Would I leave my home—my native hillsFor the city by the sea—Or leave the lane where the woodbine swingsAnd all is dear to me?Would I leave my birds for the stately shipsThat sail in the harbor blue—Leave the flowers, fresh from the hand of GodAnd kissed by the morning dew?Would I leave my cot for a mansion grandIn the city by the sea,—Or leave the friends whom I long have lovedWho are so dear to me?Would I leave my bower mid the roses sweetWhere the sun shines bright and fair—Leave my pleasant strolls in the forest gladeIn the country’s fragrant air?Nay, I’d not leave my peaceful hillFor the city by the sea—Here earliest recollection clingsAnd all is dear to me.—I’d not leave my cot where the willows waveFor the city’s proudest dome!Where e’er the heart in fondness dwellsTo me is “Home Sweet Home.”
Would I leave my home—my native hillsFor the city by the sea—Or leave the lane where the woodbine swingsAnd all is dear to me?Would I leave my birds for the stately shipsThat sail in the harbor blue—Leave the flowers, fresh from the hand of GodAnd kissed by the morning dew?Would I leave my cot for a mansion grandIn the city by the sea,—Or leave the friends whom I long have lovedWho are so dear to me?Would I leave my bower mid the roses sweetWhere the sun shines bright and fair—Leave my pleasant strolls in the forest gladeIn the country’s fragrant air?Nay, I’d not leave my peaceful hillFor the city by the sea—Here earliest recollection clingsAnd all is dear to me.—I’d not leave my cot where the willows waveFor the city’s proudest dome!Where e’er the heart in fondness dwellsTo me is “Home Sweet Home.”
Would I leave my home—my native hillsFor the city by the sea—Or leave the lane where the woodbine swingsAnd all is dear to me?Would I leave my birds for the stately shipsThat sail in the harbor blue—Leave the flowers, fresh from the hand of GodAnd kissed by the morning dew?
Would I leave my cot for a mansion grandIn the city by the sea,—Or leave the friends whom I long have lovedWho are so dear to me?Would I leave my bower mid the roses sweetWhere the sun shines bright and fair—Leave my pleasant strolls in the forest gladeIn the country’s fragrant air?
Nay, I’d not leave my peaceful hillFor the city by the sea—Here earliest recollection clingsAnd all is dear to me.—I’d not leave my cot where the willows waveFor the city’s proudest dome!Where e’er the heart in fondness dwellsTo me is “Home Sweet Home.”
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We are sailing down Life’s river—Sailing onward day by day,Onward, through the misty shadowsThat, so dark, obscure the way.Soon we shall be beckoned homeward,There to meet with those we knowIn that grand and glorious cityWhere no sorrows ever go.We are drifting with the ripples,—As they bear our barque alongWe can catch in fitful accentsEchoes from the angels song.—And we see the dim reflectionOf that bright celestial strand;Where the bowers are ever bloomingIn that peaceful, happy land.We know not how soon we’ll anchorWhere bright gems adorn the shore—Where the living waters murmur,And the breakers moan no more.—But we’ll reach the pearly portalAnd we’ll lay our armor down;Casting all our burdens from us’Neath the shelter of a crown.Near the Throne of Love e’er dwelling,Sheltered safe from every woe;No more sorrow, no more weeping,Naught but glory shall we know.There we shall be ever happyIn the mansion of the blest;Blessed be the peace eternal—Blessed is the sweet word—Rest.
We are sailing down Life’s river—Sailing onward day by day,Onward, through the misty shadowsThat, so dark, obscure the way.Soon we shall be beckoned homeward,There to meet with those we knowIn that grand and glorious cityWhere no sorrows ever go.We are drifting with the ripples,—As they bear our barque alongWe can catch in fitful accentsEchoes from the angels song.—And we see the dim reflectionOf that bright celestial strand;Where the bowers are ever bloomingIn that peaceful, happy land.We know not how soon we’ll anchorWhere bright gems adorn the shore—Where the living waters murmur,And the breakers moan no more.—But we’ll reach the pearly portalAnd we’ll lay our armor down;Casting all our burdens from us’Neath the shelter of a crown.Near the Throne of Love e’er dwelling,Sheltered safe from every woe;No more sorrow, no more weeping,Naught but glory shall we know.There we shall be ever happyIn the mansion of the blest;Blessed be the peace eternal—Blessed is the sweet word—Rest.
We are sailing down Life’s river—Sailing onward day by day,Onward, through the misty shadowsThat, so dark, obscure the way.Soon we shall be beckoned homeward,There to meet with those we knowIn that grand and glorious cityWhere no sorrows ever go.
We are drifting with the ripples,—As they bear our barque alongWe can catch in fitful accentsEchoes from the angels song.—And we see the dim reflectionOf that bright celestial strand;Where the bowers are ever bloomingIn that peaceful, happy land.
We know not how soon we’ll anchorWhere bright gems adorn the shore—Where the living waters murmur,And the breakers moan no more.—But we’ll reach the pearly portalAnd we’ll lay our armor down;Casting all our burdens from us’Neath the shelter of a crown.
Near the Throne of Love e’er dwelling,Sheltered safe from every woe;No more sorrow, no more weeping,Naught but glory shall we know.There we shall be ever happyIn the mansion of the blest;Blessed be the peace eternal—Blessed is the sweet word—Rest.
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Within our home so cheerfulWhere all is warm and bright;Sometimes our hearts grow tearful,And to darkness turns the light.We see not the joys that surround us—We heed not our friends bright and gay;For memories, come crowding around usOf loved ones passed away.Without, the old home is the same,Yet within, there is a change;And feelings which we cannot nameSteal o’er us, sad and strange.We see the dear forms of long ago,Illume the twilight gray,—Yet the darksome silence whispers lowOf loved ones passed away.We see them as we did of yoreIn the dear old days long past;Ere they were called to the other shore,—But those fancies cannot last.And though the heart in fondness seeksTo bid them longer stay—Yonder grim churchyard mutely speaksOf loved ones passed away.
Within our home so cheerfulWhere all is warm and bright;Sometimes our hearts grow tearful,And to darkness turns the light.We see not the joys that surround us—We heed not our friends bright and gay;For memories, come crowding around usOf loved ones passed away.Without, the old home is the same,Yet within, there is a change;And feelings which we cannot nameSteal o’er us, sad and strange.We see the dear forms of long ago,Illume the twilight gray,—Yet the darksome silence whispers lowOf loved ones passed away.We see them as we did of yoreIn the dear old days long past;Ere they were called to the other shore,—But those fancies cannot last.And though the heart in fondness seeksTo bid them longer stay—Yonder grim churchyard mutely speaksOf loved ones passed away.
Within our home so cheerfulWhere all is warm and bright;Sometimes our hearts grow tearful,And to darkness turns the light.We see not the joys that surround us—We heed not our friends bright and gay;For memories, come crowding around usOf loved ones passed away.
Without, the old home is the same,Yet within, there is a change;And feelings which we cannot nameSteal o’er us, sad and strange.We see the dear forms of long ago,Illume the twilight gray,—Yet the darksome silence whispers lowOf loved ones passed away.
We see them as we did of yoreIn the dear old days long past;Ere they were called to the other shore,—But those fancies cannot last.And though the heart in fondness seeksTo bid them longer stay—Yonder grim churchyard mutely speaksOf loved ones passed away.
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’Twas Saturday eve.—The love-lorn swainWas hastening toward Jennie’s house;His mien indicative of fearFor neither man nor mouse.But ere he reached the farmhouse gateAn object he chanced to spy.—’Twas only a table-cloth Jennie had washedAnd hung on the line to dry.But he knew it not, so there he stoodDeciding what to do,—He dare not venturetoo nearthe spook,—Yet the gate hemustgo through!—The white cloth flapped in the gentle breeze—’Twas too much for Jennie’s beau;He turned and ran off down the hillAs fast as he could go!He imagined that footsteps were following fast,—So away like a gale ran he;Nor did he stop, till he reached the topOf Squire Pettigrew’s crab-apple tree!———Just then the moon, with a bright smiling face,Came out from behind a black cloud,—Little Nell, at the window, stood watching the moon,And she uttered a cry long and loud.—“Oh! Mamma!—come look at this queer lookingbird—Anowlis perched up in our tree!—Or is it a night-hawk just taking a rest—What kind of a bird can it be?”Miss Jennie came tripping along down the street,In the hope of meeting her lover;—Then he quietly let himself down from the treeBefore she had time to discover.Then arm in arm they returned to the gate,—And he blushed, as in silence stood heAnd saw the white spectre, which drove him in frightTo the top of the crab-apple tree!
’Twas Saturday eve.—The love-lorn swainWas hastening toward Jennie’s house;His mien indicative of fearFor neither man nor mouse.But ere he reached the farmhouse gateAn object he chanced to spy.—’Twas only a table-cloth Jennie had washedAnd hung on the line to dry.But he knew it not, so there he stoodDeciding what to do,—He dare not venturetoo nearthe spook,—Yet the gate hemustgo through!—The white cloth flapped in the gentle breeze—’Twas too much for Jennie’s beau;He turned and ran off down the hillAs fast as he could go!He imagined that footsteps were following fast,—So away like a gale ran he;Nor did he stop, till he reached the topOf Squire Pettigrew’s crab-apple tree!———Just then the moon, with a bright smiling face,Came out from behind a black cloud,—Little Nell, at the window, stood watching the moon,And she uttered a cry long and loud.—“Oh! Mamma!—come look at this queer lookingbird—Anowlis perched up in our tree!—Or is it a night-hawk just taking a rest—What kind of a bird can it be?”Miss Jennie came tripping along down the street,In the hope of meeting her lover;—Then he quietly let himself down from the treeBefore she had time to discover.Then arm in arm they returned to the gate,—And he blushed, as in silence stood heAnd saw the white spectre, which drove him in frightTo the top of the crab-apple tree!
’Twas Saturday eve.—The love-lorn swainWas hastening toward Jennie’s house;His mien indicative of fearFor neither man nor mouse.
But ere he reached the farmhouse gateAn object he chanced to spy.—’Twas only a table-cloth Jennie had washedAnd hung on the line to dry.
But he knew it not, so there he stoodDeciding what to do,—He dare not venturetoo nearthe spook,—Yet the gate hemustgo through!—
The white cloth flapped in the gentle breeze—’Twas too much for Jennie’s beau;He turned and ran off down the hillAs fast as he could go!
He imagined that footsteps were following fast,—So away like a gale ran he;Nor did he stop, till he reached the topOf Squire Pettigrew’s crab-apple tree!———Just then the moon, with a bright smiling face,Came out from behind a black cloud,—Little Nell, at the window, stood watching the moon,And she uttered a cry long and loud.—
“Oh! Mamma!—come look at this queer lookingbird—Anowlis perched up in our tree!—Or is it a night-hawk just taking a rest—What kind of a bird can it be?”
Miss Jennie came tripping along down the street,In the hope of meeting her lover;—Then he quietly let himself down from the treeBefore she had time to discover.
Then arm in arm they returned to the gate,—And he blushed, as in silence stood heAnd saw the white spectre, which drove him in frightTo the top of the crab-apple tree!
As the circus train passed through the streetAn Elephant caught the eyeOf a “rural duffer,” who remarkedAs the creature lumbered by,—While a wondering look stole o’er his phiz—(No artist’s hand could paint it;)“Wa-al neow, Maria,—I swan to manThat’s quite an insect, aint it?”A city swell heard the remark,And quickly turned his noseUp, with an air that plainly said:“Such horrid folks as thoseMay go their way—for they’ll polluteThe very atmosphereWith their uncouth ways and ignorance—We can’t endure them here!”———The time rolled on,—and the city swellWas brought to account one dayFor the many bills and debts he owed—He had not a cent to pay.His creditors gobbled all his goodsAnd set them up for sale;But the cash they brought did not sufficeSo they marched him off to jail.————The “duffer” shook his jolly sidesWith a hearty, merry laugh;And recalled the time when he “so shockedThe insipid city calf.”“I pay my bills as I go along—Iowe no man,” said he;“There’s noinsectborn that can competeWith abiped such as he!”
As the circus train passed through the streetAn Elephant caught the eyeOf a “rural duffer,” who remarkedAs the creature lumbered by,—While a wondering look stole o’er his phiz—(No artist’s hand could paint it;)“Wa-al neow, Maria,—I swan to manThat’s quite an insect, aint it?”A city swell heard the remark,And quickly turned his noseUp, with an air that plainly said:“Such horrid folks as thoseMay go their way—for they’ll polluteThe very atmosphereWith their uncouth ways and ignorance—We can’t endure them here!”———The time rolled on,—and the city swellWas brought to account one dayFor the many bills and debts he owed—He had not a cent to pay.His creditors gobbled all his goodsAnd set them up for sale;But the cash they brought did not sufficeSo they marched him off to jail.————The “duffer” shook his jolly sidesWith a hearty, merry laugh;And recalled the time when he “so shockedThe insipid city calf.”“I pay my bills as I go along—Iowe no man,” said he;“There’s noinsectborn that can competeWith abiped such as he!”
As the circus train passed through the streetAn Elephant caught the eyeOf a “rural duffer,” who remarkedAs the creature lumbered by,—While a wondering look stole o’er his phiz—(No artist’s hand could paint it;)“Wa-al neow, Maria,—I swan to manThat’s quite an insect, aint it?”
A city swell heard the remark,And quickly turned his noseUp, with an air that plainly said:“Such horrid folks as thoseMay go their way—for they’ll polluteThe very atmosphereWith their uncouth ways and ignorance—We can’t endure them here!”———The time rolled on,—and the city swellWas brought to account one dayFor the many bills and debts he owed—He had not a cent to pay.His creditors gobbled all his goodsAnd set them up for sale;But the cash they brought did not sufficeSo they marched him off to jail.————The “duffer” shook his jolly sidesWith a hearty, merry laugh;And recalled the time when he “so shockedThe insipid city calf.”“I pay my bills as I go along—Iowe no man,” said he;“There’s noinsectborn that can competeWith abiped such as he!”
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One morn as I walked in the meadowWhere flooded the sun’s golden lightAthwart tree and shrub—mid the grassesA butterfly gorgeous and brightWas caught in a web which a spiderHad deftly and craftily wrought;Aloft as a snare she had placed itAnd the unwary butterfly caught.Vainly the poor insect flutteredTo be freed from the web’s fleecy fold;But its wings were caught fast in its meshesAnd its fate could be plainly foretold.It appealed to my heart so patheticNe’er thought I to ignore its strifeIt was one of God’s own little creaturesAnd it had a good right to its life.So I knelt there beside the small captiveAnd gently the fine web I tore;Then away on glad wings it bounded,Rejoicing in freedom once more.It was only a poor lowly insect,Yet perchance, does the Good Father seeSmall deedsthat are wrought in the spirit of loveHe would say “Ye did this unto Me.”In the Book where all works are recorded—In that Haven up yonder so fair;Who knows butonemark bright and shiningNow illumines my name “over there.”
One morn as I walked in the meadowWhere flooded the sun’s golden lightAthwart tree and shrub—mid the grassesA butterfly gorgeous and brightWas caught in a web which a spiderHad deftly and craftily wrought;Aloft as a snare she had placed itAnd the unwary butterfly caught.Vainly the poor insect flutteredTo be freed from the web’s fleecy fold;But its wings were caught fast in its meshesAnd its fate could be plainly foretold.It appealed to my heart so patheticNe’er thought I to ignore its strifeIt was one of God’s own little creaturesAnd it had a good right to its life.So I knelt there beside the small captiveAnd gently the fine web I tore;Then away on glad wings it bounded,Rejoicing in freedom once more.It was only a poor lowly insect,Yet perchance, does the Good Father seeSmall deedsthat are wrought in the spirit of loveHe would say “Ye did this unto Me.”In the Book where all works are recorded—In that Haven up yonder so fair;Who knows butonemark bright and shiningNow illumines my name “over there.”
One morn as I walked in the meadowWhere flooded the sun’s golden lightAthwart tree and shrub—mid the grassesA butterfly gorgeous and bright
Was caught in a web which a spiderHad deftly and craftily wrought;Aloft as a snare she had placed itAnd the unwary butterfly caught.
Vainly the poor insect flutteredTo be freed from the web’s fleecy fold;But its wings were caught fast in its meshesAnd its fate could be plainly foretold.
It appealed to my heart so patheticNe’er thought I to ignore its strifeIt was one of God’s own little creaturesAnd it had a good right to its life.
So I knelt there beside the small captiveAnd gently the fine web I tore;Then away on glad wings it bounded,Rejoicing in freedom once more.
It was only a poor lowly insect,Yet perchance, does the Good Father seeSmall deedsthat are wrought in the spirit of loveHe would say “Ye did this unto Me.”
In the Book where all works are recorded—In that Haven up yonder so fair;Who knows butonemark bright and shiningNow illumines my name “over there.”
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’Tis true that the city is pleasant,With its scenes ever varied and new;But if it were not for the countryOh, what would the city folks do?Soon plenty would be supersededBy dearth with its train of distress;The gaunt wolf would roam by the once happy homeThough riches untold you possess.True, this may seem strangely in error,But doubtless, if you will take heedYou’ll find that the sources are ruralOf that which supplies every need,You say there are great mills and factoriesBy whose process rich fabrics are made;But pause for a moment and ponderHow the material first came into trade.Of Fashion’s apparel so dainty,Of which our great stores are so full;Whence comes that from which they were made—The cotton, the silk and the wool?’Tis not from the city—no, never!But from the free sunshine and airOn the broad, verdant acres extendingO’er the glorious country so fair.Tis true that the city has pleasures,And aspirants to fashion and fame,—But yet, should you search the world overYou’ll find it is ever the same.’Tis the toil-harden’d hand of the farmerBy which are the multitude fed,—Yea, the farmer—the“hard-handed” duffer,Who supplies the vast cities with bread.’Tis the farmer who toils on, unheedingThe mid-summer sun and the rain,Who with diligence plucks the tares from the wheatAnd garners the golden grain.From the forests afar down the valleyOr up over mountainous heightIs sent timber for use in the city,And fuel to make the hearths bright.The orchards, the fields and the mead landsFraught with richness from West to the EastSend forth to the homes in the cityRich viands and fruits for the feast.True, the brilliant paved streets are aboundingWith wonders and charms ever new—But, if from the country excludedOh! what would the city folks do?Then have praise and respect for the farmer—Be cordial to him when you meet—Ne’er pass him with countenance scornfulOr gaze at the “old codger’s” feet,Though he has not the costly apparelWhich you wear with such elegant grace—Remember, you can’t live without himNor can aught in the world fill his place.
’Tis true that the city is pleasant,With its scenes ever varied and new;But if it were not for the countryOh, what would the city folks do?Soon plenty would be supersededBy dearth with its train of distress;The gaunt wolf would roam by the once happy homeThough riches untold you possess.True, this may seem strangely in error,But doubtless, if you will take heedYou’ll find that the sources are ruralOf that which supplies every need,You say there are great mills and factoriesBy whose process rich fabrics are made;But pause for a moment and ponderHow the material first came into trade.Of Fashion’s apparel so dainty,Of which our great stores are so full;Whence comes that from which they were made—The cotton, the silk and the wool?’Tis not from the city—no, never!But from the free sunshine and airOn the broad, verdant acres extendingO’er the glorious country so fair.Tis true that the city has pleasures,And aspirants to fashion and fame,—But yet, should you search the world overYou’ll find it is ever the same.’Tis the toil-harden’d hand of the farmerBy which are the multitude fed,—Yea, the farmer—the“hard-handed” duffer,Who supplies the vast cities with bread.’Tis the farmer who toils on, unheedingThe mid-summer sun and the rain,Who with diligence plucks the tares from the wheatAnd garners the golden grain.From the forests afar down the valleyOr up over mountainous heightIs sent timber for use in the city,And fuel to make the hearths bright.The orchards, the fields and the mead landsFraught with richness from West to the EastSend forth to the homes in the cityRich viands and fruits for the feast.True, the brilliant paved streets are aboundingWith wonders and charms ever new—But, if from the country excludedOh! what would the city folks do?Then have praise and respect for the farmer—Be cordial to him when you meet—Ne’er pass him with countenance scornfulOr gaze at the “old codger’s” feet,Though he has not the costly apparelWhich you wear with such elegant grace—Remember, you can’t live without himNor can aught in the world fill his place.
’Tis true that the city is pleasant,With its scenes ever varied and new;But if it were not for the countryOh, what would the city folks do?Soon plenty would be supersededBy dearth with its train of distress;The gaunt wolf would roam by the once happy homeThough riches untold you possess.
True, this may seem strangely in error,But doubtless, if you will take heedYou’ll find that the sources are ruralOf that which supplies every need,You say there are great mills and factoriesBy whose process rich fabrics are made;But pause for a moment and ponderHow the material first came into trade.
Of Fashion’s apparel so dainty,Of which our great stores are so full;Whence comes that from which they were made—The cotton, the silk and the wool?’Tis not from the city—no, never!But from the free sunshine and airOn the broad, verdant acres extendingO’er the glorious country so fair.
Tis true that the city has pleasures,And aspirants to fashion and fame,—But yet, should you search the world overYou’ll find it is ever the same.’Tis the toil-harden’d hand of the farmerBy which are the multitude fed,—Yea, the farmer—the“hard-handed” duffer,Who supplies the vast cities with bread.
’Tis the farmer who toils on, unheedingThe mid-summer sun and the rain,Who with diligence plucks the tares from the wheatAnd garners the golden grain.From the forests afar down the valleyOr up over mountainous heightIs sent timber for use in the city,And fuel to make the hearths bright.
The orchards, the fields and the mead landsFraught with richness from West to the EastSend forth to the homes in the cityRich viands and fruits for the feast.True, the brilliant paved streets are aboundingWith wonders and charms ever new—But, if from the country excludedOh! what would the city folks do?
Then have praise and respect for the farmer—Be cordial to him when you meet—Ne’er pass him with countenance scornfulOr gaze at the “old codger’s” feet,Though he has not the costly apparelWhich you wear with such elegant grace—Remember, you can’t live without himNor can aught in the world fill his place.
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The house-wife came with smiling face,Bearing in her hand a broom;With thoughts intent, and purpose bentOn clearing up the room.She spied an object on the floor,Ne’er dreaming what it was;But close inspection soon revealedIts tail and head and claws!What was the sound that pierced the air—Was it an Indian’s yell?Or a wandering note from some demon throatFrom amidst the depths of—somewhere?Oh, no! of a different originWere the tones that smote the air,—’Twas only a frightened woman’s screamAs she mounted on a chair.Oh dear! Oh dear! she had seen a mouse!And it entered not her headIt would never, never do more harmFor the poor little thing was dead.It seems the cat, in hunting, hadCaught more than she could master;Of course old pussy never guessedThat it would cause disaster.The mouse was in mischief, so old PussHad caught him in the night;But the lady never paused to thinkWhether it was wrong or right.She knew ’twas a mouse—a horrid mouse,And there she stood, dismayed;What could she do, with no one nearTo whom to appeal for aid?She stood for what seemed hours to her,—(Her weapon was the broom;)Waiting in vain for some one to comeAnd take her from the room.At last she thought of a beautiful plan,And making good her aim;Jumped, and landed two yards the other sideOf the animal’s prostrate frame!———A short time thence her hubby came.—He saw the signs of storm;And to his brawny bosom closeHe drew her fainting form.When he had searched, and found the cause—So motionless and stark;Then to himself in undertoneHe ventured this remark:—“Women may talk about their rightsAnd wish for a chance to vote;Put on the airs of a gentlemanAnd don the vest and coat,—They’d better be content to waitUntil it can be saidThat they are brave enough to fightA mouse when it is dead!”
The house-wife came with smiling face,Bearing in her hand a broom;With thoughts intent, and purpose bentOn clearing up the room.She spied an object on the floor,Ne’er dreaming what it was;But close inspection soon revealedIts tail and head and claws!What was the sound that pierced the air—Was it an Indian’s yell?Or a wandering note from some demon throatFrom amidst the depths of—somewhere?Oh, no! of a different originWere the tones that smote the air,—’Twas only a frightened woman’s screamAs she mounted on a chair.Oh dear! Oh dear! she had seen a mouse!And it entered not her headIt would never, never do more harmFor the poor little thing was dead.It seems the cat, in hunting, hadCaught more than she could master;Of course old pussy never guessedThat it would cause disaster.The mouse was in mischief, so old PussHad caught him in the night;But the lady never paused to thinkWhether it was wrong or right.She knew ’twas a mouse—a horrid mouse,And there she stood, dismayed;What could she do, with no one nearTo whom to appeal for aid?She stood for what seemed hours to her,—(Her weapon was the broom;)Waiting in vain for some one to comeAnd take her from the room.At last she thought of a beautiful plan,And making good her aim;Jumped, and landed two yards the other sideOf the animal’s prostrate frame!———A short time thence her hubby came.—He saw the signs of storm;And to his brawny bosom closeHe drew her fainting form.When he had searched, and found the cause—So motionless and stark;Then to himself in undertoneHe ventured this remark:—“Women may talk about their rightsAnd wish for a chance to vote;Put on the airs of a gentlemanAnd don the vest and coat,—They’d better be content to waitUntil it can be saidThat they are brave enough to fightA mouse when it is dead!”
The house-wife came with smiling face,Bearing in her hand a broom;With thoughts intent, and purpose bentOn clearing up the room.She spied an object on the floor,Ne’er dreaming what it was;But close inspection soon revealedIts tail and head and claws!
What was the sound that pierced the air—Was it an Indian’s yell?Or a wandering note from some demon throatFrom amidst the depths of—somewhere?Oh, no! of a different originWere the tones that smote the air,—’Twas only a frightened woman’s screamAs she mounted on a chair.
Oh dear! Oh dear! she had seen a mouse!And it entered not her headIt would never, never do more harmFor the poor little thing was dead.It seems the cat, in hunting, hadCaught more than she could master;Of course old pussy never guessedThat it would cause disaster.
The mouse was in mischief, so old PussHad caught him in the night;But the lady never paused to thinkWhether it was wrong or right.She knew ’twas a mouse—a horrid mouse,And there she stood, dismayed;What could she do, with no one nearTo whom to appeal for aid?
She stood for what seemed hours to her,—(Her weapon was the broom;)Waiting in vain for some one to comeAnd take her from the room.At last she thought of a beautiful plan,And making good her aim;Jumped, and landed two yards the other sideOf the animal’s prostrate frame!———A short time thence her hubby came.—He saw the signs of storm;And to his brawny bosom closeHe drew her fainting form.When he had searched, and found the cause—So motionless and stark;Then to himself in undertoneHe ventured this remark:—
“Women may talk about their rightsAnd wish for a chance to vote;Put on the airs of a gentlemanAnd don the vest and coat,—They’d better be content to waitUntil it can be saidThat they are brave enough to fightA mouse when it is dead!”
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A decanter and a crystal cupMet in a banquet hall;The rosy light of the sparkling wineShed radiance over all.Ah, ha! old friend—and how is this—What is your mission here?“A pure, sweet spirit bid me come,”Replied the water clear.“So we have met,” said the ruby wine,“Now let us social be,—Let’s see who holds the greater powerO’er the nation, you or me.”“I can boast” said he, “of mighty deeds—I can tell you many a taleOf woe, and folly, sin and crime,—Can you, my friend so frail?I have caused Old Age to droop and die—I have caused fair Youth to fade;I have blighted lives, and hopes destroyed,—WhenIstrike there is no aid.I have hurled men down from their high estate—Remorseful I’m not in the least,—I have dragged them down, and down, untilThey were level with the beast.I have happy homes made desolateHa, ha! I laugh with gleeAs I see the babes every comfort denied,While the money is wasted on me!Tell me, my friend, Oh tell me I pray,Of a power that is greater than mine—Notyours—No! you are but water weak,WhileIam the fiery wine!And though I am classed in the bar-roomUnder many a different name,—No matter what liquor they call me,My spirit is always the same.I have sunk big ships—Yes, sank them downIn the depths of the briny deep;And for the loved who perished thereTheir kindred e’er may weep.I have wrecked the train—I have mansions burned—’Neath my powerman’s sensesflee—I have cast proud monarchs from their throne,—Behold!this wrought by Me!And this I say is not the halfOf the great success I win—But I’ll no longer take the timeSo you, pale friend, begin.”* * *“I do not boast” the water said,Though my power is as potent as yours;For to all who freely drink of meIt health and strength insures.I gently sooth the sick and the faint,I new life in the weary imbue;And even the roses smile sweetly and brightAs I touch them with kisses of dew.I turn the mill which grinds the grain—I strengthen, I cleanse, I heal;All things rejoice with grateful breathWhen my cool hand they feel.I send the brooklet on its way—I lift the drooping vine,—I make all vegetation grow—Canyoudo that, Sir Wine?Of our might and power we’ll not dispute—(The result of our deeds will show;)For the worth ofmeand the curse ofyouAll noble minded know.No, no! Sir Wine,Yourpath is death,Whilemineis safely trod;Youare cursed by a demon’s hand—I, blessed by the hand of God.
A decanter and a crystal cupMet in a banquet hall;The rosy light of the sparkling wineShed radiance over all.Ah, ha! old friend—and how is this—What is your mission here?“A pure, sweet spirit bid me come,”Replied the water clear.“So we have met,” said the ruby wine,“Now let us social be,—Let’s see who holds the greater powerO’er the nation, you or me.”“I can boast” said he, “of mighty deeds—I can tell you many a taleOf woe, and folly, sin and crime,—Can you, my friend so frail?I have caused Old Age to droop and die—I have caused fair Youth to fade;I have blighted lives, and hopes destroyed,—WhenIstrike there is no aid.I have hurled men down from their high estate—Remorseful I’m not in the least,—I have dragged them down, and down, untilThey were level with the beast.I have happy homes made desolateHa, ha! I laugh with gleeAs I see the babes every comfort denied,While the money is wasted on me!Tell me, my friend, Oh tell me I pray,Of a power that is greater than mine—Notyours—No! you are but water weak,WhileIam the fiery wine!And though I am classed in the bar-roomUnder many a different name,—No matter what liquor they call me,My spirit is always the same.I have sunk big ships—Yes, sank them downIn the depths of the briny deep;And for the loved who perished thereTheir kindred e’er may weep.I have wrecked the train—I have mansions burned—’Neath my powerman’s sensesflee—I have cast proud monarchs from their throne,—Behold!this wrought by Me!And this I say is not the halfOf the great success I win—But I’ll no longer take the timeSo you, pale friend, begin.”* * *“I do not boast” the water said,Though my power is as potent as yours;For to all who freely drink of meIt health and strength insures.I gently sooth the sick and the faint,I new life in the weary imbue;And even the roses smile sweetly and brightAs I touch them with kisses of dew.I turn the mill which grinds the grain—I strengthen, I cleanse, I heal;All things rejoice with grateful breathWhen my cool hand they feel.I send the brooklet on its way—I lift the drooping vine,—I make all vegetation grow—Canyoudo that, Sir Wine?Of our might and power we’ll not dispute—(The result of our deeds will show;)For the worth ofmeand the curse ofyouAll noble minded know.No, no! Sir Wine,Yourpath is death,Whilemineis safely trod;Youare cursed by a demon’s hand—I, blessed by the hand of God.
A decanter and a crystal cupMet in a banquet hall;The rosy light of the sparkling wineShed radiance over all.Ah, ha! old friend—and how is this—What is your mission here?“A pure, sweet spirit bid me come,”Replied the water clear.
“So we have met,” said the ruby wine,“Now let us social be,—Let’s see who holds the greater powerO’er the nation, you or me.”“I can boast” said he, “of mighty deeds—I can tell you many a taleOf woe, and folly, sin and crime,—Can you, my friend so frail?
I have caused Old Age to droop and die—I have caused fair Youth to fade;I have blighted lives, and hopes destroyed,—WhenIstrike there is no aid.I have hurled men down from their high estate—Remorseful I’m not in the least,—I have dragged them down, and down, untilThey were level with the beast.
I have happy homes made desolateHa, ha! I laugh with gleeAs I see the babes every comfort denied,While the money is wasted on me!Tell me, my friend, Oh tell me I pray,Of a power that is greater than mine—Notyours—No! you are but water weak,WhileIam the fiery wine!
And though I am classed in the bar-roomUnder many a different name,—No matter what liquor they call me,My spirit is always the same.I have sunk big ships—Yes, sank them downIn the depths of the briny deep;And for the loved who perished thereTheir kindred e’er may weep.
I have wrecked the train—I have mansions burned—’Neath my powerman’s sensesflee—I have cast proud monarchs from their throne,—Behold!this wrought by Me!And this I say is not the halfOf the great success I win—But I’ll no longer take the timeSo you, pale friend, begin.”* * *“I do not boast” the water said,Though my power is as potent as yours;For to all who freely drink of meIt health and strength insures.I gently sooth the sick and the faint,I new life in the weary imbue;And even the roses smile sweetly and brightAs I touch them with kisses of dew.
I turn the mill which grinds the grain—I strengthen, I cleanse, I heal;All things rejoice with grateful breathWhen my cool hand they feel.I send the brooklet on its way—I lift the drooping vine,—I make all vegetation grow—Canyoudo that, Sir Wine?
Of our might and power we’ll not dispute—(The result of our deeds will show;)For the worth ofmeand the curse ofyouAll noble minded know.No, no! Sir Wine,Yourpath is death,Whilemineis safely trod;Youare cursed by a demon’s hand—I, blessed by the hand of God.
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A youth once went to a partyWhose sweetheart was there with the rest;The moments that flew on swift pinionsWere enjoyed with great fervor and zest.’Til at length came the time for dispersing,When each went their various ways—This fond youth escorting his sweetheart—His heart with emotion ablaze.On his sleeve her hand trustingly restedAs they wended their way through the wood,—When lo! a white spectre before themAppeared.—In their pathway it stoodLike a Goblin, with long arms extendedIt swayed, while a wild, weird noteLike the wail of a disparing spiritCame issuing from the Ghost’s throat.’Twas too much for our hero—and turningHe ran in the wildest alarm;And left his companion in terror—But a word from Sir Ghost made her calm.The echoing footsteps grew fainter’Til at last in the distance they fade—The rival then threw off the mysticAnd boldly walked home with the maid!
A youth once went to a partyWhose sweetheart was there with the rest;The moments that flew on swift pinionsWere enjoyed with great fervor and zest.’Til at length came the time for dispersing,When each went their various ways—This fond youth escorting his sweetheart—His heart with emotion ablaze.On his sleeve her hand trustingly restedAs they wended their way through the wood,—When lo! a white spectre before themAppeared.—In their pathway it stoodLike a Goblin, with long arms extendedIt swayed, while a wild, weird noteLike the wail of a disparing spiritCame issuing from the Ghost’s throat.’Twas too much for our hero—and turningHe ran in the wildest alarm;And left his companion in terror—But a word from Sir Ghost made her calm.The echoing footsteps grew fainter’Til at last in the distance they fade—The rival then threw off the mysticAnd boldly walked home with the maid!
A youth once went to a partyWhose sweetheart was there with the rest;The moments that flew on swift pinionsWere enjoyed with great fervor and zest.’Til at length came the time for dispersing,When each went their various ways—This fond youth escorting his sweetheart—His heart with emotion ablaze.
On his sleeve her hand trustingly restedAs they wended their way through the wood,—When lo! a white spectre before themAppeared.—In their pathway it stoodLike a Goblin, with long arms extendedIt swayed, while a wild, weird noteLike the wail of a disparing spiritCame issuing from the Ghost’s throat.
’Twas too much for our hero—and turningHe ran in the wildest alarm;And left his companion in terror—But a word from Sir Ghost made her calm.The echoing footsteps grew fainter’Til at last in the distance they fade—The rival then threw off the mysticAnd boldly walked home with the maid!
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The theory ofDarwinWith evidence was bound;But when the chain was brokenOne link could not be foundConnecting Man and Monkey,—Yet Modern Science showsAdvancement which may nearlyThat missing link disclose.The “Telephonic System”Has spread near and afar;Until the Way-Back CountyAnd Town connected are.Thus, sturdy “country Jamie,”With hands and cheeks so brownAnd heart so true and loyal,Can call up Reg. in town—“Dude Reggie” with the eyeglass,And hair in “done up” curls;With brain so weak he scarcelyCan think of aught but “Girls,”—As at the ’phone they linger,The line doesthen, I think;Connect theManandMonkeyAnd forms The Missing Link!
The theory ofDarwinWith evidence was bound;But when the chain was brokenOne link could not be foundConnecting Man and Monkey,—Yet Modern Science showsAdvancement which may nearlyThat missing link disclose.The “Telephonic System”Has spread near and afar;Until the Way-Back CountyAnd Town connected are.Thus, sturdy “country Jamie,”With hands and cheeks so brownAnd heart so true and loyal,Can call up Reg. in town—“Dude Reggie” with the eyeglass,And hair in “done up” curls;With brain so weak he scarcelyCan think of aught but “Girls,”—As at the ’phone they linger,The line doesthen, I think;Connect theManandMonkeyAnd forms The Missing Link!
The theory ofDarwinWith evidence was bound;But when the chain was brokenOne link could not be foundConnecting Man and Monkey,—Yet Modern Science showsAdvancement which may nearlyThat missing link disclose.
The “Telephonic System”Has spread near and afar;Until the Way-Back CountyAnd Town connected are.Thus, sturdy “country Jamie,”With hands and cheeks so brownAnd heart so true and loyal,Can call up Reg. in town—
“Dude Reggie” with the eyeglass,And hair in “done up” curls;With brain so weak he scarcelyCan think of aught but “Girls,”—As at the ’phone they linger,The line doesthen, I think;Connect theManandMonkeyAnd forms The Missing Link!
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“I swan!” said farmer Joe one morn,—“Them pesky crows shan’t have my corn!”So he went to work, and soon he foundTwo stakes, which he drove into the ground.Then he brought to light some ragged pantsAnd a tattered coat soon found a chance;While an old felt hat was perched for showUpon the head of the old scare-crow.One arm reached out while the other oneHeld to his breast a rusty gun.“There it is done, and now,” quoth he—“See which will beat—them crows or me!”So in the house the whole day he spent,Feeling at ease and well content,—While a broad grin o’er his features strayedAs he tho’t of the trick on the crows he’d played.Meanwhile, two crows sat on a tree—The young said to the old one:—“SeeThat horrid thing that’s standing yonder—What is he doing here I wonder?If he stays here what’s to be done?For Mother, look, he’s got a gun!Here in this tree all day I’ve stayed—Oh, Mother! are you not afraid?Whatshall wedo? it takes my breath—Must we stay here and starve to death—Do you s’pose that old thing will hurt me?I’m just as hungry as I can be!But to get my grub I don’t know how—For see, he’s looking at us now!And what oh earth are we to do—Oh, Mother! I’m afraid, aren’t you?”“You foolish child,” the old crow said,“Fret not your silly little head—That is ourCorn Kinggood and true,He came and stayed here last year, too.—He has come to us, armed with a gun;To tell us when the planting’s done.He tells us that we need not fear,He’ll protect us as long as he is here.He tells us—as he did before:—‘Fear not thefarmerany more!’Our honestCorn-Kingtells us right,—Come, let us go and have a bite!Let’s pay our respects to the Corn-King true”—Then to the field of corn they flew.And the rest of the crows they did invite—Not a hill of corn was left in sight!
“I swan!” said farmer Joe one morn,—“Them pesky crows shan’t have my corn!”So he went to work, and soon he foundTwo stakes, which he drove into the ground.Then he brought to light some ragged pantsAnd a tattered coat soon found a chance;While an old felt hat was perched for showUpon the head of the old scare-crow.One arm reached out while the other oneHeld to his breast a rusty gun.“There it is done, and now,” quoth he—“See which will beat—them crows or me!”So in the house the whole day he spent,Feeling at ease and well content,—While a broad grin o’er his features strayedAs he tho’t of the trick on the crows he’d played.Meanwhile, two crows sat on a tree—The young said to the old one:—“SeeThat horrid thing that’s standing yonder—What is he doing here I wonder?If he stays here what’s to be done?For Mother, look, he’s got a gun!Here in this tree all day I’ve stayed—Oh, Mother! are you not afraid?Whatshall wedo? it takes my breath—Must we stay here and starve to death—Do you s’pose that old thing will hurt me?I’m just as hungry as I can be!But to get my grub I don’t know how—For see, he’s looking at us now!And what oh earth are we to do—Oh, Mother! I’m afraid, aren’t you?”“You foolish child,” the old crow said,“Fret not your silly little head—That is ourCorn Kinggood and true,He came and stayed here last year, too.—He has come to us, armed with a gun;To tell us when the planting’s done.He tells us that we need not fear,He’ll protect us as long as he is here.He tells us—as he did before:—‘Fear not thefarmerany more!’Our honestCorn-Kingtells us right,—Come, let us go and have a bite!Let’s pay our respects to the Corn-King true”—Then to the field of corn they flew.And the rest of the crows they did invite—Not a hill of corn was left in sight!
“I swan!” said farmer Joe one morn,—“Them pesky crows shan’t have my corn!”So he went to work, and soon he foundTwo stakes, which he drove into the ground.Then he brought to light some ragged pantsAnd a tattered coat soon found a chance;While an old felt hat was perched for showUpon the head of the old scare-crow.
One arm reached out while the other oneHeld to his breast a rusty gun.“There it is done, and now,” quoth he—“See which will beat—them crows or me!”So in the house the whole day he spent,Feeling at ease and well content,—While a broad grin o’er his features strayedAs he tho’t of the trick on the crows he’d played.
Meanwhile, two crows sat on a tree—The young said to the old one:—“SeeThat horrid thing that’s standing yonder—What is he doing here I wonder?If he stays here what’s to be done?For Mother, look, he’s got a gun!Here in this tree all day I’ve stayed—Oh, Mother! are you not afraid?
Whatshall wedo? it takes my breath—Must we stay here and starve to death—Do you s’pose that old thing will hurt me?I’m just as hungry as I can be!But to get my grub I don’t know how—For see, he’s looking at us now!And what oh earth are we to do—Oh, Mother! I’m afraid, aren’t you?”
“You foolish child,” the old crow said,“Fret not your silly little head—That is ourCorn Kinggood and true,He came and stayed here last year, too.—He has come to us, armed with a gun;To tell us when the planting’s done.He tells us that we need not fear,He’ll protect us as long as he is here.
He tells us—as he did before:—‘Fear not thefarmerany more!’Our honestCorn-Kingtells us right,—Come, let us go and have a bite!Let’s pay our respects to the Corn-King true”—Then to the field of corn they flew.And the rest of the crows they did invite—Not a hill of corn was left in sight!
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A blue-jay sat on a hickory limb,And a bullfrog sat belowOn a tuft of grass, where rushes greenWere waving to and fro.While near him lay the glassy poolWhere the tad-poles leap’d in play;But the old frog’s face wore a troubled frownAs he thus addressed the jay:—“Did I wear your dress of brilliant hueInstead of this coat of green;I could have the best the world affords,And always live serene.You fly away to the fields of grainOr feast on the cherries high;While I sit here ’neath the rushes cool,And snap at a wary fly.”“Then why,” said the jay, “If you wish to riseDo you not ascend this limb?”“I will! I will!” cried the silly frog,I’m tired of folks that swim!”So he hopped from the tuft of grass to the tree,Then up where the branches divide;Then with a grin he crawled alongAnd perched by the blue-jay’s side.“I’m big as you, I’m big as you,”Cried the frog in greatest glee;“I wish my friends could see me now—In this high society!”—But his joy waned.—As a flock of jaysWith one accord did riseAnd, swooping down, they pecked at himWith harsh and jeering cries.’Till he was forced to quick retreat.—As the rushes green he seeksHe said, as he leaped in the quiet poolAnd escaped their cruel beaks:—Ifthisis the way the ‘high class’ treatsThe lowly ones, ’tis clear’Tis best that we should be contentTo stay in our native sphere!
A blue-jay sat on a hickory limb,And a bullfrog sat belowOn a tuft of grass, where rushes greenWere waving to and fro.While near him lay the glassy poolWhere the tad-poles leap’d in play;But the old frog’s face wore a troubled frownAs he thus addressed the jay:—“Did I wear your dress of brilliant hueInstead of this coat of green;I could have the best the world affords,And always live serene.You fly away to the fields of grainOr feast on the cherries high;While I sit here ’neath the rushes cool,And snap at a wary fly.”“Then why,” said the jay, “If you wish to riseDo you not ascend this limb?”“I will! I will!” cried the silly frog,I’m tired of folks that swim!”So he hopped from the tuft of grass to the tree,Then up where the branches divide;Then with a grin he crawled alongAnd perched by the blue-jay’s side.“I’m big as you, I’m big as you,”Cried the frog in greatest glee;“I wish my friends could see me now—In this high society!”—But his joy waned.—As a flock of jaysWith one accord did riseAnd, swooping down, they pecked at himWith harsh and jeering cries.’Till he was forced to quick retreat.—As the rushes green he seeksHe said, as he leaped in the quiet poolAnd escaped their cruel beaks:—Ifthisis the way the ‘high class’ treatsThe lowly ones, ’tis clear’Tis best that we should be contentTo stay in our native sphere!
A blue-jay sat on a hickory limb,And a bullfrog sat belowOn a tuft of grass, where rushes greenWere waving to and fro.While near him lay the glassy poolWhere the tad-poles leap’d in play;But the old frog’s face wore a troubled frownAs he thus addressed the jay:—
“Did I wear your dress of brilliant hueInstead of this coat of green;I could have the best the world affords,And always live serene.You fly away to the fields of grainOr feast on the cherries high;While I sit here ’neath the rushes cool,And snap at a wary fly.”
“Then why,” said the jay, “If you wish to riseDo you not ascend this limb?”“I will! I will!” cried the silly frog,I’m tired of folks that swim!”So he hopped from the tuft of grass to the tree,Then up where the branches divide;Then with a grin he crawled alongAnd perched by the blue-jay’s side.
“I’m big as you, I’m big as you,”Cried the frog in greatest glee;“I wish my friends could see me now—In this high society!”—But his joy waned.—As a flock of jaysWith one accord did riseAnd, swooping down, they pecked at himWith harsh and jeering cries.
’Till he was forced to quick retreat.—As the rushes green he seeksHe said, as he leaped in the quiet poolAnd escaped their cruel beaks:—Ifthisis the way the ‘high class’ treatsThe lowly ones, ’tis clear’Tis best that we should be contentTo stay in our native sphere!
When proudAmbitionseeks to riseFrom its accustomed ways;Oft jealousies will jeer and peck,As did the haughty jays.* * *To all who chance to read this tale,Its simple warning speaks,—“Ye who aspire to sphere’s aloft—Beware of vicious beaks!”
When proudAmbitionseeks to riseFrom its accustomed ways;Oft jealousies will jeer and peck,As did the haughty jays.* * *To all who chance to read this tale,Its simple warning speaks,—“Ye who aspire to sphere’s aloft—Beware of vicious beaks!”
When proudAmbitionseeks to riseFrom its accustomed ways;Oft jealousies will jeer and peck,As did the haughty jays.* * *To all who chance to read this tale,Its simple warning speaks,—“Ye who aspire to sphere’s aloft—Beware of vicious beaks!”
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On the bank of Old Nezinscot,Where the sparkling waters flowDown this sea-ward course, as freelyAs the roving winds that blow,Stands a cottage by the river—(Built upon the side-hill plan;—Think it was a blacksmith built itElse it was a crazy man!Must have been an awful ship wreckOnce, upon Nezinscot’s waves;When a score or more of sailorsWent down to their watery graves—All except old Robinson Crusoe,Guesshelanded on a scow;And this fact seems most emphaticFor man “Friday” lives there now!Probably, from out the wreckageThey contrived to save their goods,—Then, with jack-knife and a hatchetBuilt this cottage in the woods—Musthave been some ship-wreck’d sailorBy the angry tempest tossed—Or an aeronaut that landedWho with his balloon was lost.Doubtless, then, this lonely exileFought the wild-cat and the bear—Else he’d not have pitched his cabinForty miles from any where—Far away from habitation—Neither do we often findHouses that are built like this oneWith the front door on behind!)Though in this salubrious climateOften lurks the river fogs;—Yet the sweet, halcyon chorusOf the whip-poor-wills and frogsWhen the twilight shadows gatherAnd the sun sinks in the west—Calms and sooths the fever’d pillow,Lulls the weary into rest.Then all hail—all hail to Crusoe(Or what ever was his name)Who discovered this fair haven,And in reverence we’ll proclaimThat to him who built this cottageWe should ever give our thanksFor the hours we’ve spent in pleasureOn Nezinscot’s mossy banks!
On the bank of Old Nezinscot,Where the sparkling waters flowDown this sea-ward course, as freelyAs the roving winds that blow,Stands a cottage by the river—(Built upon the side-hill plan;—Think it was a blacksmith built itElse it was a crazy man!Must have been an awful ship wreckOnce, upon Nezinscot’s waves;When a score or more of sailorsWent down to their watery graves—All except old Robinson Crusoe,Guesshelanded on a scow;And this fact seems most emphaticFor man “Friday” lives there now!Probably, from out the wreckageThey contrived to save their goods,—Then, with jack-knife and a hatchetBuilt this cottage in the woods—Musthave been some ship-wreck’d sailorBy the angry tempest tossed—Or an aeronaut that landedWho with his balloon was lost.Doubtless, then, this lonely exileFought the wild-cat and the bear—Else he’d not have pitched his cabinForty miles from any where—Far away from habitation—Neither do we often findHouses that are built like this oneWith the front door on behind!)Though in this salubrious climateOften lurks the river fogs;—Yet the sweet, halcyon chorusOf the whip-poor-wills and frogsWhen the twilight shadows gatherAnd the sun sinks in the west—Calms and sooths the fever’d pillow,Lulls the weary into rest.Then all hail—all hail to Crusoe(Or what ever was his name)Who discovered this fair haven,And in reverence we’ll proclaimThat to him who built this cottageWe should ever give our thanksFor the hours we’ve spent in pleasureOn Nezinscot’s mossy banks!
On the bank of Old Nezinscot,Where the sparkling waters flowDown this sea-ward course, as freelyAs the roving winds that blow,Stands a cottage by the river—(Built upon the side-hill plan;—Think it was a blacksmith built itElse it was a crazy man!
Must have been an awful ship wreckOnce, upon Nezinscot’s waves;When a score or more of sailorsWent down to their watery graves—All except old Robinson Crusoe,Guesshelanded on a scow;And this fact seems most emphaticFor man “Friday” lives there now!
Probably, from out the wreckageThey contrived to save their goods,—Then, with jack-knife and a hatchetBuilt this cottage in the woods—Musthave been some ship-wreck’d sailorBy the angry tempest tossed—Or an aeronaut that landedWho with his balloon was lost.
Doubtless, then, this lonely exileFought the wild-cat and the bear—Else he’d not have pitched his cabinForty miles from any where—Far away from habitation—Neither do we often findHouses that are built like this oneWith the front door on behind!)
Though in this salubrious climateOften lurks the river fogs;—Yet the sweet, halcyon chorusOf the whip-poor-wills and frogsWhen the twilight shadows gatherAnd the sun sinks in the west—Calms and sooths the fever’d pillow,Lulls the weary into rest.
Then all hail—all hail to Crusoe(Or what ever was his name)Who discovered this fair haven,And in reverence we’ll proclaimThat to him who built this cottageWe should ever give our thanksFor the hours we’ve spent in pleasureOn Nezinscot’s mossy banks!
[decorative bar.]
You painted a beautiful pictureAnd sent it a gift to me;So I will write you a poem,—But what shall the poem be?Your picture, like beautiful sunsetSo brilliant, will ever be praised,—But my poem will be like a cipherThat some rude, reckless hand has erased!Your picture seemed “Tidings of Gladness,”—As the beautiful rainbow will castIts bright, glowing tints on the billowsOf clouds when the tempest is past.Like the unbounded depth of the OceanIs the gratitude felt.—for your giftWas like rending dark storm-clouds asunderWhen a sunbeam shines bright thro’ the rift.Your picture was eagerly welcomed,—As the first rosy tints of the dawnAre welcomed by vigilant watchersWhen the curtains of Night are withdrawn.—As the rose hails the dew of the eveningWhen parched by the heat of the sun;—As the hand, that with toil has grown wearyWelcomes rest when the day’s work is done——So thus, for your picture a welcomeMost fervent will e’er be secureBut my poem—Ah! what of my poem?—There can scarcely be aught to endure.Tho’ your picture’s like beauteous landscapeThat by Artists will ever be praised;—Yet my poem will be like a cipherThat some rude, reckless hand has erased!
You painted a beautiful pictureAnd sent it a gift to me;So I will write you a poem,—But what shall the poem be?Your picture, like beautiful sunsetSo brilliant, will ever be praised,—But my poem will be like a cipherThat some rude, reckless hand has erased!Your picture seemed “Tidings of Gladness,”—As the beautiful rainbow will castIts bright, glowing tints on the billowsOf clouds when the tempest is past.Like the unbounded depth of the OceanIs the gratitude felt.—for your giftWas like rending dark storm-clouds asunderWhen a sunbeam shines bright thro’ the rift.Your picture was eagerly welcomed,—As the first rosy tints of the dawnAre welcomed by vigilant watchersWhen the curtains of Night are withdrawn.—As the rose hails the dew of the eveningWhen parched by the heat of the sun;—As the hand, that with toil has grown wearyWelcomes rest when the day’s work is done——So thus, for your picture a welcomeMost fervent will e’er be secureBut my poem—Ah! what of my poem?—There can scarcely be aught to endure.Tho’ your picture’s like beauteous landscapeThat by Artists will ever be praised;—Yet my poem will be like a cipherThat some rude, reckless hand has erased!
You painted a beautiful pictureAnd sent it a gift to me;So I will write you a poem,—But what shall the poem be?Your picture, like beautiful sunsetSo brilliant, will ever be praised,—But my poem will be like a cipherThat some rude, reckless hand has erased!
Your picture seemed “Tidings of Gladness,”—As the beautiful rainbow will castIts bright, glowing tints on the billowsOf clouds when the tempest is past.Like the unbounded depth of the OceanIs the gratitude felt.—for your giftWas like rending dark storm-clouds asunderWhen a sunbeam shines bright thro’ the rift.
Your picture was eagerly welcomed,—As the first rosy tints of the dawnAre welcomed by vigilant watchersWhen the curtains of Night are withdrawn.—As the rose hails the dew of the eveningWhen parched by the heat of the sun;—As the hand, that with toil has grown wearyWelcomes rest when the day’s work is done—
—So thus, for your picture a welcomeMost fervent will e’er be secureBut my poem—Ah! what of my poem?—There can scarcely be aught to endure.Tho’ your picture’s like beauteous landscapeThat by Artists will ever be praised;—Yet my poem will be like a cipherThat some rude, reckless hand has erased!
[decorative bar.]