not see’ replaced by ‘I could not see’.Pg 56: ‘It made be overrate’ replaced by ‘It made me overrate’.Pg 92: ‘He wooes this’ replaced by ‘He woos this’.Pg 94: ‘with gilded mein’ replaced by ‘with gilded mien’.Pg 109: ‘pretty dame Stone’s is’ replaced by ‘pretty dame Stone is’.Pg 128: ‘sober sedatenees’ replaced by ‘sober sedateness’.Pg 140: ‘In absense of that’ replaced by ‘In absence of that’.

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