Oh, Think of Me!
Oh, think of me, my own beloved,Whatever cares beset thee!And when thou hast the falsehood proved,Of those with smiles who met thee—While o'er the sea, think, love, of me,Who never can forget thee;Let memory trace the trysting-place,Where I with tears regret thee.
Bright as you star, within my mind,A hand unseen hath set thee;There hath thine image been enshrined,Since first, dear love, I met thee;So in thy breast I fain would rest,If, haply, fate would let me—And live or die, so thou wert nigh,To love or to regret me!
My Bark is Out Upon the Sea.
My bark is out upon the sea—The moon's above;Her light a presence seems to meLike woman's love.My native land I've left behind—Afar I roam;In other climes no hearts I'll findLike those at home.
Of all yon sisterhood of stars,But one is true:She paves my path with silver bars,And beams like you,Whose purity the waves recallIn music's flow,As round my bark they rise and fallIn liquid snow.
The fresh'ning breeze now swells our sails!A storm is on!The weary moon's dim lustre fails—The stars are gone!Not so fades Love's eternal lightWhen storm-clouds weep;I know one heart's with me to-nightUpon the deep!
Will Nobody Marry Me?
Heigh-ho! for a husband!—Heigh-ho!There's danger in longer delay!Shall I never again have a beau?Will nobody marry me, pray!I begin to feel strange, I declare!With beauty my prospects will fade—I'd give myself up to despairIf I thought I should die an old maid!
I once cut the beaux in a huff—I thought it a sin and a shameThat no one had spirit enoughTo ask me to alter my name.So I turned up my nose at the short,And cast down my eyes at the tall;But then I just did it in sport—And now I've no lover at all!
These men are the plague of my life:'Tis hard from so many to choose!Should any one wish for a wife,Could I have the heart to refuse?I don't know—for none have proposed—Oh, dear me!—I'm frightened, I vow!Good gracious! who ever supposedThat I should be single till now?
The Star of Love.
The star of love now shines above,Cool zephyrs crisp the sea;Among the leaves the wind-harp weavesIts serenade for thee.The star, the breeze, the wave, the trees,Their minstrelsy unite,But all are drear till thou appearTo decorate the night.
The light of noon streams from the moon,Though with a milder rayO'er hill and grove, like woman's love,It cheers us on our way.Thus all that's bright—the moon, the night,The heavens, the earth, the sea,Exert their powers to bless the hoursWe dedicate to thee.
Well-A-Day!
Love comes and goes like a spell!How, no one knows, nor can tell!Now here—now there—then away!None dreameth where!—Well-a-day!
Love should be true as the starSeen in the blue sky afar!—Not here—now there—like the layOf lutes in th' air!—Well-a-day!
Should love depart, not a tieBinds up the heart till we die!—Now here—now there—sad we strayLife is all care!—Well-a-day!
Not Married Yet!
I'm single yet—I'm single yet!And years have flown since I came out!In vain I sigh—in vain I fret—Ye gods! what are the men about?I vow I'm twenty!—O ye powers!A spinster's lot is hard to bear—On earth alone to pass her hours,And afterward lead apes—DOWN THERE!
No offer yet—no offer yet!I'm puzzled quite to make it out:For every beau my cap I set—What, what, what ARE the men about?They don't propose—they WON'T propose,For fear, perhaps, I'd not say, "Yes!"Just let them try—for Heaven knowsI'm tired of single-blessedness.
Not married yet—not married yet—The deuce is in the men, I fear!I'm like a—something to be let,And to be LET ALONE—that's clear.They say, "She's pretty—but no chink—And love without it runs in debt!"It agitates my nerves to thinkThat I have had no offer yet.
Lady of England.
Lady of England—o'er the seasThy name was borne on every breeze,Till all this sunset clime becameFamiliar with Victoria's name.
Though seas divide us many miles,Yet, for the Queen of those fair isles,Which gave our fathers birth, there rovesA blessing from this Land of Groves.
Our Fatherland!—Fit theme for song!When thou art named, what memories throng!Shall England cease our love to claim?Not while our language is the same.
Scion of kings! so live and reign,That, when thy nation's swelling strainIs breathed amid our forests green,We too may sing, "God save the Queen!"
Oh, This Love!
Music—"Jess Macfarlane."
Oh, this love—this love!I ainse the passion slighted;But hearts that truly love,Must break or be united.Oh, this love!
When first he cam' to woo,I little cared aboot him;But seene I felt as thoughI could na' live without him.Oh, this love!
He brought to me the ring,My hand asked o' my mither—I could na' bear the thoughtThat he should we anither.Oh, this love!
And now I'm a' his ain—In a' his joys I mingle;Nae for the wealth of warldsWad I again be single!Oh, this love!
Mary.
One balmy summer night, Mary,Just as the risen moonHad thrown aside her fleecy veil,We left the gay saloon;And in a green, sequestered spot,Beneath a drooping tree,Fond words were breathed, by you forgot,That still are dear to me, Mary,That still are dear to me.
Oh, we were happy, then, Mary—Time lingered on his way,To crowd a lifetime in a night,Whole ages in a day!If star and sun would set and riseThus in our after years,The world would be a paradise,And not a vale of tears, Mary,And not a vale of tears.
I live but in the past, Mary—The glorious day of old!When love was hoarded in the heart,As misers hoard their gold:And often like a bridal train,To music soft and low,The by-gone moments cross my brain,In all their summer glow, Mary,In all their summer glow.
These visions form and fade, Mary,As age comes stealing on,To bring the light and leave the shadeOf days for ever gone!The poet's brow may wear at lastThe bays that round it fall;But love has rose-buds of the pastFar dearer than them all, Mary,Far dearer than them all!
The Beam of Devotion.
I never could find a good reasonWhy sorrow unbidden should stay,And all the bright joys of life's seasonBe driven unheeded away.Our cares would wake no more emotion,Were we to our lot but resigned,Than pebbles flung into the ocean,That leave scarce a ripple behind.
The world has a spirit of beauty,Which looks upon all for the best,And while it discharges its duty,To Providence leaves all the rest:That spirit's the beam of devotion,Which lights us through life to its close,And sets, like the sun in the ocean,More beautiful far than it rose.
The Welcome and Farewell.
To meet, and part, as we have met and parted,One moment cherished and the next forgot,To wear a smile when almost broken-hearted,I know full well is hapless woman's lot;Yet let me, to thy tenderness appealing,Avert this brief but melancholy doom—Content that close beside the thorn of feeling,Grows memory, like a rose, in guarded bloom.
Love's history, dearest, is a sad one ever,Yet often with a smile I've heard it told!Oh, there are records of the heart which neverAre to the scrutinizing gaze unrolled!My eyes to thine may scarce again aspire—Still in thy memory, dearest let me dwell,And hush, with this hope, the magnetic wire,Wild with our mingled welcome and farewell!
'Tis Now the Promised Hour.
A Serenade.
The fountains serenade the flowers,Upon their silver lute—And, nestled in their leafy bowers,The forest-birds are mute:The bright and glittering hosts aboveUnbar their golden gates,While Nature holds her court of love,And for her client waits.Then, lady, wake—in beauty rise!'Tis now the promised hour,When torches kindle in the skiesTo light thee to thy bower.The day we dedicate to care—To love the witching night;For all that's beautiful and fairIn hours like these unite.E'en thus the sweets to flowerets given—The moonlight on the tree—And all the bliss of earth and heaven—Are mingled, love, in thee.Then, lady, wake—in beauty rise!'Tis now the promised hour,When torches kindle in the skiesTo light thee to thy bower!
The Songs of Home.
Oh, sing once more those dear, familiar lays,Whose gliding measure every bosom thrills,And takes my heart back to the happy daysWhen first I sang them on my native hills!With the fresh feelings of the olden times,I hear them now upon a foreign shore—The simple music and the artless rhymes!Oh, sing those dear, familiar lays once more,Those cheerful lays of other days—Oh, sing those cheerful lays once more!
Oh, sing once more those joy-provoking strains,Which, half forgotten, in my memory dwell;They send the life-blood bounding thro' my veins,And linger round me like a fairy spell.The songs of home are to the human heartFar dearer than the notes that song-birds pour,And of our very nature form a part:Then sing those dear, familiar lays once more!Those cheerful lays of other days—Oh, sing those cheerful lays once more!
Masonic Hymn.
Our Order, like the ark of yore,Upon the raging sea was tossed;Secure amid the billow's roar,It moved, and nothing has been lost.
When elements discordant seekTo wreck what God in mercy saves,The struggle is as vain and weakAs that of the retiring waves.
The Power who bade the waters cease,The Pilot of the Pilgrim Band,He gave the gentle dove of peaceThe branch she bore them from the land.
In him alone we put our trust,With heart and hand and one accord,Ascribing, with the true and just,All "holiness unto the Lord."
The Dismissed.
"I suppose she was right in rejecting my suit,But why did she kick me down stairs?"Halleck's "Discarded."
The wing of my spirit is broken,My day-star of hope has declined;For a month not a word have I spokenThat's either polite or refined.My mind's like the sky in bad weather,When mist-clouds around us are curled:And, viewing myself altogether,I'm the veriest wretch in the world!
I wander about like a vagrant—I spend half my time in the street;My conduct's improper and flagrant,For I quarrel with all that I meet.My dress, too, is wholly neglected,My hat I pull over my brow,And I look like a fellow suspectedOf wishing to kick up a row.
In vain I've endeavored to borrowFrom friends "some material aid"—For my landlady views me with sorrow,When she thinks of the bill that's unpaid.Abroad my acquaintances flout me,The ladies cry, "Bless us, look there!"And the little boys cluster about me,And sensible citizens stare.
One says, "He's a victim to cupid;"Another, "His conduct's too bad;"A third, "He is awfully stupid;"A fourth, "He is perfectly mad!"—And then I am watched like a bandit,Mankind with me all are at strife:By heaven no longer I'll stand it,But quick put an end to my life!
I've thought of the means—yet I shudderAt dagger or ratsbane or rope;At drawing with lancet my blood, orAt razor without any soap!Suppose I should fall in a duel,And thus leave the stage with ECLAT?But to die with a bullet is cruel—Besides 'twould be breaking the law!
Yet one way remains: to the riverI'll fly from the goadings of care!—But drown?—oh, the thought makes me shiver—A terrible death, I declare!Ah, no!—I'll once more see my Kitty,And parry her cruel disdain—Beseech her to take me in pity,And never dismiss me again.
Lord of the Castle.
"Lord of the castle! oh, where goest thou?Why is the triumph of pride on thy brow?""Pilgrim, my bridal awaits me to-day,Over the mountains away and away."
"Flora in beauty and solitude roves,List'ning for thee in the shade of the groves.""Pilgrim, I hasten her truth to repay,Over the mountains away and away."
"Guided by honor, how brilliant the roadLeading from cottage to castle abode!""Pilgrim, its dictates I learned to obey,Over the mountains away and away."
The Fallen Brave. [See Notes]
From Cypress and from laurel boughsAre twined, in sorrow and in pride,The leaves that deck the mouldering browsOf those who for their country died:In sorrow, that the sable pallEnfolds the valiant and the brave;In pride that those who nobly fallWin garlands that adorn the grave.
The onset—the pursuit—the roarOf victory o'er the routed foe—Will startle from their rest no moreThe fallen brave of Mexico.To God alone such spirits yield!He took them in their strength and bloom,When gathering, on the tented field,The garlands woven for the tomb.
The shrouded flag—the drooping spear—The muffled drum—the solemn bell—The funeral train—the dirge—the bier—The mourners' sad and last farewell—Are fading tributes to the worthOf those whose deeds this homage claim;But Time, who mingles them with earthKeeps green the garlands of their fame.
Song of the Troubadour.
In Imitation of the Lays of the Olden Time.
"Come, list to the lay of the olden time,"A troubadour sang on a moonlit stream:"The scene is laid in a foreign clime,"A century back—and love is the theme."Love was the theme of the troubadour's rhyme,Of lady and lord of the olden time
"At an iron-barred turret, a lady fair"Knelt at the close of the vesper-chime:"Her beads she numbered in silent prayer"For one far away, whom to love was her crime."Love," sang the troubadour, "love was a crime,"When fathers were stern, in the olden time.
"The warder had spurned from the castle gate"The minstrel who wooed her in flowing rhyme—"He came back from battle in regal estate—"The bard was a prince of the olden time."Love," sand the troubadour, "listened to rhyme,"And welcomed the bard of the olden time.
"The prince in disguise had the lady sought;"To chapel they hied in their rosy prime:"Thus worth won a jewel that wealth never bought,"A fair lady's heart of the olden time."The moral," the troubadour sang, "of my rhyme,"Was well understood in the olden time."
Champions of Liberty. [See Notes]
The pride of all our chivalry,The name of Worth will stand,While throbs the pulse of libertyWithin his native land:The wreath his brow was formed to wear,A nation's tears will freshen there.
The young companion of his fame,In war and peace allied,With garlands woven round his name,Reposes at his side:Duncan, whose deeds for evermoreWill live amid his cannon's roar.
Gates, in his country's quarrel bold,When she to arms appealed,Sought like the Christian knights of old,His laurels on the field:Where victory rent the welkin-dome,He earned—a sepulchre at home.
The drum-beat of the bannered brave,The requiem and the knell,The volley o'er the soldier's grave,His comrades' last farewell,Are tributes rendered to the dead,And sermons to the living read.
But there's a glory brighter farThan all that earth has given;A beacon, like the index-star,That points the way to heaven:It is a life well spent—its closeThe cloudless sundown of repose.
That such was theirs for whom we mourn,These obsequies attest;And though in sorrow they are borneUnto their final rest,A guide will their example beTo future champions of the free.
The Hunter's Carol.
A merry life does the hunter lead!He wakes with the dawn of day;He whistles his dog—he mounts his steed,And scuds to he woods away!The lightsome tramp of the deer he'll mark,As they troop in herds along;And his rifle startles the cheerful larkAs he carols his morning song!
The hunter's life is the life for me!—That is the life for a man!Let others sing of a home on the sea,But match me the woods if you can!Then give me a gun—I've an eye to markThe deer as they bound along!—My steed, dog, and gun, and the cheerful larkTo carol my morning song!
Washington's Monument.
A monument to Washington?A tablet graven with his name?—Green be the mound it stands upon,And everlasting as his fame!
His glory fills the land—the plain,The moor, the mountain, and the mart!More firm than column, urn, or fane,His monument—the human heart.
The Christian—patriot—hero—sage!The chief from heaven in mercy sent;His deeds are written on the age—His country is his monument.
"The sword of Gideon and the Lord"Was mighty in his mighty hand—The God who guided he adored,And with His blessing freed the land.
The first in war—the first in peace—The first in hearts that freeman own;Unparalleled till time shall cease—He lives immortal and alone.
Yet let the rock-hewn tower arise,High to the pathway of the sun,And speak to the approving skiesOur gratitude to Washington.
The Sister's Appeal.
A Fragment.
* * * * * * * *
You remember—don't you, brother—In our early years,The counsels of our poor, dear mother,And her hopes and fears?She told us to love one another—Brother, dry your tears!
We are only two, dear brother,In his babel wide!In the churchyard sleeps poor mother,By our father's side!—Then let us cherish one anotherTill in death we bide.
* * * * * * * *
Song of the Reapers.
Joyous the carol that rings in the mountains,While the cleared vales are refreshed by the fountains—After the harvest the cheerful notes fall,And all the glad reapers re-echo the call!La ra la la, &c.
Oh, how the heart bounds at that simple refrain!Dear haunts of my childhood, I'm with you again!Green be your valleys, enriched by the rills,And long may that carol be sung on your hills!La ra la la, &c.
Walter Gay.
To know a man well, it is said, Walter Gay,On shipboard with him you should be:If this maxim's true, then well I know you,For we sailed together the sea, Walter Gay,For we sailed together the sea.
I now watch the star from the strand, Walter Gay,As oft from the surge I did then:Like that all alone you sparkled and shone,The clear northern star among men, Walter Gay,The clear northern star among men!
May your future course, like the past, Walter Gay,From wreck and misfortune be free:your sorrows and care fade into the air,Or vanish like foam on the sea, Walter Gay,Or vanish like foam on the sea!
The friendship that's formed on the wave, Walter Gay,Is deeper than plummet may sound:That can not decay till we lose our way,Or death runs the vessel aground, Walter Gay,Or death runs the vessel aground!
When life's voyage ends, may your bark, Walter GaySpread sail like the wings of a dove—And, when lulls the wind, safe anchorage findWithin the good harbor above, Walter Gay,Within the good harbor above!
Grounds for Divorce.
He.
What can a man do when a woman's perverse,And determined to have her own way?
She.
At the altar you took me for better or worse:Am I worse than you took me for—say,Silly elf?—Am I worse than you took me for, say?
He.
For an angel I took you in beauty and worth—The PRIEST a mere woman has given!
She.
A MAN would prefer a true woman on earth,To all the bright angels in heaven—Silly elf!—To all the bright angels in heaven!
He.
You are ever ready my feelings to hurtAt the veriest trifle, of course.
She.
Forgetting a button to sew on your shirtYou deem a good ground for divorce—Silly elf!—You deem a good ground for divorce!
He.
Well, marriage a lottery is, and a blankSome men surely draw all their lives.
She.
Such fellows as you, sir, themselves have to thank;Good husbands make always good wives—Silly elf!—GOOD HUSBANDS MAKE ALWAYS GOOD WIVES!
Temperance Song.
(Written for the lady by whom it was sung.)
Air—"Some love to roam."
Some love to stroll where the wassail-bowlAnd the wine-cups circle free;None of that band shall win my hand:No! a sober spouse for me.Like cheerful streams when morning beams,With him my life would flow;Not down the crags, the drunkard dragsHis wife to want and wo!Oh! no, no, no!—oh! no, no, no!
At midnight dark, the drunkard mark—Oh, what a sight, good lack!As home draws near, to him appearGrim fiends who cross his track!His children's name he dooms to shame—His wife to want and wo;She is betrayed, for wine is madeHer rival and her foe.Oh! no, no, no!—oh! no, no, no!
Boat-Song.
Pull away merrily—over the waters!Bend to your oars for the wood-tangled shore;We're off and afloat with earth's loveliest daughters,Worth all the argosies wave ever bore.Pull away gallantly—pull away valiantly—Pull with a swoop, boys; and pull for the shore:Merrily, merrily, bend to the oar!
Pull away cheerily!—land is before us—Green groves are flinging their balm to the spray;The sky, like the spirit of love, bending o'er us,Lights her bright torches to show us the way.Pull away charily—pull away warily—Pull with a nerve, boys; together give way:Merrily, merrily, pull to the lay!
Pull away heartily—light winds are blowing,Crisping the ripples that dance at our side;The moon bathes in silver the path we are going,And night is arrayed in her robes like a bride.Pull away readily—pull away steadily—Pull with a will, boys, and sing as we glideMerrily, merrily, over the tide!
Willie.
I clasp your hand in mine, Willie,And fancy I've the artTo see, while gazing in your face,What's passing in your heart:'Tis joy an honest man to hold,That gem of modest worth,More prized than all the sordid goldOf all the mines of earth, Willie,Of all the mines of earth.
I've marked your love or right, Willie,Your proud disdain of wrong;I know you'd rather aid the weakThan battle for the strong.The golden rule—religion's stay—With constancy pursue,Which renders others all that theyOn earth can render you, Willie,On earth can render you.
A conscience void of guile, Willie,A disposition kind,A nature, gentle and sincere,Accomplished and refined:A mind that was not formed to bow,An aspiration high,Are written on your manly brow,And in your cheerful eye, Willie,And in your cheerful eye.
I never look at you, Willie,But with an anxious prayerThat you will ever be to meWhat now I know you are.I do not find a fault to chide,A foible to annoy,For you are all your father's pride,And all your mother's joy, Willie,And all your mother's joy.
You're all that I could hope, Willie,And more than I deserve;Your pressure of affection nowI feel in every nerve.I love you—not for station—land—But for yourself alone:And this is why I clasp your hand,So fondly in my own, Willie,So fondly in my own.
The Rock of the Pilgrims. [See Note]
A rock in the wilderness welcomed our sires,From bondage far over the dark-rolling sea;On that holy altar they kindled the fires,Jehovah, which glow in our bosoms for Thee.Thy blessings descended in sunshine and shower,Or rose from the soil that was sown by Thy hand;The mountain and valley rejoiced in Thy power,And heaven encircled and smiled on the land.
The Pilgrims of old an example have givenOf mild resignation, devotion, and love,Which beams like the star in the blue vault of heaven,A beacon-light swung in their mansion above.In church and cathedral we kneel in OUR prayer—Their temple and chapel were valley and hill—But God is the same in the isle or the air,And He is the Rock that we lean upon still.
Years Ago.
Near the banks of that lone river,Where the water-lilies grow,Breathed the fairest flower that everBloomed and faded years ago.
Now we met and loved and parted,None on earth can ever know—Nor how pure and gentle-heartedBeamed the mourned one years ago!
Like the stream with lilies laden,Will life's future current flow,Till in heaven I meet the maidenFondly cherished years ago.
Hearts that love like mine forget not;They're the same in weal or wo;And that star of memory set notIn the grave of years ago.
The Soldier's Welcome Home. [See Notes]
(Written upon the return of General Scott from his brilliant Mexican campaign.)
Victorious the hero returns from the wars,His brow bound with laurels that never will fade,While streams the free standard of stripes and of stars,Whose field in the battle the foeman dismayed.When the Mexican hosts in their fury came on,Like a tower of strength in his might he arose,Where danger most threatened his banner was borne,Waving hope to his friends and despair to his foes!
The soldier of honor and liberty hail!His deeds in the temple of Fame are enrolled;His precepts, like flower-seeds sown by the gale,Take root in the hearts of the valiant and bold.The warrior's escutcheon his foes seek to blot,But vain is the effort of partisan bands—For freemen will render full justice to SCOTT,And welcome him home with their hearts in their hands.
The Origin of Yankee Doodle. [See Note]
Once in a time old Johnny BullFlew in a raging fury,And swore that Jonathan should haveNo trials, sir, by jury;That no elections should be heldAcross the briny waters:"And now," said he, "I'll tax the teaOf all his sons and daughters."Then down he sate in burly state,And blustered like a grandee,And in derision made a tuneCalled "Yankee doodle dandy.""Yankee doodle"—these are the facts—"Yankee doodle dandy;My son of wax, your tea I'll tax—You—Yankee doodle dandy!"
John sent the tea from o'er the seaWith heavy duties rated;But whether hyson or bohea,I never heard it stated.Then Jonathan to pout began—He laid a strong embargo—"I'll drink no tea, by Jove!"—so heThrew overboard the cargo.Next Johnny sent an armament,Big looks and words to bandy,Whose martial band, when near the land,Played—"Yankee doodle dandy.""Yankee doodle—keep it up!Yankee doodle dandy!I'll poison with a tax your cup—You—Yankee doodle dandy!"
A long war then they had, in whichJohn was at last defeated;And "Yankee doodle" was the marchTo which his troops retreated.Young Jonathan, to see them fly,Could not restrain his laughter:"That tune," said he, "suits to a T,I'll sing it ever after!"Old Johnny's face, to his disgrace,Was flushed with beer and brandy,E'en while he swore to sing no moreThis—"Yankee doodle dandy."Yankee doodle—ho! ha! he!Yankee doodle dandy—We kept the tune, but not the tea,Yankee doodle dandy!
I've told you now the originOf this most lively ditty,Which Johnny Bull pronounces "dullAnd silly!"—what a pity!With "Hail Columbia!" it is sung,In chorus full and hearty—On land and main we breathe the strain,John made for his tea-party.No matter how we rhyme the words,The music speaks them handy,And where's the fair can't sing the airOf "Yankee doodle dandy!""Yankee doodle—firm and true—Yankee doodle dandy,Yankee doodle, doodle doo!Yankee doodle dandy!"
Lines
On the Burial of Mrs. Mary L. Ward, at Dale Cemetery, Sing-Sing, May 3, 1853.
The knell was tolled—the requiem sung,The solemn burial-service read;And tributes from the heart and tongueWere rendered to the dead.
The dead?—Religion answers, "No!She is not dead—She can not die!A mortal left this vale of wo!—An angel lives on high!"
The earth upon her coffin-lidSounded a hollow, harsh adieu!The mound arose, and she was hidFor ever from the view!
For ever?—Drearily the thoughtPassed, like an ice-bolt, through the brain;When Faith the recollection broughtThat we shall meet again.
The mourners wound their silent wayAdown the mountain's gentle slope,Which, basking in the smile of May,Looked cheerfully as hope.
As hope?—What hope?—That boundless OneGod in His love and mercy gave;Which brightens, with salvation's sun,The darkness of the grave.
New-York in 1826. [See Notes]
(Address of the carrier of the New-York Mirror, on the first day of the year.)
Air—"Songs of Shepherds and Rustical Roundelays."
Two years have elapsed since the verse of S. W. [See Notes]Met your bright eyes like a fanciful gem;With that kind of stanza the muse will now trouble you,She often frolicks with one G. P. M.As New Year approaches, she whispers of coaches,And lockets and broaches [See Notes], without any end,Of sweet rosy pleasure, of joy without measure,And plenty of leisure to share with a friend.
'Tis useless to speak of the griefs of society—They overtake us in passing along;And public misfortunes, in all their variety,Need not be told in a holyday song.The troubles of Wall-street, I'm sure that you all meet,And they're not at all sweet—but look at their pranks:Usurious cravings, and discounts and shavings,With maniac ravings and Lombardy banks. [See Notes]
'Tis useless to speak of our dealers in cotton too,Profits and losses but burden the lay;The failure of merchants should now be forgotten too,Nor sadden the prospects of this festive day.Though Fortune has cheated the hope near completed,And cruelly treated the world mercantile,The poet's distresses, when Fortune oppresses,Are greater, he guesses—but still he can smile.
'Tis useless to speak of the gas-lights [See Notes] so beautiful,Shedding its beams through "the mist of the night;"Eagles and tigers and elephants, dutiful,Dazzle the vision with columns of light.The lamb and the lion—ask editor Tryon,His word you'll rely on—are seen near the Park,From which such lights flow out, as wind can not blow out,Yet often they go out, and all's in the dark.
'Tis useless to speak of the seats on the Battery [See Notes],They're too expensive to give to the town;Then our aldermen think it such flattery,If the public have leave to sit down!Our fortune to harden, they show Castle Garden—Kind muses, your pardon, but rhyme it I must—Where soldiers were drilling, you now must be willingTo pay them a shilling—so down with the dust.
'Tis useless to speak of our writers poetical [See Notes],Of Halleck and Bryant and Woodworth, to write;There are others, whose trades are political—Snowden and Townsend and Walker and Dwight.There's Lang the detector, and Coleman the hector,And Noah the protector and judge of the Jews,And King the accuser, and Stone the abuser,And Grim the confuser of morals and news.
'Tis useless to speak of the many civilitiesShown to Fayette [See Notes] in this country of late,Or even to mention the splendid abilitiesClinton possesses for ruling the state.The union of water and Erie's bright daughterSince Neptune has caught her they'll sever no more;And Greece and her troubles (the rhyme always doubles)Have vanished like bubbles that burst on the shore.
'Tis useless to speak of Broadway and the Bowery,Both are improving and growing so fast!Who would have thought that old Stuyvesant's doweryWould hold in its precincts a play-house [See Notes] at last?Well, wonder ne'er ceases, but daily increases,And pulling to pieces, the town to renew,So often engages the thoughts of our sages,That when the fit rages, what will they not do?
'Tis useless to speak of the want of proprietyIn forming our city so crooked and long;Our ancestors, bless them, were fond of variety—'Tis naughty to say that they ever were wrong!Tho' strangers may grumble, and thro' the streets and stumble,Take care they don't tumble through crevices small,For trap-doors we've plenty, on sidewalk and entry,And no one stands sentry to see they don't fall.
'Tis useless to speak of amusements so various,Of opera-singers [See Notes] that few understand;Of Kean's [See Notes] reputation, so sadly precariousWhen he arrived in this prosperous land.The public will hear him—and hark! how they cheer him!Though editors jeer him—we all must believeHe pockets the dollars of sages and scholars:Of course then it follows—he laughs in his sleeve.
'Tis useless to speak—but just put on your spectacles,Read about Chatham, and Peale's [See Notes] splendid show:There's Scudder and Dunlap—they both have receptaclesWhich, I assure you, are now all the go.'Tis here thought polite too, should giants delight you,And they should invite you, to look at their shapes;To visit their dwelling, where Indians are yelling,And handbills are telling of wonderful apes!
'Tis useless to speak of the din that so heavilyFell on our senses as midnight drew near;Trumpets and bugles and conch-shells, so cleverlySounded the welkin with happy New Year!With jewsharps and timbrels, and musical thimbles,Tin-platters for cymbals, and frying-pans too;Dutch-ovens and brasses, and jingles and glasses,With reeds of all classes, together they blew! [See Notes]
Then since it is useless to speak about anythingAll have examined and laid on the shelf,Perhaps it is proper to say now and then a thingTouching the "Mirror"[See Notes]—the day—and myself.Our work's not devoted, as you may have noted,To articles quoted from books out of print;Instead of the latter, profusely we scatterOriginal matter that's fresh from the mint.
Patrons, I greet you with feelings of gratitude;Ladies, to please you is ever my care—Nor wish I, on earth, for a sweeter beatitude,If I but bask in the smiles of the fair.Such bliss to a poet is precious—you know it—And while you bestow it, the heart feels content:Your bounty has made us, and still you will aid us,But some have not paid us—we hope they'll repent!
For holyday pleasure, why these are the times for it;Pardon me, then, for so trifling a lay;This stanza shall end it, if I can find rhymes for it—May you, dear patrons, be happy to-day!Tho' life is so fleeting, and pleasure so cheating,That we are oft meeting with accidents here,Should Fate seek to dish you, oh then may the issueBe what I now wish you—A HAPPY NEW YEAR!
The Hero's Legacy.
Upon the couch of death,The champion of the free,Gave, with his parting breath,This solemn legacy:—"Sheathed be the battle-blade,"And hushed the cannons' thunder:"The glorious UNION GOD hath made,"Let no man put asunder!"War banish from the land,"Peace cultivate with all!"United you must stand,"Divided you will fall!"Cemented with our blood,"The UNION keep unriven!"While freemen heard this counsel good,His spirit soared to heaven.
What Can It Mean?
(Written for Miss Poole, and sung by her in the character of cowslip.)
I'm much too young to marry,For I am only seventeen;Why think I, then, of Harry?What can it mean—what can it mean?
Wherever Harry meets me,Beside the brook or on the green,How tenderly he greets me!What can it mean—what can it mean?
Whene'er my name he utters,A blush upon my cheek is seen!—His voice my bosom flutters!—What can it mean—what can it mean?
If he but mentions Cupid,Or, smiling, calls me "fairy queen,"I sigh, and looks so stupid!—What can it mean—what can it mean?
Oh, mercy! what can ail me?I'm growing wan and very lean;My spirits often fail me!What can it mean—what can it mean?
I'm not in love!—No!—SmotherSuch a thought at seventeen!I'll go and ask my mother—"What can it mean—what can it mean?"
Where Hudson's Wave.
Where Hudson's wave o'er silvery sandsWinds through the hills afar,Old Cronest like a monarch stands,Crowned with a single star!And there, amid the billowy swellsOf rock-ribbed, cloud-capped earth,My fair and gentle Ida dwells,A nymph of mountain-birth.
The snow-flake that the cliff receives,The diamonds of the showers,Spring's tender blossoms, buds, and leaves,The sisterhood of flowers,Morn's early beam, eve's balmy breeze,Her purity define;Yet Ida's dearer far than theseTo this fond breast of mine.
My heart is on the hills. The shadesOf night are on my brow;Ye pleasant haunts and quiet glades,My soul is with you now!I bless the star-crowned highlands whereMy Ida's footsteps roam:O for a falcon's wing to bearMe onward to my home!
Au Revoir.
Love left one day his leafy bower,And roamed in sportive vein,Where Vanity had built a tower,For Fashion's sparkling train.The mistress to see he requested,Of one who attended the door:"Not home," said the page, who suggestedThat he'd leave his card.—"Au Revoir."
Love next came to a lowly bower:A maid who knew no guile,Unlike the lady of the tower,Received him with a smile.Since then the cot beams with his brightnessThough often at Vanity's doorLove calls, merely out of politeness,And just leaves his card.—"Au Revoir."
To My Absent Daughter.
Georgie, come home!—Life's tendrils cling about thee,Where'er thou art, by wayward fancy led.We miss thee, love!—Home is not home without thee—The light and glory of the house have fled:The autumn shiver of the linden-treeIs like the pang that thrills my frame for thee!
Georgie, come home!—To parents, brother, sisterThy place is vacant in this lonely hall,Where shines the river through the "Jeannie Vista,"While twilight shadows lengthen on the wall:Our spirits falter at the close of day,And weary night moves tardily away.
Georgie, come home!—The winds and waves are singingThe mournful music of their parting song,To soul and sense the sad forboding bringing,Some ill detains thee in the town so long:Oh, that the morn may dissipate the fear,And bring good tidings of my daughter dear!
Georgie, come home!—The forest leaves are falling,And dreary visions in thy absence come;The fountain on the hill in vain is callingThee, my beloved one, to thy woodland home.And I imagine every passing breezeWhispers thy name among the moaning trees!
Georgie, come home!—Thy gentle look can banishThe gathering gloom round this once cheerful hearth;In thy sweet presence all our care will vanish,And sorrow soften into mellow mirth.Return, my darling, never more to roam:Heart of the Highlands!—Georgie, dear, come home!
Song of the Sewing-Machine
I'm the Iron Needle-Woman!Wrought of sterner stuff than clay;And, unlike the drudges human,Never weary night or day;Never shedding tears of sorrow,Never mourning friends untrue,Never caring for the morrow,Never begging work to do.
Poverty brings no disaster!Merrily I glide along,For no thankless, sordid master,Ever seeks to do me wrong:No extortioners oppress me,No insulting words I dread—I've no children to distress meWith unceasing cries for bread.
I'm of hardy form and feature,For endurance framed aright;I'm not pale misfortune's creature,Doomed life's battle here to fight:Mine's a song of cheerful measure,And no under-currents flowTo destroy the throb of pleasureWhich the poor so seldom know.
In the hall I hold my station,With the wealthy ones of earth,Who commend me to the nationFor economy and worth,While unpaid the female labor,In the attic-chamber lone,Where the smile of friend or neighborNever for a moment shone.
My creation is a blessingTo the indigent secured,Banishing the cares distressingWhich so many have endured:Mine are sinews superhuman,Ribs of oak and nerves of steel—I'm the Iron Needle-WomanBorn to toil and not to feel.
My Lady Waits for Me.
Suggested by a popular German melody.
My lady waits!—'Tis now the hourWhen morn unbars her gates!—My vessel glides beneath the towerWhere now my lady waits.Her signal flutters from the wall,Above the friendly sea!I life but to obey her call!My lady waits for me.My lady waits—for me she waits,While morning opes her golden gates.
My lady waits!—No fairer flowerE'er deck'd the floral grove,Than she, the pride of hall and bower,The lady of my love!The eastern hills are flecked with light,The land-breeze curls the sea!By love and truth sustained, for flight,My lady waits for me.My lady waits—for me she waits,While morning opes her golden gates.
Music.
The wind-harp has music it moans to the tree,And so has the shell that complains to the sea,The lark that sings merrily over the lea,The reed of the rude shepherd boy!We revel in music when day has begun,When rock-fountains gush into glee as they run,And stars of the morn sing their hymns to the sun,Who brightens the hill-tops with joy!
The spirit of melody floats in the air,Her instruments tuning to harmony there,Our senses beguiling from sorrow and care,In blessings sent down from above!But Nature has music far more to my choice—And all in her exquisite changes rejoice!No tones thrill my heart like the dear human voiceWhen breathed by the being I love!
The Millionaire.
In the upper circlesMoves a famous manWho has had no equalSince the world began.He was once a brokerDown by the exchange;He is now a nabob—Don't you think it strange?
In his low back office,Near the Bowling Green,With his brother brokersHe was often seen;—Shaving and discounting,Dabbling in the stocks,He achieved a fortuneOf a million ROCKS!'
Next he formed a marriageWith a lady fair,And his splendid carriageBowled about THE square,Where his spacious mansionLike a palace stood,Envied and admiredBy the multitude.
Then he took the tourOf the continent,Bearer of dispatchesFrom the President:A legation buttonBy permission wore,And became that worthy,An official bore.
Charmed with foreign countries,Lots of coin to spend,He a house in LondonTook a the West End,Where he dwelt a season,And in grandeur shone,But to all the beau mondeUtterly unknown.
England then was "foggy,And societyToo aristocratic"For his—pedigree:So he crossed the channelTo escape the BLUES,And became the idolOf the parvenues.
"Dear, delightful Paris!"He would often say:"Every earthly pleasureOne can have for—pay.Wealth gives high position;But when money's tight,Man is at a discount,And it serves him right."
After years of studyHow to cut a dash,He came home embellishedWith a huge—moustache!Now he is a lion,All the rage up town,And gives gorgeous partiesSupervised by—Brown!
The almighty dollarIs, no doubt, divine,And he worships dailyAt that noble shrine;Fashion is his idol,Money is his god,And they both togetherRule him like a rod.
Books, and busts, and pictures,Are with him a card—While abroad he bought themCheaply—by the yard!But his sumptuous dinners,To a turn quite right,With his boon companions,Are his chief delight.
Thee his wit and wassail,Like twin-currents flowIn his newest stories,Published—long ago.His enchanted hearersGiggle till they weep,As it is their dutyTill they—fall asleep.
* * * *
On his carriage panelIs a blazoned crest,With a Latin mottoGiven him—in jest.His black coach and footman,Dressed in livery,Every day at Stewart'sMany crowd to see.
* * * *
Well—in upper-ten-domLet him rest in peace,And may his investmentsCent, per cent, increase:Though on earth for no oneCares the millionaire,So does NOT exactlyHis devoted—heir!
* * * *
There's a useful moralWoven with my rhyme,Which may be consideredAt—some other time:Crockery is not porcelain—It is merely delf—And the kind most commonIs the man himself.
In Memory of Charles H. Sandford.
He died, as he had lived, beloved,Without an enemy on earth;In word and deed he breathed and movedThe soul of honor and of worth:His hand was open as the day,His bearing high, his nature brave;And, when from life he passed away,Our hearts went with him to the grave.
What desolation filled our homeWhen death from us our treasure bore!—Oh! for the better world to comeWhere we shall meet to part no more!The hope of THAT sustains us now,In THAT we trust on bended knee,While thus around his faded browWe twine the wreath of memory.
Seventy-Six.
Before the Battle.
The clarion call of libertyRings on the startled gales!The rising hills reverberateThe rising of the vales!Through all the land the thrilling shoutSwift as an arrow goes!Columbia's champions arm and outTo battle with her foes!
After the Battle
The bugle-song of victoryIs vocal in the air!The strains, by warrior-voices breathed,Are echoed by the fair!The eagle, with the wreath, blood-bought,Soars proudly to the sun,Proclaiming the "good fight is fought,And the great victory won!"
A Parody.
On old Long Island's sea-girt shoreWe caught a cod the other day;He never had been there before,And wished that he had stayed away.We laid him on the beach to dry,Then served him frizzled on a dish,A warning to the smaller fry,As well as all the larger fish.O—o—o—o—o!On old Long Island's sea-girt shoreWe caught a cod the other day;He never had been there before,And wished that he had stayed away.
Oh, 'twas a scaly thing to haulThis tom-cod from his native spray,And thus to frighten, one and all,The finny tribe from Rockaway!They shun the fisher's hook and line,And never venture near his net,So, when at Rockaway you dine,Now not a thing but clams you get!O—o—o—o—o!On old Long Island's sea-girt shoreWe caught a cod the other day;He never had been there before,And wished that he had stayed away!
Should critics at my ballad carp,To them this simple truth I'll say,The grammar's quite as good as SharpWrote on the beach of Rockaway:The tune's the same that Russell cribbedWith the addition of his O,Which makes it, or the singer fibbed,Original and all the go—O—o—o—o—o!On old Long Island's sea-girt shoreWe caught a cod the other day;He never had been there before,And wished that he had stayed away!
The Stag-Hunt.
The morning is breaking—The stag is away!The hounds and the huntersThe signal obey!The horn bids the echoesAwake as we go,And nature is jocundWith hark!—tally-ho!Hark away!Tally-ho!
Hark forward!—Tantivy!—The woodland resoundsWith shouts of the sportsmenTo cheer on the hounds!The horse and his rider,The deer and his foe,Dash by to the musicOf hark!—tally-ho!(He's at bay!)Tally-ho!
Deliver Us From Evil.
Deliver us from evil, Heavenly Father!It still besets us wheresoe'er we go!Bid the bright rays of revelation gatherTo light the darkness in our way of wo!Remove the sin that stains our souls—for ever!Out doubts dispel—our confidence restore!Write thy forgiveness on our hearts, and neverLet us in vain petition for it more.
Release us from the sorrows that attend us!Our nerves are torn—at every vein we bleed!Almighty Parent! with thy strength befriend us!Else we are helpless in our time of need!Sustain us, Lord, with thy pure Holy Spirit—New vigor give to Nature's faltering frame;And, at life's close, permit us to inheritThe hope that's promised in the Saviour's name.
Union.
This word beyond all others,Makes us love our country most,Makes us feel that we are brothers,And a heart-united host!—With hosanna let our bannerFrom the house-tops be unfurled,While the nation holds her stationWith the mightiest of the world!Take your harps from silent willows,Shout the chorus of the free;"States are all distinct as billows,Union one—as is the sea!"
From the land of groves that bore usHe's a traitor who would swerve!By the flag now waving o'er usWe the compact will preserve!Those who gained it and sustained it,Were unto each other true,And the fable well is ableTo instruct us what to do!Take your harps from silent willows,Shout the chorus of the free;"States are all distinct as billows,Union one—as is the sea!"
We Part For Ever
Fare thee well—we part for ever!All regrets are now in vain!Fate decrees that we must sever,Ne'er to meet on earth again.Other skies may bend above thee,Other hearts may seek thy shrine,But no other e'er will love theeWith the constancy of mine.Yet farewell—we part for ever!All regrets are now in vain!Fate decrees that we must sever,Ne'er to meet on earth again.Fare thee well!
Like the shadow on the dialLingers still our parting kiss!Life has no severer trial,Death no pang to equal this.All the world is now before thee,Every clime to roam at will,But within the land that bore thee,One fond heart will love thee still.Yet farewell—we part for ever!All regrets are now in vain!Fate decrees that we must sever,Ne'er to meet on earth again.Fare thee well!
Come to Me in Cherry-time.
Come to me in cherry-time,And, as twilight closes,We will have a merry time,Here among the roses!When the breezes crisp the tide,And the lindens quiver,In our bark we'll safely glideDown the rocky river!
When the stars, with quiet ray,All the hill-tops brighten,Cherry-ripe we'll sing and playWhere the cherries ripen!Then come to me in cherry-time,And, as twilight closes,We will have a merry timeHere among the roses.
On the Death of Mrs. Jessie Willis.
After life's eventful mission,In her truthfulness and worth,Like a calm and gentle visionShe has passed away from earth.
Lovely she in frame and feature!Blended purity and grace!—The Creator in the creatureGlowed in her expressive face!
Angel of a nature human!Essence of a celestial love!Heart and soul of trusting woman,Gone to her reward above!
Mourners, dry your tears of sorrow—Read the golden promise o'er;There will dawn a cheerful morrowWhen we meet to part no more.
Thank God for Pleasant Weather.
Thank God for pleasant weather!Chant it, merry rills!And clap your hands together,Ye exulting hills!Thank Him, teeming valley!Thank Him, fruitful plain!For the golden sunshine,And the silver rain.
Thank God, of good the giver!Shout it, sportive breeze!Respond, oh, tuneful river!To the nodding tees.Thank Him, bud and birdling!As ye grow and sing!Mingle in thanksgivingEvery living thing!
Thank God, with cheerful spirit,In a glow of love,For what we here inherit,And our hopes above!—Universal NatureRevels in her birth,When God, in pleasant weather,Smiles upon the earth!
The Master's Song.
Written for the freemasons of St. John's Lodge No. 1, New York.
Members of an orderAncient as the earth;All within our borderRealize its worth.Genial is the greetingThat awaits us there,On the level meeting,Parting on the square.Like the workmen olden,Who our craft designed,We the precept goldenEver bear in mind.
Masons never falter,We each other know,As around the altarHand in hand we go;Loud hosannas singingTo our Source above,And heart-offerings bringingTo the God of Love.Like the workmen olden,Who our craft designed,We the precept goldenEver bear in mind.
There's a mystic beautyIn our working plan,Teaching man his dutyTo his fellow man:As a band of brothers,Ever just and true,Do we unto othersAs we'd have them do.Like the workmen olden,Who our craft designed,We the precept goldenEver bear in mind.
The Missing Ship.
She left the port in gallant style,With sails and streamers full and free!I watched her course for many a mileFar out upon the distant sea!At dusk she lessened to a speck,And then I could not trace her more!Sad hearts were beating on her deck,Sad hearts were beating on the shore.