If all the sermons good men preachAnd all the precepts that they teachWere gathered into oneUnbroken line of silver speech,The shining filament might reachFrom earth unto the sun.If all the stories ever toldBy wild romancers, young or old,Into a thread were drawn,And from its cable coil unrolled,'Twould span those misty hills of goldThat heaven seems resting on.If every folly, every freak,From day to day, from week to week,Is written in "The Book,"With all the idle words we speak,Would it not crimson many a cheekUpon the page to look?If all the good deeds that we doFrom honest motives pure and trueShall there recorded be,Known unto God and angels too,Is it not sad they are so fewAnd wrought so charily?
If all the sermons good men preachAnd all the precepts that they teachWere gathered into oneUnbroken line of silver speech,The shining filament might reachFrom earth unto the sun.
If all the stories ever toldBy wild romancers, young or old,Into a thread were drawn,And from its cable coil unrolled,'Twould span those misty hills of goldThat heaven seems resting on.
If every folly, every freak,From day to day, from week to week,Is written in "The Book,"With all the idle words we speak,Would it not crimson many a cheekUpon the page to look?
If all the good deeds that we doFrom honest motives pure and trueShall there recorded be,Known unto God and angels too,Is it not sad they are so fewAnd wrought so charily?
He lives but half who never stoodBy the grave of one held dear,And out of the deep, dark lonelinessOf a heart bereaved and comfortless,From sorrow's crystal plentitude,Feeling his loss severe,Dropped a regretful tear.Oh, life's divinest draught doth notIn the wells of joy abound!For the purest streams are those that flowOut of the depths of crushing woe,As from the springs of love and thoughtHid in some narrow mound,Making it holy ground.He hath been blessed who sometimes kneltOwning that God is just,And in the stillness of cypress shadeRosemary's tender symbol laidUpon a cherished shrine, and feltStrengthened in faith and trustOver the precious dust.
He lives but half who never stoodBy the grave of one held dear,And out of the deep, dark lonelinessOf a heart bereaved and comfortless,From sorrow's crystal plentitude,Feeling his loss severe,Dropped a regretful tear.
Oh, life's divinest draught doth notIn the wells of joy abound!For the purest streams are those that flowOut of the depths of crushing woe,As from the springs of love and thoughtHid in some narrow mound,Making it holy ground.
He hath been blessed who sometimes kneltOwning that God is just,And in the stillness of cypress shadeRosemary's tender symbol laidUpon a cherished shrine, and feltStrengthened in faith and trustOver the precious dust.
So perfect character is wrought,Rounded and beautified,By the alchemy of that strange alloy,The intermingling of grief and joy;So nearer Heaven the spirit, broughtBleeding, so sorely tried,Finds its diviner side.
So perfect character is wrought,Rounded and beautified,By the alchemy of that strange alloy,The intermingling of grief and joy;So nearer Heaven the spirit, broughtBleeding, so sorely tried,Finds its diviner side.
What touch is like the Spring's?By dainty fingeringsSuch rare delight to give,'Tis luxury to liveAmid florescent things.Through weary months of snowWhen Boreas swept low,How many an anxious hourWe watched one little flower,And tried to make it grow;And thrilled with ecstasyWhen, half distrustfully,A timid bud appeared,A tender scion rearedIn window greenery.
What touch is like the Spring's?By dainty fingeringsSuch rare delight to give,'Tis luxury to liveAmid florescent things.
Through weary months of snowWhen Boreas swept low,How many an anxious hourWe watched one little flower,And tried to make it grow;
And thrilled with ecstasyWhen, half distrustfully,A timid bud appeared,A tender scion rearedIn window greenery.
But lo! Spring's wealth of bloomAnd richness of perfumeComes as by miracle;Then why not possibleWithin a curtained room?Ah, no! that everywhereThe earth is passing fair,And strange new life hath caught,Is but the marvel wroughtBy sunlight, rain, and air.
But lo! Spring's wealth of bloomAnd richness of perfumeComes as by miracle;Then why not possibleWithin a curtained room?
Ah, no! that everywhereThe earth is passing fair,And strange new life hath caught,Is but the marvel wroughtBy sunlight, rain, and air.
O charming blossom of the seaAtlantic waters bosomed in!Abiding-place of gayety,Elysian bower of "Cora Linn,"The sprightly, livelydébiteuseRecounting all she sees and does.Oh, how it makes the northern heart,With sluggish current half-congealed,In ecstasy and vigor startTo read about this tropic field;The garden of luxuriousness,In winter wearing summer's dress.
O charming blossom of the seaAtlantic waters bosomed in!Abiding-place of gayety,Elysian bower of "Cora Linn,"The sprightly, livelydébiteuseRecounting all she sees and does.
Oh, how it makes the northern heart,With sluggish current half-congealed,In ecstasy and vigor startTo read about this tropic field;The garden of luxuriousness,In winter wearing summer's dress.
With gelid sap and frozen gumIn maple trees and hackmatack,While waiting for the spring to comeOf life's necessities we lack;And sip the nectar that we findIn luscious fruit with golden rind.But down the street we dread to walk,For all the teachings of our youthReceive an agonizing shock;Dotempting labels lie, forsooth?For "out of Florida," she says,"Come our Bermuda oranges."To speed the penitential prayerOur rosary we finger o'er,A yellow necklace rich and rare—'Twas purchased at the dollar store;But oh, it makes us sigh to seeThat land of amberbijouterie!Oh, ocean wave and flying sailShall never waft us to its shore!But if some reckless cyclone galeShould drop Bermuda at our door,'Twould warm our February skyAnd bring the time of roses nigh!
With gelid sap and frozen gumIn maple trees and hackmatack,While waiting for the spring to comeOf life's necessities we lack;And sip the nectar that we findIn luscious fruit with golden rind.
But down the street we dread to walk,For all the teachings of our youthReceive an agonizing shock;Dotempting labels lie, forsooth?For "out of Florida," she says,"Come our Bermuda oranges."
To speed the penitential prayerOur rosary we finger o'er,A yellow necklace rich and rare—'Twas purchased at the dollar store;But oh, it makes us sigh to seeThat land of amberbijouterie!
Oh, ocean wave and flying sailShall never waft us to its shore!But if some reckless cyclone galeShould drop Bermuda at our door,'Twould warm our February skyAnd bring the time of roses nigh!
I seem to see the old tree stand,Its sturdy, giant formA spectacle remembered, andA pilgrim-shrine for all the landBefore it met the storm.Unnumbered gales the tree defied;It towered like a kingAbove his courtiers, reaching wide,And sheltering scions at its sideAs with protecting wing.Revered as one among the treesTo mark the seasons born,To watchful aboriginesIt told by leafy indicesThe time of planting corn.The landmark of the past is gone,Its site is overgrown;A mansion overlooks the lawnWhere history is traced uponA parapet of stone.
I seem to see the old tree stand,Its sturdy, giant formA spectacle remembered, andA pilgrim-shrine for all the landBefore it met the storm.
Unnumbered gales the tree defied;It towered like a kingAbove his courtiers, reaching wide,And sheltering scions at its sideAs with protecting wing.
Revered as one among the treesTo mark the seasons born,To watchful aboriginesIt told by leafy indicesThe time of planting corn.
The landmark of the past is gone,Its site is overgrown;A mansion overlooks the lawnWhere history is traced uponA parapet of stone.
Shall e'er Connecticut forgetWhat unto it we owe—How Wadsworth coped with Andros' threat,And tyranny, in council met,Outwitted years ago?Aye, but it rouses loyal spunkTo think of that old tree!Its stately stem, its spacious trunkBy Nature robbed of pith and punkTo guard our liberty.But of the oak long-perished, whyIs earth forever full?For, like the loaf and fish supply,Its stock of fiber, tough and dry,Seems inexhaustible.Rare souvenirs the stranger sees—Who never sees a joke—And innocently dreams that these,From knotty, gnarly, scraggy trees,Were once the Charter Oak!
Shall e'er Connecticut forgetWhat unto it we owe—How Wadsworth coped with Andros' threat,And tyranny, in council met,Outwitted years ago?
Aye, but it rouses loyal spunkTo think of that old tree!Its stately stem, its spacious trunkBy Nature robbed of pith and punkTo guard our liberty.
But of the oak long-perished, whyIs earth forever full?For, like the loaf and fish supply,Its stock of fiber, tough and dry,Seems inexhaustible.
Rare souvenirs the stranger sees—Who never sees a joke—And innocently dreams that these,From knotty, gnarly, scraggy trees,Were once the Charter Oak!
Yes, it is drawing nigh—The time of blossoming;The waiting heart beats strongerWith every breath of Spring,The days are growing longer;While happy hours go byAs if on zephyr wing.A wealth of mellow lightReflected from the skiesThe hill and vale is flooding;Still in their leafless guiseThe Jacqueminots are budding,Creating new delightBy promise of surprise.The air is redolentAs ocean breezes areFrom spicy islands blowing,Or groves of MalabarWhere sandal-wood is growing;Or sweet, diffusive scent,From fragrant attar-jar.
Yes, it is drawing nigh—The time of blossoming;The waiting heart beats strongerWith every breath of Spring,The days are growing longer;While happy hours go byAs if on zephyr wing.
A wealth of mellow lightReflected from the skiesThe hill and vale is flooding;Still in their leafless guiseThe Jacqueminots are budding,Creating new delightBy promise of surprise.
The air is redolentAs ocean breezes areFrom spicy islands blowing,Or groves of MalabarWhere sandal-wood is growing;Or sweet, diffusive scent,From fragrant attar-jar.
Just so is lovelinessRenewed from year to year;And thus emotions tender,Born of the atmosphere,Of bloom, and vernal splendorThat words cannot express,Make Spring forever dear.Can mortal man beholdSo beautiful a scene,Without the innate feelingThat thus, like dying sheenThe sunset hues revealing,Glints pure, celestial goldOn fields of living green?
Just so is lovelinessRenewed from year to year;And thus emotions tender,Born of the atmosphere,Of bloom, and vernal splendorThat words cannot express,Make Spring forever dear.
Can mortal man beholdSo beautiful a scene,Without the innate feelingThat thus, like dying sheenThe sunset hues revealing,Glints pure, celestial goldOn fields of living green?
'Twas on a day of cold and sleet,A little nomad of the streetWith tattered garments, shoeless feet,And face with hunger wan,Great wonder-eyes, though beautiful,Hedged in by features pinched and dull,Betraying lines so pitifulBy sorrow sharply drawn;Ere yet the service half was o'er,Approached the great cathedral doorAs choir and organ joined to pourTheir sweetness on the air;Then, sudden, bold, impelled to glideWith fleetness to the altar's side,Her trembling form she sought to hideAmid the shadows there,Half fearful lest some worshiper,Enveloped close in robes of fur,Had cast a scornful glance at herAs she had stolen by,But soon the swelling anthem, fraughtWith reverence, her spirit caughtAs rapt she listened, heeding notThe darkness drawing nigh.
'Twas on a day of cold and sleet,A little nomad of the streetWith tattered garments, shoeless feet,And face with hunger wan,Great wonder-eyes, though beautiful,Hedged in by features pinched and dull,Betraying lines so pitifulBy sorrow sharply drawn;
Ere yet the service half was o'er,Approached the great cathedral doorAs choir and organ joined to pourTheir sweetness on the air;Then, sudden, bold, impelled to glideWith fleetness to the altar's side,Her trembling form she sought to hideAmid the shadows there,
Half fearful lest some worshiper,Enveloped close in robes of fur,Had cast a scornful glance at herAs she had stolen by,But soon the swelling anthem, fraughtWith reverence, her spirit caughtAs rapt she listened, heeding notThe darkness drawing nigh.
'Mid novelty and sweet surpriseHer soul, enraptured, seemed to riseAnd tread the realms of Paradise;Her shivering limbs grew warm,And as the shadows longer creptAcross the chancel, angels keptTheir vigils o'er her as she sleptSecure from cold and storm.No sound her peaceful slumber broke,But one, whose gentle face bespokeTrue goodness, took her costly cloakIn tender, thoughtful way,And as the sleeper sweetly smiled,Perchance by dreams of Heaven beguiled,O'erspread the passive, slumbering child,And softly stepped away.So rest thee, child! since Sorrow's dartHas touched like thine the Saviour's heart,Thou hast a nearer, dearer partIn his great love for thee;And when life's shadows all are gone,May Heaven reveal a brighter dawnTo thee who, unaware, hast drawnOur hearts in sympathy.
'Mid novelty and sweet surpriseHer soul, enraptured, seemed to riseAnd tread the realms of Paradise;Her shivering limbs grew warm,And as the shadows longer creptAcross the chancel, angels keptTheir vigils o'er her as she sleptSecure from cold and storm.
No sound her peaceful slumber broke,But one, whose gentle face bespokeTrue goodness, took her costly cloakIn tender, thoughtful way,And as the sleeper sweetly smiled,Perchance by dreams of Heaven beguiled,O'erspread the passive, slumbering child,And softly stepped away.
So rest thee, child! since Sorrow's dartHas touched like thine the Saviour's heart,Thou hast a nearer, dearer partIn his great love for thee;And when life's shadows all are gone,May Heaven reveal a brighter dawnTo thee who, unaware, hast drawnOur hearts in sympathy.
Around my vine-wreathed portico,At evening, there's a perfect glowOf little lights a-flashing—As if the stellar bodies hadFrom super-heat grown hyper-mad,And spend their ire in clashing.As frisky each as shooting star,These tiny electricians areThe Lampyrine Linnæan—Or lightning-bugs, that sparkling gleamLike scintillations in a dreamOf something empyrean.They brush my face, light up my hair,My garments touch, dart everywhere;And if I try to catch themThey're quicker than the wicked flea—And then I wonder how 'twould beTo have adressto match them.To be a "princess in disguise,"And wear a robe of firefliesAll strung and wove together,And be the cynosure of allAt Madame Haut-ton's carnival,In fashion's gayest feather.So, sudden, falls upon the grassThe overpow'ring light of gas,And through the lattice streaming;As wearily I close my eyesBrief are the moments that sufficeTo reach the land of dreaming.Now at the ball, superbly dressedAs I suppose, to eclipse the rest,Within an alcove shadyA brilliant flame I hope to be,While all admire and envy me,The "bright electric lady."But, ah, they never shine at all!My eyesignite—I leave the hall,For wrathful tears have filled them;I could have crushed them on the spot—The bugs, I mean!—and quite forgotThatstringingthem had killed them.
Around my vine-wreathed portico,At evening, there's a perfect glowOf little lights a-flashing—As if the stellar bodies hadFrom super-heat grown hyper-mad,And spend their ire in clashing.
As frisky each as shooting star,These tiny electricians areThe Lampyrine Linnæan—Or lightning-bugs, that sparkling gleamLike scintillations in a dreamOf something empyrean.
They brush my face, light up my hair,My garments touch, dart everywhere;And if I try to catch themThey're quicker than the wicked flea—And then I wonder how 'twould beTo have adressto match them.
To be a "princess in disguise,"And wear a robe of firefliesAll strung and wove together,And be the cynosure of allAt Madame Haut-ton's carnival,In fashion's gayest feather.
So, sudden, falls upon the grassThe overpow'ring light of gas,And through the lattice streaming;As wearily I close my eyesBrief are the moments that sufficeTo reach the land of dreaming.
Now at the ball, superbly dressedAs I suppose, to eclipse the rest,Within an alcove shadyA brilliant flame I hope to be,While all admire and envy me,The "bright electric lady."
But, ah, they never shine at all!My eyesignite—I leave the hall,For wrathful tears have filled them;I could have crushed them on the spot—The bugs, I mean!—and quite forgotThatstringingthem had killed them.
We look up to the stars tonight,Idolatrous of them,And dream that Heaven is in sight,And each a ray of purest lightFrom some celestial gemIn her bright diadem.Before that lonely home we wait,Ah! nevermore to seeHer lovely form within the gateWhere heart and hearthstone desolateAnd vine and shrub and treeSeem asking: "Where is she?"There is the cottage Love had planned—Where hope in ashes lies—A tower beautiful to stand,Her monument whose gentle handAnd presence in the skiesMake home of Paradise.In wintry bleakness nature glowsBeneath the stellar ray;We see the mold, but not the rose,And meditate if knowledge goesInto yon mound of clay,With her who passed away.Of sighs, and tears, and joys deniedDo echoes reach up there?Do seraphs know—God does—how wideAnd deep is sorrow's bitter tideOf dolor and despair,And darkness everywhere?Dear angel, snatched from our caress,So suddenly withdrawn,Alone are we and comfortless;As in a dome of emptinessThe old routine goes on,Aimless, since thou art gone.Oh, dearer unto us than aughtIn all the world besideOf thee to cherish blessed thought;So early thy sweet mission wrought,As friend, as promised bride,Who lived, and loved, and died.
We look up to the stars tonight,Idolatrous of them,And dream that Heaven is in sight,And each a ray of purest lightFrom some celestial gemIn her bright diadem.
Before that lonely home we wait,Ah! nevermore to seeHer lovely form within the gateWhere heart and hearthstone desolateAnd vine and shrub and treeSeem asking: "Where is she?"
There is the cottage Love had planned—Where hope in ashes lies—A tower beautiful to stand,Her monument whose gentle handAnd presence in the skiesMake home of Paradise.
In wintry bleakness nature glowsBeneath the stellar ray;We see the mold, but not the rose,And meditate if knowledge goesInto yon mound of clay,With her who passed away.
Of sighs, and tears, and joys deniedDo echoes reach up there?Do seraphs know—God does—how wideAnd deep is sorrow's bitter tideOf dolor and despair,And darkness everywhere?
Dear angel, snatched from our caress,So suddenly withdrawn,Alone are we and comfortless;As in a dome of emptinessThe old routine goes on,Aimless, since thou art gone.
Oh, dearer unto us than aughtIn all the world besideOf thee to cherish blessed thought;So early thy sweet mission wrought,As friend, as promised bride,Who lived, and loved, and died.
Nature, erewhile so marvelously lovely, is bereftOf her supernal charm;And with the few dead garlands of departed splendor left,Like crape upon her arm,In boreal hints, and sudden gustsThat fan the glowing ember,By multitude of ways fulfillsThe promise of November.Upon the path where Beauty, sylvan priestess, sped away,Lies the rich afterglowOf Indian Summer, bringing round the happy holidayThat antedates the snow:The glad Thanksgiving time, the cheer,The festival commotionThat stirs fraternal feeling fromThe mountains to the ocean.O Hospitality! unclose thy bounty-laden handIn generous dealing, whereIs gathered in reunion each long-severed household band,And let no vacant chairShow where the strongest, brightest linkIn love's dear chain is broken—A symbol more pathetic thanBy language ever spoken.Into the place held sacred to the memory of someBeloved absentee,Perchance passed to the other shore, oh, let the stranger comeAnd in gratuityPartake of festal favors thatShall sweeten hours of labor,And strengthen amity and loveUnto his friend and neighbor.Let gratitude's pure incense in warm orisons ascend,A blessing to secure,And gracious impulse bearing largesse of good gifts extendTo all deserving poor;So may the day be hallowed byUnstinted thanks and giving,In sweet remembrance of the deadAnd kindness to the living.
Nature, erewhile so marvelously lovely, is bereftOf her supernal charm;And with the few dead garlands of departed splendor left,Like crape upon her arm,In boreal hints, and sudden gustsThat fan the glowing ember,By multitude of ways fulfillsThe promise of November.
Upon the path where Beauty, sylvan priestess, sped away,Lies the rich afterglowOf Indian Summer, bringing round the happy holidayThat antedates the snow:The glad Thanksgiving time, the cheer,The festival commotionThat stirs fraternal feeling fromThe mountains to the ocean.
O Hospitality! unclose thy bounty-laden handIn generous dealing, whereIs gathered in reunion each long-severed household band,And let no vacant chairShow where the strongest, brightest linkIn love's dear chain is broken—A symbol more pathetic thanBy language ever spoken.
Into the place held sacred to the memory of someBeloved absentee,Perchance passed to the other shore, oh, let the stranger comeAnd in gratuityPartake of festal favors thatShall sweeten hours of labor,And strengthen amity and loveUnto his friend and neighbor.
Let gratitude's pure incense in warm orisons ascend,A blessing to secure,And gracious impulse bearing largesse of good gifts extendTo all deserving poor;So may the day be hallowed byUnstinted thanks and giving,In sweet remembrance of the deadAnd kindness to the living.
In hours of meditation fraughtWith mem'ries of departed days,Comes oft a tender, loving thoughtOf one who shared our youthful plays.In gayest sports and pleasures rifeWhose happy nature reveled so,That on her ardent, joyous lifeA shadow lay, we did not know;And bade her look one summer nightUp to the sky that seemed to hold,In dying sunset splendor bright,All hues of sapphire, red, and gold.How strange the spell that mystifiedUs all, and hushed our wonted glee,As sadly her sweet voice replied,"Why, don't you know I cannot see?"Too true! those eyes bereft of sightNo blemish bare, no drop-serene,But nothing in this world of lightAnd beauty they had ever seen.
In hours of meditation fraughtWith mem'ries of departed days,Comes oft a tender, loving thoughtOf one who shared our youthful plays.
In gayest sports and pleasures rifeWhose happy nature reveled so,That on her ardent, joyous lifeA shadow lay, we did not know;
And bade her look one summer nightUp to the sky that seemed to hold,In dying sunset splendor bright,All hues of sapphire, red, and gold.
How strange the spell that mystifiedUs all, and hushed our wonted glee,As sadly her sweet voice replied,"Why, don't you know I cannot see?"
Too true! those eyes bereft of sightNo blemish bare, no drop-serene,But nothing in this world of lightAnd beauty they had ever seen.
A dozen years in gentle ruthTheir impress lent to brow and cheek,When precious words of sacred truthLed her the Saviour's face to seek.Responsive unto earnest prayersCommingling love and penitence,A blessing came—not unawares—In new and strange experience.And all was light, as Faith's clear eyeA brighter world than ours divined;For never clouds obscured the skyThat she could see, whilewewere blind.Oh, it must be an awful thingTo be shut out from light of day!—From summer's grace, and bloom of springIn gladness words cannot portray.But haply into every heartMay enter that Celestial LightThat doth to life's dark ways impartA radiance hid from mortal sight.
A dozen years in gentle ruthTheir impress lent to brow and cheek,When precious words of sacred truthLed her the Saviour's face to seek.
Responsive unto earnest prayersCommingling love and penitence,A blessing came—not unawares—In new and strange experience.
And all was light, as Faith's clear eyeA brighter world than ours divined;For never clouds obscured the skyThat she could see, whilewewere blind.
Oh, it must be an awful thingTo be shut out from light of day!—From summer's grace, and bloom of springIn gladness words cannot portray.
But haply into every heartMay enter that Celestial LightThat doth to life's dark ways impartA radiance hid from mortal sight.
Beside my window day and night,Its tendrils reaching left and right,A morning glory grew;With blossoms covered, pink and whiteAnd deep, delicious blue.Its care became my daily thought,Who to the sweet diversion broughtA bit of florist skillTo guide its progress, till it caughtThe meaning of my will.When through the trellis in and outIt bent and turned and climbed aboutAnd so ambitious grew,O'erleaped a chasm beyond the spoutWhere raindrops trickled through,Then, in caressing, graceful way,Around a door knob twined one dayWith modest show of pride;All unaware that danger layJust on the other side.An awkward, verdant "maid of work,"Who dearly loved her tasks to shirk,While rummaging amongUnused apartments, with a jerkThe door wide open flung.And lo! there lay, uprooted quite,The object of my heart's delight—I did not weep or rant,And yet a grain or two of spiteMy secret thoughts would haunt.So when at night her favorite beauBeside his charmer sat below—That is,dans le cuisine—Occurred, as all the neighbors know,A semi-tragic scene.The garden hose, obscured from view,Turned on itself and drenched the two—A hapless circumstanceThat lengthened out her "frizzes" new,But shrunk his Sunday pants.Remember this was years agone—The madcap now hath sober grownAnd hose is better wrought,And neither now would run aloneThe risk of being caught.
Beside my window day and night,Its tendrils reaching left and right,A morning glory grew;With blossoms covered, pink and whiteAnd deep, delicious blue.
Its care became my daily thought,Who to the sweet diversion broughtA bit of florist skillTo guide its progress, till it caughtThe meaning of my will.
When through the trellis in and outIt bent and turned and climbed aboutAnd so ambitious grew,O'erleaped a chasm beyond the spoutWhere raindrops trickled through,
Then, in caressing, graceful way,Around a door knob twined one dayWith modest show of pride;All unaware that danger layJust on the other side.
An awkward, verdant "maid of work,"Who dearly loved her tasks to shirk,While rummaging amongUnused apartments, with a jerkThe door wide open flung.
And lo! there lay, uprooted quite,The object of my heart's delight—I did not weep or rant,And yet a grain or two of spiteMy secret thoughts would haunt.
So when at night her favorite beauBeside his charmer sat below—That is,dans le cuisine—Occurred, as all the neighbors know,A semi-tragic scene.
The garden hose, obscured from view,Turned on itself and drenched the two—A hapless circumstanceThat lengthened out her "frizzes" new,But shrunk his Sunday pants.
Remember this was years agone—The madcap now hath sober grownAnd hose is better wrought,And neither now would run aloneThe risk of being caught.
We met on "Boston Common"—Of course it was by chance—A sudden, unexpected,But happy circumstanceThat gave the dull October dayA beautiful, refulgent ray.Like wandering refugees fromA city of renown,Impelled to reconnoiterThis Massachusetts town,Each by a common object urged,Upon the park our paths converged.Good nature, bubbling overIn healthy, hearty laughs,And little lavish speechesLike pleasant paragraphs,The kind regard, unstudied joke,His true felicity bespoke.A bit of doleful knowledgeConfided unto me,About the way the doctors—Who never could agree—His knees had tortured, softly drewMy sympathy and humor, too.
We met on "Boston Common"—Of course it was by chance—A sudden, unexpected,But happy circumstanceThat gave the dull October dayA beautiful, refulgent ray.
Like wandering refugees fromA city of renown,Impelled to reconnoiterThis Massachusetts town,Each by a common object urged,Upon the park our paths converged.
Good nature, bubbling overIn healthy, hearty laughs,And little lavish speechesLike pleasant paragraphs,The kind regard, unstudied joke,His true felicity bespoke.
A bit of doleful knowledgeConfided unto me,About the way the doctors—Who never could agree—His knees had tortured, softly drewMy sympathy and humor, too.
I hoped he wouldn't lose them,And languish in the dumpsBy having to quadrille onA pair of polished stumps—But a corky limb, though one might dread,Isn't half as bad as a wooden head.He censured those empiricsWho never heal an ill,Though bound by their diplomasTo either cure or kill,Who should, with ignominy crowned,Their patients follow—under ground.I left him at the foot of"The Soldiers' Monument,"With incoherent mutterings—As though 'twere his intentTo turn the sod, a rod or two,And sleep beside the "boys in blue."In Hartford's charming circlesHis bonhommie I miss,And having never seen himFrom that day unto this,I think of him with much regretAs lying—with the soldiers—yet.
I hoped he wouldn't lose them,And languish in the dumpsBy having to quadrille onA pair of polished stumps—But a corky limb, though one might dread,Isn't half as bad as a wooden head.
He censured those empiricsWho never heal an ill,Though bound by their diplomasTo either cure or kill,Who should, with ignominy crowned,Their patients follow—under ground.
I left him at the foot of"The Soldiers' Monument,"With incoherent mutterings—As though 'twere his intentTo turn the sod, a rod or two,And sleep beside the "boys in blue."
In Hartford's charming circlesHis bonhommie I miss,And having never seen himFrom that day unto this,I think of him with much regretAs lying—with the soldiers—yet.
Sometimes I long to write an odeAnd magnify his name,The man of honor, on the roadTo opulence and fame,On whom was never aid bestowedBy any helpful dame.To all the world I fain would showThat talent widely known,Rare eloquence, of burning glowTo melt a heart of stone,That all his gifts, a dazzling row,Are his, and his alone.But him, of character and mindSuperb, alert, and strong,I never study but to findThe subject of my song,Some paragon of womankind,Has helped him all along.He may not know, he may not guess,How much to her he owes,How every scion of successThat in his nature grows,Developed by her watchfulness,Becomes a blooming rose.From buffetings in humble place,And labors ill begun,To proud achievement in the raceAnd laurels grandly won,His trials all she dares to faceAs friend and champion.The bars that hinder his advanceAnd half obscure the goal,The stubborn bond of circumstanceThat irritates his soul,The countershafts of arrogance,All yield to her control.He builds a tower—she belowIs handing up the bricks;His light is brilliant just as thoughHer hand had trimmed the wicks;He prays for daily bread—the doughA woman deigns to mix.
Sometimes I long to write an odeAnd magnify his name,The man of honor, on the roadTo opulence and fame,On whom was never aid bestowedBy any helpful dame.
To all the world I fain would showThat talent widely known,Rare eloquence, of burning glowTo melt a heart of stone,That all his gifts, a dazzling row,Are his, and his alone.
But him, of character and mindSuperb, alert, and strong,I never study but to findThe subject of my song,Some paragon of womankind,Has helped him all along.
He may not know, he may not guess,How much to her he owes,How every scion of successThat in his nature grows,Developed by her watchfulness,Becomes a blooming rose.
From buffetings in humble place,And labors ill begun,To proud achievement in the raceAnd laurels grandly won,His trials all she dares to faceAs friend and champion.
The bars that hinder his advanceAnd half obscure the goal,The stubborn bond of circumstanceThat irritates his soul,The countershafts of arrogance,All yield to her control.
He builds a tower—she belowIs handing up the bricks;His light is brilliant just as thoughHer hand had trimmed the wicks;He prays for daily bread—the doughA woman deigns to mix.
Oh, the rare exhilaration,Oh, the novel delectationOf a ride down the slide!Packed like ice in zero weather,Pleasure-seekers close together,On a board as thin as wafer,Barely wider, scarcely safer,At the height of recreationFind a glorious inspiration,Ere the speedy terminationIn the snowy meadow wide,Sloping to the river's side.Oh, such quakers we begin it,Timorous of the icy route!But to learn in half a minuteWhat felicity is in it,As we shoot down the chute,Smothered in toboggan suit,Redingote or roquelaure,Buttoned up (and down) before,Mittens, cap, and moccasin,Just the garb to revel in;So, the signal given, lo!Over solid ice and snow,Down the narrow gauge we goSwifter than a bird o'erhead,Swifter than an arrow spedFrom the staunchest, strongest bow.Oh, it beats all "Copenhagen,"Silly lovers' paradise!Like the frozen Androscoggin,Slippery, and smooth, and nice,Is the track of the toboggan;And there's nothing cheap about it,Everything is steep about it,The insolvent weep about it,For the biggest thing on iceIs its tip-top price;But were this three times the money,Then the game were thrice as funny.Ye who dwell in latitudesWhere "the blizzard" ne'er intrudes,And the water seldom freezes;Ye of balmy Southern regions,Alabama's languid legions,From the "hot blast" of your breezes,Where the verdure of the trees isLimp, and loose, and pitiful,Come up here where branches bareStand like spikes in frosty air;Come up here where arctic rigorShall restore your bloom and vigor,Making life enjoyable;Come and take a jog onThe unparalleled toboggan!Such the zest that he who missesNever knows what perfect bliss is.So the sport, the day's sensation,Thrills and recreates creation.
Oh, the rare exhilaration,Oh, the novel delectationOf a ride down the slide!Packed like ice in zero weather,Pleasure-seekers close together,On a board as thin as wafer,Barely wider, scarcely safer,At the height of recreationFind a glorious inspiration,Ere the speedy terminationIn the snowy meadow wide,Sloping to the river's side.
Oh, such quakers we begin it,Timorous of the icy route!But to learn in half a minuteWhat felicity is in it,As we shoot down the chute,Smothered in toboggan suit,Redingote or roquelaure,Buttoned up (and down) before,Mittens, cap, and moccasin,Just the garb to revel in;So, the signal given, lo!Over solid ice and snow,Down the narrow gauge we goSwifter than a bird o'erhead,Swifter than an arrow spedFrom the staunchest, strongest bow.
Oh, it beats all "Copenhagen,"Silly lovers' paradise!Like the frozen Androscoggin,Slippery, and smooth, and nice,Is the track of the toboggan;And there's nothing cheap about it,Everything is steep about it,The insolvent weep about it,For the biggest thing on iceIs its tip-top price;But were this three times the money,Then the game were thrice as funny.
Ye who dwell in latitudesWhere "the blizzard" ne'er intrudes,And the water seldom freezes;Ye of balmy Southern regions,Alabama's languid legions,From the "hot blast" of your breezes,Where the verdure of the trees isLimp, and loose, and pitiful,Come up here where branches bareStand like spikes in frosty air;Come up here where arctic rigorShall restore your bloom and vigor,Making life enjoyable;Come and take a jog onThe unparalleled toboggan!Such the zest that he who missesNever knows what perfect bliss is.So the sport, the day's sensation,Thrills and recreates creation.
I love the woods when the magic handOf Spring, as if sweeping the keysOf a wornout instrument, touches the earth;When beauty and song in the gladness of birthAwaken the heart of the desolate land,And carol its rapture to every breeze.In summer's still solstice my steps are drawnTo the shade of the forest trees;To revel with Pan in his secret haunts,To pipe mazourkas while satyrs dance,Or lull to soft slumber some favorite faunAnd fascinate strange wild birds and bees.
I love the woods when the magic handOf Spring, as if sweeping the keysOf a wornout instrument, touches the earth;When beauty and song in the gladness of birthAwaken the heart of the desolate land,And carol its rapture to every breeze.
In summer's still solstice my steps are drawnTo the shade of the forest trees;To revel with Pan in his secret haunts,To pipe mazourkas while satyrs dance,Or lull to soft slumber some favorite faunAnd fascinate strange wild birds and bees.
I love the woods when autumnal firesAre kindled on every hill;When dead leaves rustle in grove and field,And trees are known by the fruits they yield,And the wild grapes, sweetened by frost, inspireA mildly-desperate, bibulous thrill.There's a joy for which I would fling to the airMy petty portion of wealth and fame,In tracking the rabbit o'er fresh-fallen snow,The ways of the 'coon and opossum to know,To capture squirrels when branches are bareAs the cupboard shelf of that ancient dame.Oh, I long to explore the woods againIn my own aboriginal way,As before I knew how culture could frownOn a hoydenish gait and a homespun gownOr dreamed that the strata of proud "upper-ten"Would smile at rusticity'snaïveté.I sigh for the pleasures of long agoIn youth's sweet halcyon time;When better beloved than the thoroughfareBy multitudes trod were the woodlands, whereWas never a path that I did not know,Nor thrifty sapling I dared not climb.
I love the woods when autumnal firesAre kindled on every hill;When dead leaves rustle in grove and field,And trees are known by the fruits they yield,And the wild grapes, sweetened by frost, inspireA mildly-desperate, bibulous thrill.
There's a joy for which I would fling to the airMy petty portion of wealth and fame,In tracking the rabbit o'er fresh-fallen snow,The ways of the 'coon and opossum to know,To capture squirrels when branches are bareAs the cupboard shelf of that ancient dame.
Oh, I long to explore the woods againIn my own aboriginal way,As before I knew how culture could frownOn a hoydenish gait and a homespun gownOr dreamed that the strata of proud "upper-ten"Would smile at rusticity'snaïveté.
I sigh for the pleasures of long agoIn youth's sweet halcyon time;When better beloved than the thoroughfareBy multitudes trod were the woodlands, whereWas never a path that I did not know,Nor thrifty sapling I dared not climb.
Alas for lost freedom! Alas for me!For oh, Society's lip would curl,Propriety's self with scornful eyeAnd gilt-edged Fashion would pass me byTo know that sometimes I'm dying to beThe romp, the rover, the same old girl.
Alas for lost freedom! Alas for me!For oh, Society's lip would curl,Propriety's self with scornful eyeAnd gilt-edged Fashion would pass me byTo know that sometimes I'm dying to beThe romp, the rover, the same old girl.
November? 'tis a summer's day!For tropic airs are blowingAs soft as whispered roundelayFrom unseen lips that seem to sayTo feathered songsters goingTo sunnier, southern climes afar,"Stay where you are—stay where you are!"And other tokens glad as theseDeclare that Summer lingers:Round latent buds still hum the bees,Slow fades the green from forest treesEre Autumn's artist fingersHave touched the landscape, and insteadBrought out the amber, brown, and red.
November? 'tis a summer's day!For tropic airs are blowingAs soft as whispered roundelayFrom unseen lips that seem to sayTo feathered songsters goingTo sunnier, southern climes afar,"Stay where you are—stay where you are!"
And other tokens glad as theseDeclare that Summer lingers:Round latent buds still hum the bees,Slow fades the green from forest treesEre Autumn's artist fingersHave touched the landscape, and insteadBrought out the amber, brown, and red.
The invalid may yet enjoyHis favorite recreation,Gay, romping girl, unfettered boyIn outdoor sports the time employ,And happy consummationOf prudent plans the farmer knowEre wintry breezes round him blow.And they by poverty controlled—Good fortune shall betide themAs scenes of beauty they behold,And seem to revel in the goldWhich Plutus has denied them;For, ah! the poor from want's despairOft covet wealth they never share.
The invalid may yet enjoyHis favorite recreation,Gay, romping girl, unfettered boyIn outdoor sports the time employ,And happy consummationOf prudent plans the farmer knowEre wintry breezes round him blow.
And they by poverty controlled—Good fortune shall betide themAs scenes of beauty they behold,And seem to revel in the goldWhich Plutus has denied them;For, ah! the poor from want's despairOft covet wealth they never share.