"HAM. The air bites shrewdly—it is very cold.HOR. It is a nipping and eager air."—HAMLET.
Come, GENTLE Spring! ethereal MILDNESS, come!O! Thomson, void of rhyme as well as reason,How couldst thou thus poor human nature hum?There's no such season.
The Spring! I shrink and shudder at her name!For why, I find her breath a bitter blighter!And suffer from her BLOWS as if they cameFrom Spring the Fighter.
Her praises, then, let hardy poets sing,And be her tuneful laureates and upholders,Who do not feel as if they had a SPRINGPoured down their shoulders!
Let others eulogize her floral shows;From me they can not win a single stanza.I know her blooms are in full blow—and so'sThe Influenza.
Her cowslips, stocks, and lilies of the vale,Her honey-blossoms that you hear the bees at,Her pansies, daffodils, and primrose pale,Are things I sneeze at!
Fair is the vernal quarter of the year!And fair its early buddings and its blowings—But just suppose Consumption's seeds appearWith other sowings!
For me, I find, when eastern winds are high,A frigid, not a genial inspiration;Nor can, like Iron-Chested Chubb, defyAn inflammation.
Smitten by breezes from the land of plague,To me all vernal luxuries are fables,O! where's the SPRING in a rheumatic leg,Stiff as a table's?
I limp in agony—I wheeze and cough;And quake with Ague, that great Agitator,Nor dream, before July, of leaving offMy Respirator.
What wonder if in May itself I lackA peg for laudatory verse to hang on?—Spring, mild and gentle!—yes, a Spring-heeled JackTo those he sprang on.
In short, whatever panegyrics lieIn fulsome odes too many to be cited,The tenderness of Spring is all my eye,And that is blighted!
Ah me! those old familiar bounds!That classic house, those classic grounds,My pensive thought recalls!What tender urchins now confine,What little captives now repine,Within yon irksome walls!
Ay, that's the very house! I knowIts ugly windows, ten a row!Its chimneys in the rear!And there's the iron rod so high,That drew the thunder from the skyAnd turned our table-beer!
There I was birched! there I was bred!There like a little Adam fedFrom Learning's woeful tree!The weary tasks I used to con!—The hopeless leaves I wept upon!—Most fruitful leaves to me!
The summoned class!—the awful bow!—I wonder who is master nowAnd wholesome anguish sheds!How many ushers now employs,How many maids to see the boysHave nothing in their heads!
And Mrs. S * * *?—Doth she abet(Like Pallas in the palor) yetSome favored two or three—The little Crichtons of the hour,Her muffin-medals that devour,And swill her prize—bohea?
Ay, there's the playground! there's the lime,Beneath whose shade in summer's primeSo wildly I have read!—Who sits there NOW, and skims the creamOf young Romance, and weaves a dreamOf Love and Cottage-bread?
Who struts the Randall of the walk?Who models tiny heads in chalk?Who scoops the light canoe?What early genius buds apace?Where's Poynter? Harris? Bowers? Chase!Hal Baylis? blithe Carew?
Alack! they're gone—a thousand ways!And some are serving in "the Greys,"And some have perished young!—Jack Harris weds his second wife;Hal Baylis drives the WAYNE of life;And blithe Carew—is hung!
Grave Bowers teaches A B CTo Savages at Owhyee;Poor Chase is with the worms!—All are gone—the olden breed!—New crops of mushroom boys succeeds,"And push us from our FORMS!"
Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout,And leap, and skip, and mob about,At play where we have played!Some hop, some run (some fall), some twineTheir crony arms; some in the shine,And some are in the shade!
Lo there what mixed conditions run!The orphan lad; the widow's son;And Fortune's favored care—The wealthy born, for whom she hathMacadamized the future path—The nabob's pampered heir!
Some brightly starred—some evil born—For honor some, and some for scorn—For fair or foul renown!Good, bad, indifferent—none they lack!Look, here's a white, and there's a black!And there's a creole brown!
Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep,And wish THEIR frugal sires would keepTheir only sons at home;—Some tease the future tense, and planThe full-grown doings of the man,And pant for years to come!
A foolish wish! There's one at hoop;And four at FIVES! and five who stoopThe marble taw to speed!And one that curvets in and out,Reining his fellow-cob about,Would I were in his STEED!
Yet he would gladly halt and dropThat boyish harness off, to swopWith this world's heavy van—To toil, to tug. O little fool!While thou can be a horse at schoolTo wish to be a man!
Perchance thou deem'st it were a thingTo wear a crown—to be a king!And sleep on regal down!Alas! thou know'st not kingly cares;Far happier is thy head that wearsThat hat without a crown!
And dost thou think that years acquireNew added joys? Dost think thy sireMore happy than his son?That manhood's mirth?—O, go thy waysTo Drury-lane when——PLAYS,And see how FORCED our fun!
Thy taws are brave!—thy tops are rare!—OUR tops are spun with coils of care,Our DUMPS are no delight!—The Elgin marbles are but tame,And 'tis at best a sorry gameTo fly the Muse's kite!
Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead,Our topmost joys fall dull and dead,Like balls with no rebound!And often with a faded eyeWe look behind, and send a sighToward that merry ground!
Then be contented. Thou hast gotThe most of heaven in thy young lot;There's sky-blue in thy cup!Thou'lt find thy manhood all too fast—Soon come, soon gone! and age at lastA sorry BREAKING UP!
Twelve years ago I made a mockOf filthy trades and traffics:I wondered what they meant by stock;I wrote delightful sapphics:I knew the streets of Rome and Troy,I supped with fates and furies;Twelve years ago I was a boy,A happy boy at Drury's.
Twelve years ago!—how many a thoughtOf faded pains and pleasures,Those whispered syllables have broughtFrom memory's hoarded treasures!The fields, the forms, the beasts, the books.The glories and disgraces,The voices of dear friends, the looksOf old familiar faces.
Where are my friends?—I am alone,No playmate shares my beaker—Some lie beneath the church-yard stone,And some before the Speaker;And some compose a tragedy,And some compose a rondo;And some draw sword for liberty,And some draw pleas for John Doe.
Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes,Without the fear of sessions;Charles Medler loathed false quantities,As much as false professions;Now Mill keeps order in the land,A magistrate pedantic;And Medler's feet repose unscannedBeneath the wide Atlantic.
Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din,Does Dr. Martext's duty;And Mullion, with that monstrous chin,Is married to a beauty;And Darrel studies, week by week,His Mant and not his Manton;And Ball, who was but poor at Greek,Is very rich at Canton.
And I am eight-and-twenty now—The world's cold chain has bound me;And darker shades are on my brow,And sadder scenes around me:In Parliament I fill my seat,With many other noodles;And lay my head in Germyn-street,And sip my hock at Doodle's.
But often when the cares of life,Have set my temples aching,When visions haunt me of a wife,When duns await my waking,When Lady Jane is in a pet,Or Hobby in a hurry,When Captain Hazard wins a bet,Or Beauheu spoils a curry:
For hours and hours, I think and talkOf each remembered hobby:I long to lounge in Poet's Walk—Or shiver in the lobby;I wish that I could run awayFrom House, and court, and levee,Where bearded men appear to-day,Just Eton boys, grown heavy;
That I could bask in childhood's sun,And dance o'er childhood's roses;And find huge wealth in one pound one,Vast wit and broken noses;And pray Sir Giles at Datchet Lane,And call the milk-maids Houris;That I could be a boy again—A happy boy at Drury's!
Some years ago, ere Time and TasteHad turned our parish topsy-turvy,When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste,And roads as little known as scurvy,The man who lost his way betweenSt. Marys' Hill and Sandy Thicket,Was always shown across the Green,And guided to the Parson's Wicket.
Back flew the bolt of lisson lath;Fair Margaret in her tidy kirtle,Led the lorn traveler up the path,Through clean-clipped rows of box and myrtle: And Don and Sancho,Tramp and Tray,Upon the parlor steps collected,Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say,"Our master knows you; you're expected!"
Up rose the Reverend Doctor Brown,Up rose the Doctor's "winsome marrow;"The lady lay her knitting down,Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow;Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed,Pundit or papist, saint or sinner,He found a stable for his steed,And welcome for himself, and dinner.
If, when he reached his journey's end,And warmed himself in court or college,He had not gained an honest friend,And twenty curious scraps of knowledge:—If he departed as he came,With no new light on love or liquor,—Good sooth the traveler was to blame,And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar.
His talk was like a stream which runsWith rapid change from rocks to roses;It slipped from politics to puns:It passed from Mohammed to Moses:Beginning with the laws which keepThe planets in their radiant courses,And ending with some precept deepFor dressing eels or shoeing horses.
He was a shrewd and sound divine,Of loud Dissent the mortal terror;And when, by dint of page and line,He 'stablished Truth, or started Error,The Baptist found him far too deep;The Deist sighed with saving sorrow;And the lean Levite went to sleep,And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow.
His sermons never said or showedThat Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious,Without refreshment on the roadFrom Jerome, or from Athanasius;And sure a righteous zeal inspiredThe hand and head that penned and planned them,For all who understood, admired,And some who did not understand them.
He wrote, too, in a quiet way,Small treatises and smaller verses;And sage remarks on chalk and clay,And hints to noble lords and nurses;True histories of last year's ghost,Lines to a ringlet or a turban;And trifles for the Morning Post,And nothing for Sylvanus Urban.
He did not think all mischief fair,Although he had a knack of joking;He did not make himself a bear,Although he had a taste for smokingAnd when religious sects ran mad,He held, in spite of all his learning,That if a man's belief is bad, It will not be improved by burning.
And he was kind, and loved to sitIn the low hut or garnished cottage,And praise the farmer's homely wit,And share the widow's homelier pottage:At his approach complaint grew mild,And when his hand unbarred the shutter,The clammy lips of Fever smiledThe welcome which they could not utter.
He always had a tale for meOf Julius Caesar or of Venus:From him I learned the rule of three,Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Quae genus;I used to singe his powdered wig,To steal the staff he put such trust in;And make the puppy dance a jigWhen he began to quote Augustin.
Alack the change! in vain I lookFor haunts in which my boyhood trifled;The level lawn, the trickling brook,The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled:The church is larger than before:You reach it by a carriage entry:It holds three hundred people more:And pews are fitted up for gentry.
Sit in the Vicar's seat: you'll hearThe doctrine of a gentle Johnian,Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear,Whose tone is very Ciceronian.Where is the old man laid?—look down,And construe on the slab before you,HIC JACET GULIELMUS BROWN,VIR NULLA NON DONANDUS LAURA.
In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars,And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars,Away from the world and its toils and its cares,I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.
To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure;And the view I behold on a sunshiny dayIs grand through the chimney-pots over the way.
This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks,With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books,And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,Cracked bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.
Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked),Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed;A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see;What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.
No better divan need the Sultan require,Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire;And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you getFrom the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.
That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp;By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp;A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn:'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.
Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes,Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times;As we sit in a fog made of rich LatakieThis chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.
But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,There's one that I love and I cherish the best;For the finest of couches that's padded with hairI never would change thee, my cane-bottomed chair.
'Tis a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat,With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet;But since the fair morning when FANNY sat there,I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair.
If chairs have but feeling in holding such charms,A thrill must have passed through your withered old arms!I looked, and I longed, and I wished in despair;I wished myself turned to a cane-bottomed chair.
It was but a moment she sat in this place,She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face!A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair,And she sat there, and bloomed in my cane-bottomed chair.
And so I have valued my chair ever since,Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince;Saint FANNY, my patroness sweet I declare,The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed chair.When the candles burn low, and the company's gone,In the silence of night as I sit here alone—I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair—My FANNY I see in my cane-bottomed chair.
She comes from the past and revisits my room;She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom;So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair,And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair.
Oh! I have loved thee fondly, everPreferr'd thee to the choicest wine;From thee my lips they could not severBy saying thou contain'dst strychnine.Did I believe the slander? Never!I held thee still to be divine.
For me thy color hath a charm,Although 'tis true they call thee Pale;And be thou cold when I am warm,As late I've been—so high the scaleOf FAHRENHEIT—and febrile harmAllay, refrigerating Ale!
How sweet thou art!—yet bitter, tooAnd sparkling, like satiric fun;But how much better thee to brew,Than a conundrum or a pun,It is, in every point of view,Must be allow'd by every one.
Refresh my heart and cool my throat,Light, airy child of malt and hops!That dost not stuff, engross, and bloatThe skin, the sides, the chin, the chops,And burst the buttons off the coat,Like stout and porter—fattening slops!
Sweet is the sound of infant voice;Young innocence is full of charms:There's not a pleasure half so choice,As tossing up a child in arms.Babyhood is a blessed state,Felicity expressly made for;But still, on earth it is our fate,That even "Children must be paid for."
If in an omnibus we ride,It is a beauteous sight to see,When full the vehicle inside, Age taking childhood on its knee.But in the dog-days' scorching heat,When a slight breath of air is pray'd for,Half suffocated in our seat,We feel that "Children must be paid for."
There is about the sports of youthA charm that reaches every heart,Marbles or tops are games of truth,The bat plays no deceiver's part.But if we hear a sudden crash,No explanation need be stay'd for,We know there's something gone to smash;We feel that "Children must be paid for."
How exquisite the infant's grace,When, clambering upon the knee,The cherub, smiling, takes his placeUpon his mother's lap at tea;Perchance the beverage flows o'er,And leaves a stain there is no aid for,On carpet, dress, or chair—Once moreWe feel that "Children must be paid for."
Presiding at the festive board,With many faces laughing round,Dull melancholy is ignoredWhile mirth and jollity abound:We see our table amply spreadWith knives and forks a dozen laid for,Then pause to think—"How are they fed?"Yes, "Children must indeed be paid for!"
[Illustration: William Cullen Bryant]
Fair insect! that, with thread-like legs spread out,And blood-extracting bill, and filmy wing,Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about,In pitiless ears full many a plaintive thing,And tell how little our large veins should bleed,Would we but yield them to thy bitter need.
Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse,Full angrily men hearken to thy plaint,Thou gettest many a brush and many a curse,For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and faint:Even the old beggar, while he asks for food,Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could.
I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween,Has not the honor of so proud a birth—Thou com'st from Jersey meadows, fresh and green,The offspring of the gods, though born on earth;For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she,The ocean-nymph that nursed thy infancy.
Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung,And when, at length, thy gauzy wings grew strong,Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung,Rose in the sky, and bore thee soft along;The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way,And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay.
Calm rose afar the city spires, and thenceCame the deep murmur of its throng of men,And as its grateful odors met thy sense,They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen.Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sightThy tiny song grew shriller with delight.
At length thy pinion fluttered in Broadway—-Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissedBy wanton airs, and eyes whose killing rayShone through the snowy vails like stars through mist;And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin,Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.
Sure these were sights to tempt an anchorite!What! do I hear thy slender voice complain?Thou wailest when I talk of beauty's light,As if it brought the memory of pain:Thou art a wayward being—well—come near,And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear.
What say'st thou, slanderer!—rouge makes thee sick?And China Bloom at best is sorry food?And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick,Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood?Go! 'twas a just reward that met thy crime—But shun the sacrilege another time.
That bloom was made to look at—not to touch;To worship—not approach—that radiant white;And well might sudden vengeance light on suchAs dared, like thee, most impiously to bite.Thou should'st have gazed at distance, and admired—Murmured thy admiration, and retired.
Thou 'rt welcome to the town—but why come hereTo bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee?Alas! the little blood I have is dear,And thin will be the banquet drawn from me.Look round—the pale-eyed sisters in my cell,Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell.
Try some plump alderman, and suck the bloodEnriched by generous wine and costly meat;On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud,Fix thy light pump, and press thy freckled feet;Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls,The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls.
There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows,To fill the swelling veins for thee, and nowThe ruddy cheek, and now the ruddier noseShall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow;And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings,No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.
I know not who thou art, thou lovely one,Thine eyes were drooped, thy lips half sorrowful,Yet didst thou eloquently smile on me,While handing up thy sixpence through the holeOf that o'er-freighted omnibus!—ah, me!—The world is full of meetings such as this;A thrill—a voiceless challenge and reply,And sudden partings after—we may pass,And know not of each other's nearness now,Thou in the Knickerbocker line, and ILone in the Waverley! Oh! life of pain;And even should I pass where thou dost dwell—Nay, see thee in the basement taking tea—So cold is this inexorable world,I must glide on, I dare not feast mine eye,I dare not make articulate my love,Nor o'er the iron rails that hem thee inVenture to throw to thee my innocent card,Not knowing thy papa.
Hast thou papa?Is thy progenitor alive, fair girl?And what doth he for lucre? Lo again!A shadow o'er the face of this fair dream!For thou may'st be as beautiful as LoveCan make thee, and the ministering handsOf milliners, incapable of more,Be lifted at thy shapeliness and air,And still 'twixt me and thee, invisibly,May rise a wall of adamant. My breathUpon my pale lip freezes as I nameManhattan's orient verge, and eke the westIn its far down extremity. Thy sireMay be the signer of a temperance pledge,And clad all decently may walk the earth—Nay—may be number'd with that blessed fewWho never ask for discount—yet, alas!If, homeward wending from his daily cares,He go by Murphy's Line, thence eastward tending—Or westward from the Line of Kipp & Brown—My vision is departed! Harshly fallsThe doom upon the ear, "She's not genteel!"And pitiless is woman who doth keepOf "good society" the golden key!And gentlemen are bound, as are the stars,To stoop not after rising!
But farewell,And I shall look for thee in streets where dwellThe passengers by Broadway Lines alone!And if my dreams be true, and thou, indeed,Art only not more lovely than genteel—Then, lady of the snow-white chemisette,The heart which vent'rously cross'd o'er to theeUpon that bridge of sixpence, may remain—And, with up-town devotedness and truth,My love shall hover round thee!
Argument.—The poet starts from the Bowling Green to take his sweetheart up to Thompson's for an ice, or (if she is inclined for more) ices. He confines his muse to matters which any every-day man and young woman may see in taking the same promenade for the same innocent refreshment.
Come out, love—the night is enchanting!The moon hangs just over Broadway;The stars are all lighted and panting—(Hot weather up there, I dare say!)'Tis seldom that "coolness" entices,And love is no better for chilling—But come up to Thompson's for ices,And cool your warm heart for a shilling!
What perfume comes balmily o'er us?Mint juleps from City Hotel!A loafer is smoking before us—(A nasty cigar, by the smell!)O Woman! thou secret past knowing!Like lilacs that grow by the wall,You breathe every air that is going,Yet gather but sweetness from all!
On, on! by St. Paul's, and the Astor!Religion seems very ill-plann'd!For one day we list to the pastor,For six days we list to the band!The sermon may dwell on the future,The organ your pulses may calm—When—pest!—that remember'd cachuchaUpsets both the sermon and psalm!
Oh, pity the love that must utterWhile goes a swift omnibus by!(Though sweet is I SCREAM* when the flutterOf fans shows thermometers high)—But if what I bawl, or I mutter,Falls into your ear but to die,Oh, the dew that falls into the gutterIs not more unhappy than I!*[Footnote: Query—Should this be Ice cream, or I scream?—Printer'sDevil.]
I pass'd her one day in a hurry,When late for the Post with a letter—I think near the corner of Murray—And up rose my heart as I met her!I ne'er saw a parasol handledSo like to a duchess's doing—I ne'er saw a slighter foot sandal'd,Or so fit to exhale in the shoeing—Lovely thing!
Surprising!—one woman can dish usSo many rare sweets up together!Tournure absolutely delicious—Chip hat without flower or feather—Well-gloved and enchantingly boddiced,Her waist like the cup of a lily—And an air, that, while daintily modest,Repell'd both the saucy and silly—Quite the thing!
For such a rare wonder you'll say, sir,There's reason in tearing one's tether—And, to see her again in Broadway, sir,Who would not be lavish of leather!I met her again, and as YOU knowI'm sage as old Voltaire at Ferney—But I said a bad word—for my JunoLook'd sweet on a sneaking attorney—Horrid thing!
Away flies the dream I had nourish'd—My castles like mockery fall, sir!And, now, the fine airs that she flourish'dSeem varnish and crockery all, sir!The bright cup which angels might handleTurns earthy when finger'd by asses—And the star that "swaps" light with a candle,Thenceforth for a pennyworth passes!—Not the thing!
As the chill'd robin, bound to FloridaUpon a morn of autumn, crosses flyingThe air-track of a snipe most passing fair—Yet colder in her blood than she is fair—And as that robin lingers on the wing,And feels the snipe's flight in the eddying air,And loves her for her coldness not the less—But fain would win her to that warmer skyWhere love lies waking with the fragrant stars—Lo I—a languisher for sunnier climes,Where fruit, leaf, blossom, on the trees foreverImage the tropic deathlessness of love—Have met, and long'd to win thee, fairest lady,To a more genial clime than cold Broadway!
Tranquil and effortless thou glidest on,As doth the swan upon the yielding water,And with a cheek like alabaster cold!But as thou didst divide the amorous airJust opposite the Astor, and didst liftThat vail of languid lashes to look inAt Leary's tempting window—lady! thenMy heart sprang in beneath that fringed vail,Like an adventurous bird that would escapeTo some warm chamber from the outer cold!And there would I delightedly remain,And close that fringed window with a kiss,And in the warm sweet chamber of thy breast,Be prisoner forever!
'Twas late, and the gay company was gone,And light lay soft on the deserted roomFrom alabaster vases, and a scentOf orange-leaves, and sweet verbena cameThrough the uushutter'd window on the air,And the rich pictures with their dark old tintsHung like a twilight landscape, and all thingsSeem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel,The dark-eyed, spiritual IsabelWas leaning on her harp, and I had stay'dTo whisper what I could not when the crowdHung on her look like worshipers. I knelt,And with the fervor of a lip unusedTo the cool breath of reason, told my love.There was no answer, and I took the handThat rested on the strings, and press'd a kissUpon it unforbidden—and againBesought her, that this silent evidenceThat I was not indifferent to her heart,Might have the seal of one sweet syllable.I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke,And she withdrew them gently, and upraisedHer forehead from its resting-place, and look'dEarnestly on me—SHE HAD BEEN ASLEEP!
They may talk of love in a cottage,And bowers of trellised vine—Of nature bewitchingly simple,And milkmaids half divine;They may talk of the pleasure of sleepingIn the shade of a spreading tree,And a walk in the fields at morning,By the side of a footstep free!
But give me a sly flirtationBy the light of a chandelier—With music to play in the pauses,And nobody very near;Or a seat on a silken sofa,With a glass of pure old wine,And mamma too blind to discoverThe small white hand in mine.
Four love in a cottage is hungry,Your vine is a nest for flies—Your milkmaid shocks the Graces,And simplicity talks of pies!You lie down to your shady slumberAnd wake with a bug in your ear,And your damsel that walks in the morningIs shod like a mountaineer.
True love is at home on a carpet,And mightily likes his ease—And true love has an eye for a dinner,And starves beneath shady trees.His wing is the fan of a lady,His foot's an invisible thing,And his arrow is tipp'd with a jewel,And shot from a silver string.
Nay, lady, one frown is enoughIn a life as soon over as this—And though minutes seem long in a huff,They're minutes 'tis pity to miss!The smiles you imprison so lightlyAre reckon'd, like days in eclipse;And though you may smile again brightly,You've lost so much light from your lips!Pray, lady, smile!
The cup that is longest untastedMay be with our bliss running o'er,And, love when we will, we have wastedAn age in not loving before!Perchance Cupid's forging a fetterTo tie us together some day,And, just for the chance, we had betterBe laying up love, I should say!Nay, lady, smile!
I wrote some lines, once on a time,In wondrous merry mood,And thought, as usual, men would sayThey were exceeding good.
They were so queer, so very queer,I laughed as I would die;Albeit, in the general way,A sober man am I.
I called my servant, and he came;How kind it was of him,To mind a slender man like me,He of the mighty limb!
"These to the printer," I exclaimed.And, in my humorous way,I added (as a trifling jest),"There'll be the devil to pay."
He took the paper, and I watched,And saw him peep within;At the first line he read, his faceWas all upon the grin.
He read the next; the grin grew broad.And shot from ear to ear;He read the third; a chuckling noiseI now began to hear.
The fourth; he broke into a roar;The fifth; his waistband split;The sixth; he burst five buttons off,And tumbled in a fit.
Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,I watched that wretched man,And since, I never dare to writeAs funny as I can.
An Attorney was taking a turn,In shabby habiliments drest;His coat it was shockingly worn,And the rust had invested his vest.
His breeches had suffered a breach,His linen and worsted were worse;He had scarce a whole crown in his hat,And not half-a-crown in his purse.
And thus as he wandered along,A cheerless and comfortless elf,He sought for relief in a song,Or complainingly talked to himself:
"Unfortunate man that I am!I've never a client but grief;The case is, I've no case at all,And in brief, I've ne'er had a brief!
"I've waited and waited in vain,Expecting an 'opening' to find,Where an honest young lawyer might gainSome reward for the toil of his mind.
"'Tis not that I'm wanting in law,Or lack an intelligent face,That others have cases to plead,While I have to plead for a case.
"O, how can a modest young manE'er hope for the smallest progression—The profession's already so fullOf lawyers so full of profession!"
While thus he was strolling around,His eye accidentally fellOn a very deep hole in the ground,And he sighed to himself, "It is well!"
To curb his emotions, he satOn the curb-stone the space of a minute,Then cried, "Here's an opening at last!"And in less than a jiffy was in it!
Next morning twelve citizens came('Twas the coroner bade them attend),To the end that it might be determinedHow the man had determined his end!
"The man was a lawyer, I hear,"Quoth the foreman who sat on the corse;"A lawyer? Alas!" said another,"Undoubtedly he died of remorse!"
A third said, "He knew the deceased,An attorney well versed in the laws,And as to the cause of his death,'Twas no doubt from the want of a cause."
The jury decided at length,After solemnly weighing the matter,"That the lawyer was drownDed, becauseHe could not keep his head above water!"
SONNET TO A CLAM.JOHN G. SAXEDum tacent CLAMant
Inglorious friend! most confident I amThy life is one of very little ease;Albeit men mock thee with their similesAnd prate of being "happy as a clam!"What though thy shell protects thy fragile headFrom the sharp bailiffs of the briny sea?Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee,While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed,And bear thee off—as foemen take their spoil—Far from thy friends and family to roam;Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home,To meet destruction in a foreign broil!Though thou art tender, yet thy humble bardDeclares, O clam! thy case is shocking hard!
O Maryanne, you pretty girl,Intent on silky labor,Of sempstresses the pink and pearl,Excuse a peeping neighbor!
Those eyes, forever drooping, giveThe long brown lashes rarely;But violets in the shadows live,—For once unvail them fairly.
Hast thou not lent that flounce enoughOf looks so long and earnest?Lo, here's more "penetrable stuff,"To which thou never turnest.
Ye graceful fingers, deftly sped!How slender, and how nimble!O might I wind their skeins of thread,Or but pick up their thimble!
How blest the youth whom love shall bring,And happy stars embolden,To change the dome into a ring,The silver into golden!
Who'll steal some morning to her sideTo take her finger's measure,While Maryanne pretends to chide,And blushes deep with pleasure.
Who'll watch her sew her wedding-gown,Well conscious that it IS hers,Who'll glean a tress, without a frown, With those so ready scissors.
Who'll taste those ripenings of the south,The fragrant and delicious—Don't put the pins into your mouth,O Maryanne, my precious!
I almost wish it were my trustTo teach how shocking that is;I wish I had not, as I must,To quit this tempting lattice.
Sure aim takes Cupid, fluttering foe,Across a street so narrow;A thread of silk to string his bow,A needle for his arrow!