BEING A REPLY TO "HIS ANSWER"June 4th! Do you know what that date means?June 4th! By this air and these pines!Well,—only you know how I hate scenes,—These might be my very last lines!For perhaps, sir, you'll kindly remember—If some OTHER things you've forgot—That you last wrote the 4th of DECEMBER,—Just six months ago I—from this spot;From this spot, that you said was "the fairestFor once being held in my thought."Now, really I call that the barestOf—well, I won't say what I ought!For here I am back from my "riches,"My "triumphs," my "tours," and all that;And YOU'RE not to be found in the ditchesOr temples of Poverty Flat!From Paris we went for the seasonTo London, when pa wired, "Stop."Mama says "his HEALTH" was the reason.(I've heard that some things took a "drop.")But she said if my patience I'd summonI could go back with him to the Flat—Perhaps I was thinking of some oneWho of me—well—was not thinking THAT!Of course you will SAY that I "neverReplied to the letter you wrote."That is just like a man! But, however,I read it—or how could I quote?And as to the stories you've heard (No,Don't tell me you haven't—I know!),You'll not believe one blessed word, Joe;But just whence they came, let them go!And they came from Sade Lotski of Yolo,Whose father sold clothes on the Bar—You called him Job-lotski, you know, Joe,And the boys said HER value was par.Well, we met her in Paris—just flaringWith diamonds, and lost in a hatAnd she asked me "how Joseph was faringIn his love-suit on Poverty Flat!"She thought it would shame me! I met herWith a look, Joe, that made her eyes drop;And I said that your "love-suit fared betterThan any suit out of THEIR shop!"And I didn't blush THEN—as I'm doingTo find myself here, all alone,And left, Joe, to do all the "sueing"To a lover that's certainly flown.In this brand-new hotel, called "The Lily"(I wonder who gave it that name?)I really am feeling quite silly,To think I was once called the same;And I stare from its windows, and fancyI'm labeled to each passer-by.Ah! gone is the old necromancy,For nothing seems right to my eye.On that hill there are stores that I knew not;There's a street—where I once lost my way;And the copse where you once tied my shoe-knotIs shamelessly open as day!And that bank by the spring—I once drank there,And you called the place Eden, you know;Now I'm banished like Eve—though the bank thereIs belonging to "Adams and Co."There's the rustle of silk on the sidewalk;Just now there passed by a tall hat;But there's gloom in this "boom" and this wild talkOf the "future" of Poverty Flat.There's a decorous chill in the air, Joe,Where once we were simple and free;And I hear they've been making a mayor, Joe,Of the man who shot Sandy McGee.But there's still the "lap, lap" of the river;There's the song of the pines, deep and low.(How my longing for them made me quiverIn the park that they call Fontainebleau!)There's the snow-peak that looked on our dances,And blushed when the morning said, "Go!"There's a lot that remains which one fancies—But somehow there's never a Joe!Perhaps, on the whole, it is better,For you might have been changed like the rest;Though it's strange that I'm trusting this letterTo papa, just to have it addressed.He thinks he may find you, and reallySeems kinder now I'm all alone.You might have been here, Joe, if merelyTo LOOK what I'm willing to OWN.Well, well! that's all past; so good-night, Joe;Good-night to the river and Flat;Good-night to what's wrong and what's right, Joe;Good-night to the past, and all that—To Harrison's barn, and its dancers;To the moon, and the white peak of snow;And good-night to the canyon that answersMy "Joe!" with its echo of "No!"P. S.I've just got your note. You deceiver!How dared you—how COULD you? Oh, Joe!To think I've been kept a believerIn things that were six months ago!And it's YOU'VE built this house, and the bank, too,And the mills, and the stores, and all that!And for everything changed I must thank YOU,Who have "struck it" on Poverty Flat!How dared you get rich—you great stupid!—Like papa, and some men that I know,Instead of just trusting to CupidAnd to me for your money? Ah, Joe!Just to think you sent never a word, dear,Till you wrote to papa for consent!Now I know why they had me transferred here,And "the health of papa"—what THAT meant!Now I know why they call this "The Lily;"Why the man who shot Sandy McGeeYou made mayor! 'Twas because—oh, you silly!—He once "went down the middle" with me!I've been fooled to the top of my bent here,So come, and ask pardon—you knowThat you've still got to get MY consent, dear!And just think what that echo said—Joe!
Behind the footlights hangs the rusty baize,A trifle shabby in the upturned blazeOf flaring gas and curious eyes that gaze.The stage, methinks, perhaps is none too wide,And hardly fit for royal Richard's stride,Or Falstaff's bulk, or Denmark's youthful pride.Ah, well! no passion walks its humble boards;O'er it no king nor valiant Hector lords:The simplest skill is all its space affords.The song and jest, the dance and trifling play,The local hit at follies of the day,The trick to pass an idle hour away,—For these no trumpets that announce the Moor,No blast that makes the hero's welcome sure,—A single fiddle in the overture!
(A GEOLOGICAL ADDRESS)"Speak, O man, less recent! Fragmentary fossil!Primal pioneer of pliocene formation,Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratumOf volcanic tufa!"Older than the beasts, the oldest Palaeotherium;Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami;Older than the hills, those infantile eruptionsOf earth's epidermis!"Eo—Mio—Plio—whatsoe'er the 'cene' wasThat those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder,—Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches,—Tell us thy strange story!"Or has the professor slightly antedatedBy some thousand years thy advent on this planet,Giving thee an air that's somewhat better fittedFor cold-blooded creatures?"Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forestWhen above thy head the stately SigillariaReared its columned trunks in that remote and distantCarboniferous epoch?"Tell us of that scene,—the dim and watery woodland,Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect,Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall club mosses,Lycopodiacea,—"When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus,And around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus,While from time to time above thee flew and circledCheerful Pterodactyls."Tell us of thy food,—those half-marine refections,Crinoids on the shell and Brachipods au naturel,—Cuttlefish to which the pieuvre of Victor HugoSeems a periwinkle."Speak, thou awful vestige of the earth's creation,Solitary fragment of remains organic!Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence,—Speak! thou oldest primate!"Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla,And a lateral movement of the condyloid process,With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication,Ground the teeth together.And from that imperfect dental exhibition,Stained with express juices of the weed nicotian,Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmursOf expectoration:"Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was bustedFalling down a shaft in Calaveras County;But I'd take it kindly if you'd send the piecesHome to old Missouri!"
* See notes at end.
(LEGEND OF THE CLIFF HOUSE, SAN FRANCISCO)Where the sturdy ocean breezeDrives the spray of roaring seas,That the Cliff House balconiesOverlook:There, in spite of rain that balked,With his sandals duly chalked,Once upon a tight-rope walkedMr. Cooke.But the jester's lightsome mien,And his spangles and his sheen,All had vanished when the sceneHe forsook.Yet in some delusive hope,In some vague desire to cope,ONE still came to view the ropeWalked by Cooke.Amid Beauty's bright array,On that strange eventful day,Partly hidden from the spray,In a nook,Stood Florinda Vere de Vere;Who, with wind-disheveled hair,And a rapt, distracted air,Gazed on Cooke.Then she turned, and quickly criedTo her lover at her side,While her form with love and prideWildly shook:"Clifford Snook! oh, hear me now!Here I break each plighted vow;There's but one to whom I bow,And that's Cooke!"Haughtily that young man spoke:"I descend from noble folk;'Seven Oaks,' and then 'Se'nnoak,'Lastly 'Snook,'Is the way my name I trace.Shall a youth of noble raceIn affairs of love give placeTo a Cooke?""Clifford Snook, I know thy claimTo that lineage and name,And I think I've read the sameIn Horne Tooke;But I swear, by all divine,Never, never, to be thine,Till thou canst upon yon lineWalk like Cooke."Though to that gymnastic featHe no closer might competeThan to strike a BALANCE-sheetIn a book;Yet thenceforward from that dayHe his figure would displayIn some wild athletic way,After Cooke.On some household eminence,On a clothes-line or a fence,Over ditches, drains, and thenceO'er a brook,He, by high ambition led,Ever walked and balanced,Till the people, wondering, said,"How like Cooke!"Step by step did he proceed,Nerved by valor, not by greed,And at last the crowning deedUndertook.Misty was the midnight air,And the cliff was bleak and bare,When he came to do and dare,Just like Cooke.Through the darkness, o'er the flow,Stretched the line where he should go,Straight across as flies the crowOr the rook.One wild glance around he cast;Then he faced the ocean blast,And he strode the cable lastTouched by Cooke.Vainly roared the angry seas,Vainly blew the ocean breeze;But, alas! the walker's kneesHad a crook;And before he reached the rockDid they both together knock,And he stumbled with a shock—Unlike Cooke!Downward dropping in the dark,Like an arrow to its mark,Or a fish-pole when a sharkBites the hook,Dropped the pole he could not save,Dropped the walker, and the waveSwift engulfed the rival braveOf J. Cooke!Came a roar across the seaOf sea-lions in their glee,In a tongue remarkablyLike Chinook;And the maddened sea-gull seemedStill to utter, as he screamed,"Perish thus the wretch who deemedHimself Cooke!"But on misty moonlit nightsComes a skeleton in tights,Walks once more the giddy heightsHe mistook;And unseen to mortal eyes,Purged of grosser earthly ties,Now at last in spirit guiseOutdoes Cooke.Still the sturdy ocean breezeSweeps the spray of roaring seas,Where the Cliff House balconiesOverlook;And the maidens in their prime,Reading of this mournful rhyme,Weep where, in the olden time,Walked J. Cooke.
Oh, say, have you seen at the Willows so green—So charming and rurally true—A singular bird, with a manner absurd,Which they call the Australian Emeu?Have youEver seen this Australian Emeu?It trots all around with its head on the ground,Or erects it quite out of your view;And the ladies all cry, when its figure they spy,"Oh! what a sweet pretty Emeu!Oh! doJust look at that lovely Emeu!"One day to this spot, when the weather was hot,Came Matilda Hortense Fortescue;And beside her there came a youth of high name,—Augustus Florell Montague:The twoBoth loved that wild, foreign Emeu.With two loaves of bread then they fed it, insteadOf the flesh of the white Cockatoo,Which once was its food in that wild neighborhoodWhere ranges the sweet Kangaroo,That tooIs game for the famous Emeu!Old saws and gimlets but its appetite whets,Like the world-famous bark of Peru;There's nothing so hard that the bird will discard,And nothing its taste will eschewThat youCan give that long-legged Emeu!The time slipped away in this innocent play,When up jumped the bold Montague:"Where's that specimen pin that I gayly did winIn raffle, and gave unto you,Fortescue?"No word spoke the guilty Emeu!"Quick! tell me his name whom thou gavest that same,Ere these hands in thy blood I imbrue!""Nay, dearest," she cried, as she clung to his side,"I'm innocent as that Emeu!""Adieu!"He replied, "Miss M. H. Fortescue!"Down she dropped at his feet, all as white as a sheet,As wildly he fled from her view;He thought 'twas her sin,—for he knew not the pinHad been gobbled up by the Emeu;All throughThe voracity of that Emeu!
(BEING THE ONLY GENUINE SEQUEL TO "MAUD MULLER")Maud Muller all that summer dayRaked the meadow sweet with hay;Yet, looking down the distant lane,She hoped the Judge would come again.But when he came, with smile and bow,Maud only blushed, and stammered, "Ha-ow?"And spoke of her "pa," and wondered whetherHe'd give consent they should wed together.Old Muller burst in tears, and thenBegged that the Judge would lend him "ten;"For trade was dull, and wages low,And the "craps," this year, were somewhat slow.And ere the languid summer died,Sweet Maud became the Judge's bride.But on the day that they were mated,Maud's brother Bob was intoxicated;And Maud's relations, twelve in all,Were very drunk at the Judge's hall.And when the summer came again,The young bride bore him babies twain;And the Judge was blest, but thought it strangeThat bearing children made such a change;For Maud grew broad and red and stout,And the waist that his arm once clasped aboutWas more than he now could span; and heSighed as he pondered, ruefully,How that which in Maud was native graceIn Mrs. Jenkins was out of place;And thought of the twins, and wished that theyLooked less like the men who raked the hayOn Muller's farm, and dreamed with painOf the day he wandered down the lane.And looking down that dreary track,He half regretted that he came back;For, had he waited, he might have wedSome maiden fair and thoroughbred;For there be women fair as she,Whose verbs and nouns do more agree.Alas for maiden! alas for judge!And the sentimental,—that's one-half "fudge;"For Maud soon thought the Judge a bore,With all his learning and all his lore;And the Judge would have bartered Maud's fair faceFor more refinement and social grace.If, of all words of tongue and pen,The saddest are, "It might have been,"More sad are these we daily see:"It is, but hadn't ought to be."
I have found out a gift for my fair;I know where the fossils abound,Where the footprints of Aves declareThe birds that once walked on the ground.Oh, come, and—in technical speech—We'll walk this Devonian shore,Or on some Silurian beachWe'll wander, my love, evermore.I will show thee the sinuous trackBy the slow-moving Annelid made,Or the Trilobite that, farther back,In the old Potsdam sandstone was laid;Thou shalt see, in his Jurassic tomb,The Plesiosaurus embalmed;In his Oolitic prime and his bloom,Iguanodon safe and unharmed.You wished—I remember it well,And I loved you the more for that wish—For a perfect cystedian shellAnd a WHOLE holocephalic fish.And oh, if Earth's strata containsIn its lowest Silurian drift,Or palaeozoic remainsThe same, 'tis your lover's free gift!Then come, love, and never say nay,But calm all your maidenly fears;We'll note, love, in one summer's dayThe record of millions of years;And though the Darwinian planYour sensitive feelings may shock,We'll find the beginning of man,Our fossil ancestors, in rock!
(AN AERIAL RETROSPECT)What was it filled my youthful dreams,In place of Greek or Latin themes,Or beauty's wild, bewildering beams?Avitor!What visions and celestial scenesI filled with aerial machines,Montgolfier's and Mr. Green's!Avitor!What fairy tales seemed things of course!The roc that brought Sindbad across,The Calendar's own winged horse!Avitor!How many things I took for facts,—Icarus and his conduct lax,And how he sealed his fate with wax!Avitor!The first balloons I sought to sail,Soap-bubbles fair, but all too frail,Or kites,—but thereby hangs a tail.Avitor!What made me launch from attic tallA kitten and a parasol,And watch their bitter, frightful fall?Avitor!What youthful dreams of high renownBade me inflate the parson's gown,That went not up, nor yet came down?Avitor!My first ascent I may not tell;Enough to know that in that wellMy first high aspirations fell.Avitor!My other failures let me pass:The dire explosions, and, alas!The friends I choked with noxious gas.Avitor!For lo! I see perfected riseThe vision of my boyish eyes,The messenger of upper skies.Avitor!
(AFTER EDGAR ALLAN POE)The skies they were ashen and sober,The streets they were dirty and drear;It was night in the month of October,Of my most immemorial year.Like the skies, I was perfectly sober,As I stopped at the mansion of Shear,—At the Nightingale,—perfectly sober,And the willowy woodland down here.Here, once in an alley TitanicOf Ten-pins, I roamed with my soul,—Of Ten-pins, with Mary, my soul;They were days when my heart was volcanic,And impelled me to frequently roll,And made me resistlessly roll,Till my ten-strikes created a panicIn the realms of the Boreal pole,—Till my ten-strikes created a panicWith the monkey atop of his pole.I repeat, I was perfectly sober,But my thoughts they were palsied and sear,—My thoughts were decidedly queer;For I knew not the month was October,And I marked not the night of the year;I forgot that sweet morceau of AuberThat the band oft performed down here,And I mixed the sweet music of AuberWith the Nightingale's music by Shear.And now as the night was senescent,And star-dials pointed to morn,And car-drivers hinted of morn,At the end of the path a liquescentAnd bibulous lustre was born;'Twas made by the bar-keeper present,Who mixed a duplicate horn,—His two hands describing a crescentDistinct with a duplicate horn.And I said: "This looks perfectly regal,For it's warm, and I know I feel dry,—I am confident that I feel dry.We have come past the emeu and eagle,And watched the gay monkey on high;Let us drink to the emeu and eagle,To the swan and the monkey on high,—To the eagle and monkey on high;For this bar-keeper will not inveigle,Bully boy with the vitreous eye,—He surely would never inveigle,Sweet youth with the crystalline eye."But Mary, uplifting her finger,Said: "Sadly this bar I mistrust,—I fear that this bar does not trust.Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger!Oh, fly,—let us fly,—are we must!"In terror she cried, letting sink herParasol till it trailed in the dust;In agony sobbed, letting sink herParasol till it trailed in the dust,—Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust.Then I pacified Mary and kissed her,And tempted her into the room,And conquered her scruples and gloom;And we passed to the end of the vista,But were stopped by the warning of doom,—By some words that were warning of doom.And I said, "What is written, sweet sister,At the opposite end of the room?"She sobbed, as she answered, "All liquorsMust be paid for ere leaving the room."Then my heart it grew ashen and sober,As the streets were deserted and drear,For my pockets were empty and drear;And I cried: "It was surely October,On this very night of last year,That I journeyed, I journeyed down here,—That I brought a fair maiden down here,On this night of all nights in the year!Ah! to me that inscription is clear;Well I know now, I'm perfectly sober,Why no longer they credit me here,—Well I know now that music of Auber,And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear."
(AFTER SPENSER)Lo! where the castle of bold Pfeiffer throwsIts sullen shadow on the rolling tide,—No more the home where joy and wealth repose,But now where wassailers in cells abide;See yon long quay that stretches far and wide,Well known to citizens as wharf of Meiggs:There each sweet Sabbath walks in maiden prideThe pensive Margaret, and brave Pat, whose legsEncased in broadcloth oft keep time with Peg's.Here cometh oft the tender nursery-maid,While in her ear her love his tale doth pour;Meantime her infant doth her charge evade,And rambleth sagely on the sandy shore,Till the sly sea-crab, low in ambush laid,Seizeth his leg and biteth him full sore.Ah me! what sounds the shuddering echoes boreWhen his small treble mixed with Ocean's roar!Hard by there stands an ancient hostelrie,And at its side a garden, where the bear,The stealthy catamount, and coon agreeTo work deceit on all who gather there;And when Augusta—that unconscious fair—With nuts and apples plieth Bruin free,Lo! the green parrot claweth her back hair,And the gray monkey grabbeth fruits that sheOn her gay bonnet wears, and laugheth loud in glee!
High on the Thracian hills, half hid in the billows of clover,Thyme, and the asphodel blooms, and lulled by Pactolian streamlet,She of Miletus lay, and beside her an aged satyrScratched his ear with his hoof, and playfully mumbled his chestnuts.Vainly the Maenid and the Bassarid gamboled about her,The free-eyed Bacchante sang, and Pan—the renowned, theaccomplished—Executed his difficult solo. In vain were theirgambols and dances;High o'er the Thracian hills rose the voice of the shepherdess,wailing:"Ai! for the fleecy flocks, the meek-nosed, the passionless faces;Ai! for the tallow-scented, the straight-tailed, the high-stepping;Ai! for the timid glance, which is that which the rustic, sagacious,Applies to him who loves but may not declare his passion!"Her then Zeus answered slow: "O daughter of song and sorrow,Hapless tender of sheep, arise from thy long lamentation!Since thou canst not trust fate, nor behave as becomes a Greek maiden,Look and behold thy sheep." And lo! they returned to her tailless!
(BY A COMMUNICANT OF "ST. JAMES'S")He wore, I think, a chasuble, the day when first we met;A stole and snowy alb likewise,—I recollect it yet.He called me "daughter," as he raised his jeweled hand to bless;And then, in thrilling undertones, he asked, "Would I confess?"O mother dear! blame not your child, if then on bended kneesI dropped, and thought of Abelard, and also Eloise;Or when, beside the altar high, he bowed before the pyx,I envied that seraphic kiss he gave the crucifix.The cruel world may think it wrong, perhaps may deem me weak,And, speaking of that sainted man, may call his conduct "cheek;"And, like that wicked barrister whom Cousin Harry quotes,May term his mixed chalice "grog," his vestments "petticoats;"But, whatsoe'er they do or say, I'll build a Christian's hopeOn incense and on altar-lights, on chasuble and cope.Let others prove, by precedent, the faith that they profess:"His can't be wrong" that's symbolized by such becoming dress.
If Mr. Jones, Lycurgus B.,Had one peculiar quality,'Twas his severe advocacyOf conjugal fidelity.His views of heaven were very free;His views of life were painfullyRidiculous; but ferventlyHe dwelt on marriage sanctity.He frequently went on a spree;But in his wildest revelry,On this especial subject heBetrayed no ambiguity.And though at times Lycurgus B.Did lay his hands not lovinglyUpon his wife, the sanctityOf wedlock was his guaranty.But Mrs. Jones declined to seeAffairs in the same light as he,And quietly got a decreeDivorcing her from that L. B.And what did Jones, Lycurgus B.,With his known idiosyncrasy?He smiled,—a bitter smile to see,—And drew the weapon of Bowie.He did what Sickles did to Key,—What Cole on Hiscock wrought, did he;In fact, on persons twenty-threeHe proved the marriage sanctity.The counselor who took the fee,The witnesses and referee,The judge who granted the decree,Died in that wholesale butchery.And then when Jones, Lycurgus B.,Had wiped the weapon of Bowie,Twelve jurymen did instantlyAcquit and set Lycurgus free.
(ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING)Oh, come, my beloved, from thy winter abode,From thy home on the Yuba, thy ranch overflowed;For the waters have fallen, the winter has fled,And the river once more has returned to its bed.Oh, mark how the spring in its beauty is near!How the fences and tules once more reappear!How soft lies the mud on the banks of yon sloughBy the hole in the levee the waters broke through!All nature, dear Chloris, is blooming to greetThe glance of your eye and the tread of your feet;For the trails are all open, the roads are all free,And the highwayman's whistle is heard on the lea.Again swings the lash on the high mountain trail,And the pipe of the packer is scenting the gale;The oath and the jest ringing high o'er the plain,Where the smut is not always confined to the grain.Once more glares the sunlight on awning and roof,Once more the red clay's pulverized by the hoof,Once more the dust powders the "outsides" with red,Once more at the station the whiskey is spread.Then fly with me, love, ere the summer's begun,And the mercury mounts to one hundred and one;Ere the grass now so green shall be withered and sear,In the spring that obtains but one month in the year.
(OPENING OF THE PACIFIC RAILROAD)What was it the Engines said,Pilots touching,—head to headFacing on the single track,Half a world behind each back?This is what the Engines said,Unreported and unread.With a prefatory screech,In a florid Western speech,Said the Engine from the WEST:"I am from Sierra's crest;And if altitude's a test,Why, I reckon, it's confessedThat I've done my level best."Said the Engine from the EAST:"They who work best talk the least.S'pose you whistle down your brakes;What you've done is no great shakes,Pretty fair,—but let our meetingBe a different kind of greeting.Let these folks with champagne stuffing,Not their Engines, do the PUFFING."Listen! Where Atlantic beatsShores of snow and summer heats;Where the Indian autumn skiesPaint the woods with wampum dyes,—I have chased the flying sun,Seeing all he looked upon,Blessing all that he has blessed,Nursing in my iron breastAll his vivifying heat,All his clouds about my crest;And before my flying feetEvery shadow must retreat."Said the Western Engine, "Phew!"And a long, low whistle blew."Come, now, really that's the oddestTalk for one so very modest.You brag of your East! YOU do?Why, I bring the East to YOU!All the Orient, all Cathay,Find through me the shortest way;And the sun you follow hereRises in my hemisphere.Really,—if one must be rude,—Length, my friend, ain't longitude."Said the Union: "Don't reflect, orI'll run over some Director."Said the Central: "I'm Pacific;But, when riled, I'm quite terrific.Yet to-day we shall not quarrel,Just to show these folks this moral,How two Engines—in their vision—Once have met without collision."That is what the Engines said,Unreported and unread;Spoken slightly through the nose,With a whistle at the close.
Beetling walls with ivy grown,Frowning heights of mossy stone;Turret, with its flaunting flagFlung from battlemented crag;Dungeon-keep and fortaliceLooking down a precipiceO'er the darkly glancing waveBy the Lurline-haunted cave;Robber haunt and maiden bower,Home of Love and Crime and Power,—That's the scenery, in fine,Of the Legends of the Rhine.One bold baron, double-dyedBigamist and parricide,And, as most the stories run,Partner of the Evil One;Injured innocence in white,Fair but idiotic quite,Wringing of her lily hands;Valor fresh from Paynim lands,Abbot ruddy, hermit pale,Minstrel fraught with many a tale,—Are the actors that combineIn the Legends of the Rhine.Bell-mouthed flagons round a board;Suits of armor, shield, and sword;Kerchief with its bloody stain;Ghosts of the untimely slain;Thunder-clap and clanking chain;Headsman's block and shining axe;Thumb-screw, crucifixes, racks;Midnight-tolling chapel bell,Heard across the gloomy fell,—These and other pleasant factsAre the properties that shineIn the Legends of the Rhine.Maledictions, whispered vowsUnderneath the linden boughs;Murder, bigamy, and theft;Travelers of goods bereft;Rapine, pillage, arson, spoil,—Everything but honest toil,Are the deeds that best defineEvery Legend of the Rhine.That Virtue always meets reward,But quicker when it wears a sword;That Providence has special careOf gallant knight and lady fair;That villains, as a thing of course,Are always haunted by remorse,—Is the moral, I opine,Of the Legends of the Rhine.
I. THE PERSONIFIED SENTIMENTALAffection's charm no longer gildsThe idol of the shrine;But cold Oblivion seeks to fillRegret's ambrosial wine.Though Friendship's offering buried lies'Neath cold Aversion's snow,Regard and Faith will ever bloomPerpetually below.I see thee whirl in marble halls,In Pleasure's giddy train;Remorse is never on that brow,Nor Sorrow's mark of pain.Deceit has marked thee for her own;Inconstancy the same;And Ruin wildly sheds its gleamAthwart thy path of shame.II. THE HOMELY PATHETICThe dews are heavy on my brow;My breath comes hard and low;Yet, mother dear, grant one request,Before your boy must go.Oh! lift me ere my spirit sinks,And ere my senses fail,Place me once more, O mother dear,Astride the old fence-rail.The old fence-rail, the old fence-rail!How oft these youthful legs,With Alice' and Ben Bolt's, were hungAcross those wooden pegs!'Twas there the nauseating smokeOf my first pipe arose:O mother dear, these agoniesAre far less keen than those.I know where lies the hazel dell,Where simple Nellie sleeps;I know the cot of Nettie Moore,And where the willow weeps.I know the brookside and the mill,But all their pathos failsBeside the days when once I satAstride the old fence-rails.III. SWISS AIRI'm a gay tra, la, la,With my fal, lal, la, la,And my bright—And my light—Tra, la, le. [Repeat.]Then laugh, ha, ha, ha,And ring, ting, ling, ling,And sing fal, la, la,La, la, le. [Repeat.]
VI. LITTLE POSTERITY
It was spring the first time that I saw her, for her papa and mammamoved inNext door, just as skating was over, and marbles about to begin;For the fence in our back yard was broken, and I saw, as I peepedthrough the slat,There were "Johnny-jump-ups" all around her, and I knew it wasspring just by that.I never knew whether she saw me, for she didn't say nothing to me,But "Ma! here's a slat in the fence broke, and the boy that is nextdoor can see."But the next day I climbed on our wood-shed, as you know Mamma saysI've a right,And she calls out, "Well, peekin' is manners!" and I answered her,"Sass is perlite!"But I wasn't a bit mad, no, Papa, and to prove it, the very next day,When she ran past our fence in the morning I happened to get in herway,—For you know I am "chunked" and clumsy, as she says are all boys ofmy size,—And she nearly upset me, she did, Pa, and laughed till tears came inher eyes.And then we were friends from that moment, for I knew that she toldKitty Sage,—And she wasn't a girl that would flatter—"that she thought I wastall for my age."And I gave her four apples that evening, and took her to ride on mysled,And— "What am I telling you this for?" Why, Papa, my neighbor isDEAD!You don't hear one half I am saying,—I really do think it's too bad!Why, you might have seen crape on her door-knob, and noticed to-dayI've been sad.And they've got her a coffin of rosewood, and they say they havedressed her in white,And I've never once looked through the fence, Pa, since she died—ateleven last night.And Ma says it's decent and proper, as I was her neighbor and friend,That I should go there to the funeral, and she thinks that YOU oughtto attend;But I am so clumsy and awkward, I know I shall be in the way,And suppose they should speak to me, Papa, I wouldn't know just whatto say.So I think I will get up quite early,—I know I sleep late, but I knowI'll be sure to wake up if our Bridget pulls the string that I'll tieto my toe;And I'll crawl through the fence, and I'll gather the "Johnny-jump-ups"as they grewRound her feet the first day that I saw her, and, Papa, I'll givethem to you.For you're a big man, and, you know, Pa, can come and go just whereyou choose,And you'll take the flowers in to her, and surely they'll neverrefuse;But, Papa, don't SAY they're from Johnny; THEY won't understand,don't you see?But just lay them down on her bosom, and, Papa, SHE'LL know they'refrom Me.