•3 
 
 "i 
 
 (S' "^"^ "^^^ 
 
 IsS 
 
 *^^ 
 
 NS 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 \n^ 
 
 ©jjin}! \^ V^ itipt|ng}|i !f0> 
 
 Shelf 
 
 v?f 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
A COLLECTION OF 
 
 Poetry for the Holidays, 
 
 INCLUDING GEMS FROM 
 
 LONGFELLOW, BRYANT, GOLDSMITH, GRAY, 
 
 MONTGOMERY, ELIZA COOK, 
 
 AND OTHERS. 
 
 SELECTED AND AKRANGED BY 
 
 T^ 
 
 /j. 
 
 JOHIsrSTON 
 
 m |tt 
 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 W . J. JOHNSTON, PUBLISHER, 
 
 No. 11 FRANE.F0 11T STREET. 
 
 isrs. 
 
"? 
 
 f< \\n- 
 
 V'- 
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878, 
 
 By W. J. JOHNSTON, 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The compiler and publisher of tliis little vol- 
 ume lias endeavored, botli in regard to contents, 
 illustrations, and typographical appearance, to 
 present in " Christmas Evergreens " a neat 
 and tasteful book for a holiday j^resent, enter- 
 taining, instructive, and of j)ermanent interest, 
 at a price very much lower than works of this 
 character are usually sold. How far he has 
 succeeded, he leaves to the reader to say. 
 
 Acknowledgments are due Messrs. Houghton, 
 Osgood <fe Co., for permission to use Mr. Long- 
 fellow's " Paul Revere' s Ride," of which they 
 hold the copyright, and to Messrs. D. Appleton 
 & Co., for the ]:)rivilege of adding Mr. Bryant's 
 "Snow Shower." 
 
Poetry, the most perfect form of literature, is the eldest, tlie 
 rarest, and the most excellent of the fine arts. It was the first fixed 
 form of language, the earliest perpetuation of thought. It existed 
 before prose in history, before music in melody, before painting in 
 description, and before sculpture in imagery. Music was invented 
 to accompany, and painting and sculpture to illustrate it. — James 
 Montgomery in " Lectures on Poetry y 
 
 If, therefore, I were blessed with a son, in order to the forming of 
 his manners, which is making him truly my son, I should be contin- 
 ually putting into his hands some fine poet. The graceful sen- 
 tences and the manly sentiments so frequently to be met with in 
 every great and sublime writer are, in my judgment, the most orna- 
 mental and valuable furniture that can be for a youug gentleman's 
 head. Let me add this, that humanity and tenderness, without 
 which there can be no true greatness in the mind, are inspired by 
 the Muses in such pathetic language that all we find in prose 
 authors toward the raising and improving of these passions is, in 
 comparison, but cold or lukewarm at the best. There is, besides, a 
 certain elevation of soul, a sedate magnanimity, and a noble turn of 
 virtue that distinguishes the hero from the plain honest man to 
 which verse only can raise him. — Sir R. Steele, Tatler, No. 98. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Pagk 
 
 Preface 3 
 
 Introduction to Paul Revere's Ride 7 
 
 Paul Revere's Ride. . .Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 9^^ 
 
 The Telegraph Wires. . . George T. Lanigan 17- 
 
 The Snow Shower William Cullen Bryant 26-'' 
 
 Introduction to the Deserted Village 29 
 
 The Deserted Village Oliver Goldsmith 31 
 
 The Telephone Benjamin F. Taylor 51 
 
 Fate 55 
 
 The Nightingale Jane Taylor 56 
 
 The Telegram Sarah E. Henshaw 57 
 
 The Butterfly E. Taylor 59 
 
 Christmas Tide Eliza Cook 60 
 
 ! Why should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud? 
 
 William Knox 63 
 
 Spring Thomas Gray 66 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Professor Morse , A. C. Bolton 69 
 
 The Gleaner Jane Taylor 72 
 
 Evening E. Taylor 73 
 
 Morning E. Taylor 74 
 
 Home James Montgomery 76 
 
 The Christmas Tree J. C. Sherer 78 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 TO 
 
 "PAUL REVERE'S RIDE." 
 
 IfT will be remembered that this historical poem is the first of 
 I a series known as Tales of a Wayside Inn, written by Mr. 
 •I Longfellow in 18G3. In the i^relade the poet tells us that 
 a group of friends, seven in number, had gathered on an autumn 
 night around the blazing fire in the parlor of the old hostlery at 
 Sudbury. " Each had his tale to tell, and each was anxious to be 
 pleased and please." The party consisted of the landlord, " grave 
 in his aspect and attire, a man of ancient pedigree, a Justice of 
 the Peace was he, known in all Sudbury as ' The Squire;'" a 
 youthful " student of old books and day^ ; " a young Sicilian, " in 
 sight of Etna l)orn and bred;" a Spanish Jew from Alicant, 
 " with lustrous eyes and olive skin, and, wildly tossed from cheeks 
 to chin, the tumbling cataract of his beard ; " a theologian from 
 Cambridge College ; a poet, " whose verse was tender, musical, 
 and terse ; " and a musician, " fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect 
 blithe, his figure tall and straight and lithe." The musician 
 played, and, when he ceased, "the applause was loud, the pleased 
 musician smiled and bowed. 
 
 " Then silence followed; then besran 
 A clamor for the Landlord's laie, — 
 The story promised tlicm of old, 
 They said, but always left untold; 
 Ani.1 he, althoui^li a bashful man, 
 And all his courage seemed to fail, 
 Findinir excuse of no avail. 
 Yielded: and thus the story ran." 
 
■^^h 
 
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. 
 
 THE LANDLORD'S TALE. 
 
 'iSTEN, my children, and 3^011 shall hear 
 Of the midnight ride of Paul Kevere, 
 On the eighteenth of April, in Seventj-tive ; 
 Hardly a man is now alive 
 Who remembers that famous day and year. 
 
 He said to his friend : " If the British march 
 By land or sea from the town to-night. 
 Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 
 Of the North Church tower as a signal light,- 
 One, if by land, and two, if by sea ; 
 And I on the opposite shore will be, 
 Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
 
10 PAUL KEVERE'S EIDE. 
 
 TliroLigli every Middlesex village and farm, 
 For the country-folk to be up and to arm/' 
 
 Then he said " Good night ! " and with mnfiaed oar 
 
 Silently rowed to tlie Charlestown shore, 
 
 Just as the moon rose over the bay, 
 
 Where, swinging wide at her moorings, lay 
 
 The Somerset, British man-of-war, — 
 
 A phantom-ship, with each mast and spar 
 
 Across the moon like a prison bar. 
 
 And a huge black hulk that was magnilied 
 
 By its own reflection in the tide. 
 
 Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street, 
 Wanders and watches with eager ears, 
 Till in the silence around him he hears 
 The muster of men at the barrack door, 
 
PAUL KEVERE's hide. 
 
 The sound of arms and the tramp cf feet, 
 And the measured tread of tlie grenadiers 
 Marcliing down to their boats on the sliore. 
 
 11 
 
 Then he climbed the tower of the Old I^orth Church, 
 
 By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, 
 
 To the belfry-chamber overhead. 
 
 And startled the i^igeons from their perch 
 
 On the sombre rafters, that round him made 
 
 Masses and moving shapes of shade,— 
 
 By the trembling ladder, steep and tall. 
 
 To the highest window in the wall, 
 
 Where he jjaused to listen and look down 
 
 A moment on the roofs of the town. 
 
 And the moonlight flowing over all. 
 
12 PAUL heveke's kide. 
 
 Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, 
 In their night-encampment on the hill. 
 
 Wrapped in silence so deep and still 
 
 That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread. 
 
 The watchful night-wind, as it went 
 
 Creeping along from tent to tent, 
 
 And seeming to whisper : "All is well ! " 
 
 A moment only he feels the spell 
 
 Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread 
 
 Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; 
 
 For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 
 
 On a shadowy something far away. 
 
 Where the river widens to meet the bay, — 
 
 A line of black that bends and floats 
 
 On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 
 
PAUL KKVEKE's KIDK. 
 
 Meanwliile, impatient to mount and ride, 
 Booted and spurred, with a lieavj stride 
 On tlie opposite shore walked Paul Revereo 
 Now lie patted his horse's side, 
 Now gazed at the landscape far and near, 
 Then, impetuous, stamped the eartli, 
 And turned and tighteiied his saddle-girth ; 
 But mostly he watched with eager search 
 The belfry toAver of the Old North Churcli, 
 As it rose above the graves on the hill, 
 Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. 
 And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height 
 A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! 
 He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, 
 
 13 
 
 But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
 A second lamp in the belfry burns ! 
 
14 PAUL revere' S RIDE. 
 
 A liurry of lioof s in a village street, 
 
 A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, 
 
 And beneath, from the pebbles in passing, a spark 
 
 Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet : 
 
 That was all ! And yet, through the gloom and the light. 
 
 The fate of a nation was riding that night ; 
 
 And the spark struck out by that steed in his fliglit 
 Kindled the land into flame with its. heat. 
 
 He has left the village and mounted the steep, 
 And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, 
 Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides ; 
 And under the alders that skirt its edge. 
 Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, 
 Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. 
 
PAUL keveke's kide. 16 
 
 Jt was twelve by the village clock 
 
 When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. 
 
 He heard the crowing of the cock, 
 
 And the barking of the farmer' s dog, 
 
 And felt the damp of the river fog. 
 
 That rises after the sun goes down. 
 
 It was one by the village clock 
 
 When he galloped into Lexington. 
 
 He saw the gilded weathercock 
 
 Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 
 
 And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, 
 
 Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 
 
 As if they already stood aghast 
 
 At the bloody work they would look upon. 
 
 It was two by the village clock 
 
 When he came to the bridge in Concord town. 
 
 He heard the bleating of the flock. 
 
 And the twitter of birds among the trees, 
 
 And felt the breath of the morning breeze 
 
 Blowing over the meadows brown. 
 
 And one was safe and asleep in his bed 
 
 Who at the bridge would be first to fall, — 
 
 Who that day would be lying dead. 
 
 Pierced by a British musket-ball. 
 
 You know the rest. In the books you have read 
 How the British Regulars fired and fled, — 
 
16 
 
 PAUL KEVERE'S KIDE. 
 
 How the farmers gave tliem ball for ball, 
 From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, 
 
 Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 
 
 Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
 
 Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
 
 And only pausing to fire and load. 
 
 So through the night rode Paul Revere ; 
 
 And so through the night went his cry of alarm 
 
 To every Middlesex village and farm, — 
 
 A cry of defiance and not of fear, 
 
 A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, 
 
 And a word that shall echo forevermore ! 
 
 For, borne on the night- wind of the Past, 
 
 Through all our history tO the last. 
 
 In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 
 
 The people will waken and listen to hear 
 
 The hurrying hoof -beats of that steed, 
 
 And the midnight message of Paul Revere. 
 
THE TELEGRAM WIRES. 
 
 THE WIRES LOQUENTUR. 
 
 uERAii for the veins of the country, 
 Throbbing with fiery blood ! 
 Hurrah for the wires that carry tlie thouglits 
 Of the city's multitude ! 
 
 The gleaming rails are the sinews 
 That sway the strong right hand, 
 
 But the wires carry the heart-blood thoughts 
 Across the busy land. 
 
18 
 
 THE TELEGRAPH WIRES. 
 
 Hurrali for the purple prairies 
 
 That robe our royal land ! 
 Hurrah for the dark green glory of pines 
 
 That tower on every hand ! 
 And hurrah for the father of harvests 
 
 That gallops to meet the sea, 
 As a warrior spurs a foaming steed 
 
 To the perilous victory ! 
 
 We're at home in the pathless prairie ; 
 We're at home in the solemn woods, 
 
 
 Where the red fox patters over red leaves, 
 And whirs the partridge brood. 
 
 Then away across the sunset land, 
 By homesteads mossed and gray, 
 
THE TELEGRAPH WIRES. 
 
 The march of the lessening telegraph wires 
 Goes into the reddened day. 
 
 Deep down in the silent water, 
 
 Where a tremulous splendor dwells, 
 On the slanting walls of golden halls 
 
 And the rainbows of the shells, 
 Our wires are speaking living words • 
 
 Down in the dusky gloom 
 Clicking away, night and day ; 
 
 Passionless tongue that never tires. 
 Joy and grief have a similar sound 
 
 Over the wires. 
 
 19 
 
 THE WIRES IN PEACE. 
 
 We start from the busy city, 
 That throbs to the rush of feet, 
 
20 
 
 THE TELEGRAPH WIRES. 
 
 Where the hurrying army of trade 
 Goes rushing down the street. 
 
 We pass the white-walled cottages, 
 Where the pleasant sound of bees 
 
 Crones the sultry day to sleep 
 In the clover under the trees. 
 
 The iron horse flings his smoky mane, 
 
 As he thunders among the hills. 
 Shaking the harvest fields that dance 
 
 To a murmur of musical rills. 
 We cling to his trail in the happy land ; 
 
 We bend above the stream ; 
 And our glimmering posts troop by like ghosts 
 
 In the traveler's midnight dream. 
 
THE TELEGiiAPH WIRES. 
 
 21 
 
 THE WIRES IN WAR. 
 
 We march in the van of the army 
 That rolls to the far-away fight, 
 
 And our banners glow with the presence 
 Of the G-od who strikes for the right — 
 
 Past the pickets that sternly stand 
 Each on his lonc^ly post, 
 
22 THE TELEGRAPH WIRES. 
 
 While the moonbeam shimmers on the tents 
 Above the sleeping host. 
 
 We see them march to the battle, 
 And our veins are big with pride. 
 
 When the blue coats stoop to the shower of lead 
 That rains from the mountain side ; 
 
 Till the battle is white with smoke ; 
 And over the wild unrest 
 
 Stream in fierce 303' the burning stars 
 Of the land we love the best. 
 
 We hurry, hurry homeward, 
 
 When the long day's battle is done, 
 
TIIK TKLKGllAl'll WIRES 
 
 23 
 
 With news of a great one fallen — 
 With news of a great fight won. 
 
 We thrill along the endless words, 
 We sing by lowly eaves, 
 
 Wliere the birds iiy like a flash of light 
 Amid the dark cool leaves. 
 
 Where women watch with weary eyes, 
 
 And little children wait, 
 Under the musical sycamore 
 
 Down by the garden gate ; 
 And down in the office, from white lips 
 
 Faint breath comes quick and short 
 When the sounder clicks the list of killed 
 
 In the afternoon report. 
 
24 THE TELEGRAPH WIRES. 
 
 THE WIRES IN THE OITY. 
 
 We leave the cottage home behind ; 
 
 A gloomy sunset steals 
 Over the city where the streets 
 
 Are thunderous with wheels. 
 Busy all day the key has been ; 
 
 Busy all night the types shall be ; 
 To-morrow the news is in the land 
 
 Of a glorious victory ! 
 
 Crowds are choking every street, 
 And great bells boom in stately towers ; 
 
 Flags flutter out on smoky roofs — 
 After the battle, joy is ours ; 
 
 Joy on the land, Joy on the lake, 
 Where a hundred ripples of sunshine laugh, 
 
 And joy where the ragged newsboy shouts : 
 "Great news by telegraph ! " 
 
THE TELKGKAPH WIRES. 
 THE WIRES UNIVERSALLY. 
 
 We bring glad news to inland homes 
 
 Of ships upon the sea ; 
 We hurry along the murderer's trail- 
 
 His Nemesis are we. 
 
 25 
 
 We watcli all night the roaring trains. 
 
 When the sleepless sounder clicks 
 A caution for Number Seven past 
 
 To wait for Number Six. 
 We are knitting land to brother land, 
 
 And hurrying on the day 
 When the clouds about the glorious stars 
 
 Shall all be rolled away ; 
 When the people shall learn war no more, 
 
 Nor again the cymbal clash, 
 And all the nations speak one speech — 
 
 The telegraph dot and dash. 
 
THE SNOW SHOWER. 
 
 TAND here by my side and turn, I pray, 
 
 On the lake below thy gentle eyes ; 
 The clouds hang over it heavy and gray, 
 And dark and silent the water lies ; 
 '^^ And out of that frozen mist the snow 
 In wavering flakes begins to flow : 
 Flake after flake 
 They sink in the dark and silent lake. 
 
 See how in a living swarm they come 
 
 From the chambers beyond that misty vail ; 
 
 Some hover awhile in air, and some 
 Rush prone from the sky like summer hail. 
 
THE SNOW SHOWEK. 27 
 
 All, dropping swiftly or settling slow, 
 Meet, and are still in the depths below : 
 
 Flake after flake 
 Dissolved in the dark and silent lake. 
 
 Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud, 
 
 Come floating downward in airy play, 
 Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd 
 
 That whiten by night the milky way ; 
 There broader and burlier masses fall ; 
 
 The sullen water buries them all — 
 Flake after flake — 
 
 All drowned in the dark and silent lake. 
 
 And some, as on tender wings they glide. 
 
 From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray, 
 Are joined in their fall, and, side by side. 
 
 Come clinging along their unsteady way ; 
 As friend with friend, or husband with wife, 
 
 Makes hand in hand the passage of life : 
 Each mated flake 
 
 Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake. 
 
 Lo ! while we are gazing, in swifter haste 
 ■ Stream down the snows, till the air is white, 
 As, myriads by myriads madly chased, 
 They fling themselves from their shadowy height ; 
 
28 THE SNOW SHOWER. 
 
 The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, 
 Wliat speed they make, with their grave so nigh ; 
 
 Flake after flake, 
 To lie in the dark and silent lake ! 
 
 I see in thy gentle eyes a tear ; 
 
 They turn to me in sorrowful thought ; 
 Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear, 
 
 Who were for a time, and now are not ; 
 Like these fair children of cloud and frost, 
 
 That glisten a moment and then are lost, 
 Flake after flake — 
 
 All lost in the dark and silent lake. 
 
 Yet look again, for the clouds divide ; 
 
 A gleam of blue on the water lies ; 
 And far away, on the mountain side, 
 
 A sunbeam falls from the opening skies. 
 }-iut the hurrying host that flew between 
 
 The cloud and the water, no more is seen : 
 Flake after flake 
 
 At rest in the dark and silent lake. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 THE DESERTED YILLAGE 
 
 fHEN this beautiful and pathetic poem was first produced, in 
 1770, its pbpularity was so great that five editions were 
 published within four months. Goethe translated it into 
 German, and critics and the public were unanimous in pronouncing 
 it one of the sweetest and most perfect poems in the English 
 language, a verdict that all lovers of the true and beautiful in 
 poetiy and art have since fully indorsed. 
 
 The poem was dedicated to Sir Joshua Reynolds, the eminent 
 painter, who was a warm friend of the author. In the dedication 
 Goldsmith says: " How far you may be pleased with the versifica- 
 tion and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I do not pretend to 
 inquire; but I know you will object (and indeed several of our best 
 and wisest friends concur in the opinion) that the depopulation it 
 deplores is nowhere to be seen, and the disorders it laments are only 
 to be found in the poet's own imagination. To this I can scarcely 
 make any other answer than that I sincerely believe what I have 
 written; that I have taken all possible pains, in my country excur- 
 sions, for these fmir or five years past, to be certain of what I 
 allege, and that all my views and inquiries have led me to believe 
 those miseries real which I here attempt to display. But this is not 
 the place to enter into an inquiry, whether the country be depopu- 
 lating or not ; the discussion would take up much room, and I 
 should prove myself, at best, an indiSerent politician to tire the 
 reader with a long preface when I want his unfatigued attention to 
 a long poem. 
 
30 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 "In regretting the depopulation of the country, 1 inveigh against 
 the increase of our luxuries ; and here also I expect the shout of 
 modern politicians against rae. For twenty or thirty years past it 
 has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest na- 
 tional advantages ; and all the wisdom of antiquity in that partic- 
 ular as erroneous. Still, hov;ever, I must remain a professed 
 ancient on that head, and continue to think those luxuries prejudi- 
 cial to states by which so many vices are introduced, and so many 
 kingdoms have been undone. Indeed, so much has been poured out 
 of late on the other side of the question, that, merely for the sake of 
 novelty and variety, one would sometimes wish to be in the right." 
 

 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 kWEET Auburn ! loveliest village of 
 the plain, 
 
 Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain, 
 Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
 And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed. 
 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease. 
 Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 
 How often have I loitered o'er thy green, 
 Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! 
 How often have I paused on every charm. 
 The sheltered cot, tlie cultivated farm, 
 
32 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
 
 The decent church that topped the neighboring hill, 
 
 The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 
 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 
 
 How often have I blessed the coming day, 
 
 When toil remitting lent its turn to play. 
 
 And all the village train, from labor free, 
 
 Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, 
 
 While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
 
 The young contending as the old surveyed : 
 
 And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground. 
 
 And sleights of art and feats of strength went round; 
 
 And still as each repeated pleasure tired. 
 
 Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; 
 
 The dancing pair that simply sought renown, 
 
 By holding out, to tire each other down ; 
 
 The swain mistrustless of his smutted face. 
 
 While secret laughter tittered round the place ; 
 
 The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love. 
 
 The matron' s glance that would those looks reprove. 
 
 These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these 
 
 With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 
 
 These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, 
 
 These were thy charms, — but all these charms are fled, 
 
 Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 33 
 
 Amidst thy bovvers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
 And desolation saddens all thy green ; 
 One only master grasps the whole domain, 
 And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ; 
 No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. 
 But, chok'd with sedges, works its weedy way ; 
 Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 
 The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
 Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
 And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 
 Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. 
 And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall, 
 
 -^-^-•^ \::iM^=- 
 
 And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
 Far, far away thy children leave the land. 
 
34 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
 Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
 Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
 A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; 
 But a bold peasantry, their country's pride. 
 When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 
 
 A time there was, ere England' s griefs began, 
 When every rood of ground maintained its man ; 
 For him light labor spread her wholesome store? 
 Just gave what life required, but gave no more ; 
 His best companions, innocence and health ; 
 And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
 
 But times are altered ; trade's unfeeling train 
 Usurp the land and dispossess the swain ; 
 Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 
 Unwieldy wealth and cumberous pomp repose ; 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 ADd every want to luxury allied, 
 
 And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
 
 36 
 
 Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
 Those calm desires that asked but little room. 
 Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, 
 Lived in each look, and brightened all the green ; 
 These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 
 And rural mirth and manners are no more. 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 
 Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
 Here, as I take my solitary rounds, 
 Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruined grounds, 
 
36 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 And, many a year elapsed, return to view- 
 Where once the cottage stood, the liawthorn grew, 
 Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
 Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 
 
 In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
 In all my griefs, — and God has given my share — 
 I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, 
 Amidst these humble bowsers to lay me down ; 
 To husband out life' s taper at the close. 
 And keep the flame from \vasting by repose ; 
 I still had hopes, for pride attends us still. 
 Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, 
 Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
 And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
 And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue. 
 Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, 
 I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
 .Here to return — and die at home at last. 
 
 O blest retirement, friei-id to life's decline, 
 "Hetreats from care, that never must be mine. 
 How blest is he who crowns in shades like these, 
 A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 
 Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
 And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
 For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
 Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 
 
THE DKSEKTED VILLAGE. 37 
 
 No surly porter stands in guilty state, 
 To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
 But on lie moves to meet liis latter end, 
 Angels around befriending Virtue's friend ; 
 Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, 
 While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
 And, all his prospects brightening to the last. 
 His heaven commences ere the world be past. 
 
 Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close 
 Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
 There, as I passed with careless steps and slow. 
 The mingling notes came softened from below ; 
 The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung. 
 The sober herd that lowed to meet their young ; 
 The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. 
 The playful children just let loose from school ; 
 The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind; 
 And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; 
 These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. 
 And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 
 But now the sounds of population fail, 
 No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 
 No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread. 
 But all the bloomy flush of life is fled. 
 All but yon widowed, solitary thing, 
 
38 thp: desp:rted village. 
 
 That feebly bends beside the pi ashy spring ; 
 
 She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, 
 
 To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
 
 To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, 
 
 To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; 
 
 She only left of all the harmless train. 
 
 The sad historian of the pensive plain. 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
 And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose. 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 A man he was to all the country dear. 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
 Nor e' er had changed, nor wished to change his place ; 
 Unskillful he to fawn, or seek for power. 
 By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 
 Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 
 More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
 His house was known to all the vagrant train, 
 He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain; 
 The long-remembered beggar was his guest, 
 Whose beard descending swept his aged breast. 
 The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud. 
 Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed. 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 39 
 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
 Sate by his fire, and talked the night away ; 
 
 Wept o' er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, 
 Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. 
 Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow ; 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
 And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side : 
 But in his duty prompt at every call, 
 He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all • 
 
40 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 
 To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
 He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
 Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
 
 Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed. 
 The reverend champion stood. At his control 
 Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise. 
 And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 
 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
 His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
 Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 
 And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 
 The service past, around the pious man. 
 With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
 E'en children followed with endearing wile, 
 And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile. 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed, 
 Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed, 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
 As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm. 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread. 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 41 
 
 Beside yon straggling fence tliat skirts the way. 
 With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, 
 
 There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, 
 The village master taught his little school ; 
 A man severe he was, and stern to view, 
 I knew him well, and every truant knew ; 
 Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
 Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
 Full well the busy whisper circling round 
 Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned ; 
 Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught. 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault ; 
 The village all declared how much he knew ; 
 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; 
 Lands he could measure, terms and tides j)resage, 
 And e'en the story ran that he could guage ; 
 
42 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 n arguing, too, the parson owned his skill. 
 For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still ; 
 While words of learned length, and thundering sound, 
 Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
 And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 
 That one small head could carry all he knew. 
 But past is all his fame. The very spot 
 Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. 
 Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
 Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
 Low lies that house where nut-brown drafts inspired. 
 Where gray-beard mirth, and smiling toil retired. 
 Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, 
 And news much older than their ale went round. 
 Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
 The parlor splendors of that festive place ; 
 The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor, 
 The varnished clock that clicked behind the door; 
 The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
 A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
 The pictures placed for ornament and use. 
 The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
 The hearth, except when winter chilled the day. 
 With aspen boughs, and flowers a»d fennel gay, 
 While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show. 
 Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 43 
 
 Vain transitory splendors ! could not all 
 Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ! 
 Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
 An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; 
 Thither no more the peasant shall repair, 
 To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
 !N'o more the farmer' s news, the barber' s tale, 
 No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
 No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
 Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear ; 
 The host himself no longer shall be found 
 Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
 Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
 Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 
 
 Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain. 
 These simple blessings of the lowly train. 
 To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
 One native charm, than all the gloss of art ; 
 Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play. 
 The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; 
 Lightly they frolic o' er the vacant mind, 
 Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. 
 But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
 With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, 
 In tliese, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
 The toiling pleasure sickens into pain : 
 
44 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
 The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy ? 
 
 Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
 The rich man's joy increase, the poor's decay, 
 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand 
 Between a splendid and a happy land. 
 Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 
 And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 
 Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, 
 And rich men flock from all the world around. 
 Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name 
 That leaves our useful products still the same. 
 Not so the loss. This man of wealth and pride 
 Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 
 Space for his lake, his park' s extended bounds. 
 Space for his horses, equipage and hounds ; 
 The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth. 
 Has robbed the neighboring fields of half their growth ; 
 His scat, where solitary sports are seen, 
 Indignant spurns the cottage from the green : 
 Around the world each needful product flies, 
 For all the luxuries the world supplies. 
 While thus the land adorned, for pleasure, ail 
 In barren splendor feebly waits the fall. 
 
 As some fair female unadorned and plain, 
 Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 45 
 
 Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies, 
 
 Nor shares with art the triumpli of her eyes ; 
 
 But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, 
 
 When time advances, and when lovers fail, 
 
 She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
 
 In all the glaring impotence of dress. 
 
 Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed. 
 
 In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed, 
 
 But verging to decline, its splendors rise. 
 
 Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise : 
 
 While, scourged by famine from the smiling land, 
 
 The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
 
 And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 
 
 The country blooms, — a garden and a grave. 
 
 Where, then, ah ! where shall poverty reside. 
 To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? 
 If to some common's fenceless limits strayed 
 
 He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 
 
 Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
 
 And e'en the bare-worn common is denied. 
 
 If to the city sped,— wliat waits him there? 
 
 To see profusion that he must not share ; 
 
 To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
 
 To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
 
 To see each joy the sons of pleasure know 
 
 Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 
 
 Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
 
46 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 
 
 Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, 
 
 There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
 
 The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, 
 
 Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train ; 
 
 Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 
 
 The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
 
 Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
 
 Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
 
 Are these thy serious thoughts ? Ah, turn thine eyes, 
 
 Where the poor houseless, shivering female lies. 
 
 She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest. 
 
 Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 
 
 Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 
 
 Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn, 
 
 Now lost to all : her friends, her virtue lied, 
 
 Near her betrayer's door she lays her head. 
 
 And, j)inclied with cold, and shrinking from the shower, 
 
 With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, 
 
 When idly first, ambitious of the town, 
 
 She left her wheel and robes of country brown. 
 
 Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, 
 Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
 E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. 
 At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 
 
 Ah ! no. To distant climes, a dreary scene. 
 Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 47 
 
 Through torrid tracks with fainting steps they go. 
 Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
 Far different there from all that charmed before, 
 The various terrors of that horrid shore : 
 Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
 And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
 Those matted woods where birds forget to sino-. 
 But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
 Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
 The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
 Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey. 
 And savage men more murderous still tlian they ; 
 While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
 Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
 
 
 Far diiferent these from every former scene, 
 The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, 
 
48 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
 
 That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 
 
 Good heavens ! what sorrows gloomed that parting day. 
 
 That called them from their native walks away ; 
 
 When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
 
 Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, 
 
 And took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
 
 For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
 
 And shuddering still to face the distant deep, 
 
 Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. 
 
 The good old sire, the first prepared to go 
 
 To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe ; 
 
 But for himself in conscious virtue brave. 
 
 He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. 
 
 His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears. 
 
 The fond companion of his helpless years. 
 
 Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
 
 And left a lover's for her father's arms, 
 
 With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes. 
 
 And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose ; 
 
 And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 
 
 And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear ; 
 
 While her fond husband strove to lend relief 
 
 In all the silent manliness of grief. 
 
 O luxury ! thou curst by heaven's decree, 
 How ill-exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
 How do thy potions with insidious joy, 
 
tup: deskkted village. 49 
 
 Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
 
 Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
 
 Boast of a florid vigor not their own. 
 
 At every draught more large and large they grow, 
 
 A bloated mass of rank unwieldly woe ; . 
 
 Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, 
 
 Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round 
 
 E'en now the devastation is begun. 
 And half the business of destruction done ; 
 E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
 I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
 Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, 
 That idly waiting liaps with every gale. 
 Downward they move, a melancholy band, 
 Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
 Contented toil and hospitable care, 
 And kind connubial tenderness are there ; 
 And piety, with wishes placed above, 
 And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
 
 And thou, sweet Poetry, tliou loveliest maid. 
 Still first to fl}^ where sensual joys invade ; 
 Unfit in these degenerate times of shame. 
 To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; 
 Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, 
 My shame in crowds, my solitary pride, 
 Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, 
 
50 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 That f oundest me poor at first, and keepst me so ; 
 Thou guide by which the Hoble arts excel, 
 Thou nurse of ever^^ virtue, fare thee well ! 
 Farewell, and O ! where'er thy voice be tried, 
 On Torno' s cliffs, or Pambamarca' s side, 
 Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, 
 Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 
 Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
 Redress the rigors of the inclement clime ; 
 Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 
 Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain , 
 Teach him, that states of native strength possest> 
 Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
 That trade' s proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
 As ocean sweeps the labored mole away ; 
 While self-dependent power can time defy, 
 As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 
 
THE TELEPHONE. 
 
 HE world stood still for a thousand years, 
 And crept for a thousand more, 
 This wonderful world with wing's for ears, 
 
 Like the Messenger god of yore — 
 And winged feet and winged wand. 
 
 And a wing on its either hand, 
 And more than Mercury wore. 
 
 It bridles and rides a furnace's foal, 
 
 With iron and hammer for sire. 
 Great clouds of white from their nostrils roll, 
 
 And it feeds its horses fire ! 
 They are blooded stock, the engines swift ; 
 
 Beneath their heels the distances drift 
 Like snows from the Arctic Pole ! 
 
m 
 
 THE TELJa^HONE. 
 
 They rattle across the meridian lines, 
 
 And down tlie parallels play ; 
 They marrj'- together the palms and pines, 
 
 A thousand miles in a day. 
 The world has trained a wonderful wire, 
 A nerve of a route for articulate fire, 
 
 And taught the lightnings to say : 
 
TIIK TELEPHONE. 
 
 5^ 
 
 ' « Dear Mary, be mine ! " — " Car-load of swine ' ' - 
 
 "One ton of cheese "—"Maria dead" — 
 "Joy! it's a boy !"— "Tm coming to dine" — 
 
 " Send soap"— "She's married to Fred. 
 The humblest of words like ani]cels fly 
 A thousand miles in the flash of an eye. 
 
 You liear before they are said ! 
 
54 THE TELEPHONE. 
 
 What happened, at ten you know at nine, 
 
 And you away in the West, 
 They distance along the lightning line 
 
 The sun in his golden rest ; 
 They talk to-day in audible tone, 
 The telegraph turns the telephone, 
 
 And parted lovers are blest ! 
 
 Think of a girl in a lonely hour, 
 
 No beau in forty miles, 
 She sits by the tube of talking power, 
 
 She thinks a minute, and smiles. 
 "I'll call my John," you fancy her say, 
 " He lives but a hundred miles away, 
 
 And banish the weary wiles." 
 
 Behold them at the ends of the line. 
 This John and his black-eyed boon ; 
 
 His head and lier's to the wire incline. 
 And she sings him Bonny Boon. 
 
 He sighs for the only thing amiss. 
 
 He has no voice, but then he can — kiss ! 
 He might as w^ell be in the moon ! 
 
 For emptier than an east wind' s laugh 
 
 Is a lover's kiss by telegraph ! 
 
FATE. 
 
 s two proud ships upon tlie pathless main 
 Meet once, and never hope to meet again, — 
 p : Meet once, with merry signalings, and part. 
 
 Each homeward bound to swell the crowded 
 
 mart. 
 So we two met, one golden summer day, 
 Within the shelter of Life's dreaming bay, 
 And rested, calmly anchored from the world, 
 For one brief hour, with snowy pinions furled, 
 But when the sun sank low along the west, 
 We left our harbor, with its peaceful rest. 
 And floated outward on Life's tangled sea. 
 With foam-kissed waves between us, wild and 
 
 free. 
 As two ships part upon the trackless main, 
 So we two parted. Shall we meet again 1 
 
THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 iiY plaintive notes, sweet Philomel, 
 All otlier melodies excel ; 
 
 Deep in the grove retired, 
 Thon seem'st thyself and song to hide, 
 Nor dost thou boast, or plume with pride. 
 Nor wish to be admired. 
 
 So, if endued with power and grace, 
 And with that power my will keep pace, 
 
 I'll act a generous part ; 
 - And banish ostentatious show. 
 Nor let my liberal action know 
 
 A witness but my heart. 
 
THE TELEGRAM. 
 
 EAD, did you say ? he ! dead in his prime I 
 Son of my mother ! my brother ! my friend ! 
 While the liorologe points to the noon of his time, 
 . Has his sun set in darliness ? is all at an end ? 
 
 {'"'' By a sudden accident,^ ^) 
 
 Dead ! it is not, it cannot, it must not be true ! 
 
 Let me read the dire words for myself, if I can ; 
 Relentless, hard, cold they rise on my view— 
 
 They blind me ! how did you say that they ran ? 
 
 (" Zfe was mortally injured,'^) 
 
58 THE TELEGRAM. 
 
 Dead ! around me I hear the singing of birds, 
 And the breath of June roses comes in at the pane ; 
 
 Nothing — nothing is changed by those terrible words ; 
 They cannot be true ! let me see them again ! 
 
 (" And died y ester day ^^'') 
 
 Dead ! a letter but j^esterday told of his love ! 
 
 Another to-morrow the tale will repeat ; 
 Outstripped by this thunderbolt flung from above, 
 
 Scathing my heart, as it falls at my feet ! 
 
 ( ' ' Funerol to-morrom, ' ' ) 
 
 Oh ! terrible Telegraph ! subtle and still ! 
 
 Darting thy lightnings with pitiless haste ! 
 No kind warning thunder — no storm-boding thrill — 
 
 But one fierce deadly flash, and the heart lieth waste ! 
 
 (" Inform his friends y) 
 
THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 HE butterfly, an idle thing. 
 
 Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing. 
 
 As do the bee and bird ; 
 Nor does it, like the prudent ant, 
 Lay up of grain, for time of want, 
 
 A wise and cautious hoard. 
 
 My youth is but a summer's day : 
 Then, like the bee and ant, I'll lay 
 
 A store of learning by ; 
 And though from flower to flower I rove, 
 My stock of wisdom I'll improve, 
 
 Nor be a butterfly. 
 
CHRISTMAS TIDE. 
 
 HEN the merry Spring-time weaves 
 
 Its peeping bloom and dewy leaves ; 
 
 When the primrose opes its eye, 
 
 And the young moth flutters by ; 
 
 When the plaintive turtle dove 
 
 Pours its notes of peace and love ; 
 And the clear sun flings its glory bright and wide. 
 
 Yet, yet my soul will own 
 
 More joy in Winter's frown. 
 And wake with warmer flush at Christmas tide. 
 
 The summer beams maj^ shine 
 On the rich and curling vine, 
 And the noontide rays light up 
 The tulip' s dazzling cup ; 
 
CIIKISTMAS TIDE. 61 
 
 But the pearly mistletoe 
 
 And the holly-berries' glow 
 Are not even by the boasted rose outvied ; 
 
 For the happy hearts beneath 
 
 The green and coral wreath 
 Love the garlands that are twined at Christmas tide. 
 
 Let the Autumn days produce 
 
 Yellow corn and purple juice, 
 
 And Nature' s feast be spread 
 
 In the fruitage ripe and red ; 
 
 'Tis grateful to behold 
 
 Gushing grapes and fields of gold, 
 When cheeks are brown' d and rich lips deeper dyed ; 
 
 But give, oh ! give to me 
 
 The Winter night of glee. 
 The mirth and plenty seen at Christmas tide. 
 
 The northern gust may howl, 
 
 The rolling storm-cloud scowl. 
 
 King Frost may make a slave 
 
 Of the river' s rapid wave, 
 
 The snow-drift choke the path. 
 
 Or the hail-shower spend its wrath ; 
 Eut the sternest blast right bravely is defied ; 
 
 While limbs and spirits bound 
 
 To the merry minstrel sound. 
 And social wood-fires blaze at Christmas tide. 
 
62 CHRISTMAS TIDE. 
 
 Tlie song, the laugh, the shout, 
 
 Shall mock the storm without ; 
 
 And sparkling wine-foam rise 
 
 'Neath still more sparkling eyes ; 
 
 The forms that rarely meet, 
 
 Then hand to hand shall greet, 
 And soul pledge soul that leagues too long divide : 
 
 Mirth, Friendship, Love, and Light, 
 
 Shall crown the Winter night, 
 And every glad voice welcome Christmas tide. 
 
 But while Joy' s echo falls 
 
 In gay and plenteous halls, 
 
 Let the poor and lowly share 
 
 The warmth, the sports, the fare ; 
 
 For the one of humble lot 
 
 Must not shiver in his cot. 
 But claim a bounteous meed from Wealth and Pride 
 
 Shed kindly blessings round. 
 
 Till no aching heart be found ; 
 And then all hail to merry Christmas tide 1 
 
01 WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL 
 BE PROUD ? 
 
 why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 
 
 Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, 
 
 A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, 
 
 Man passes from life to his rest in the grave. 
 
 The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, 
 Be scattered around and together be laid ; 
 And the young and the old, and the low and the high, 
 Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. 
 
 The infant a mother attended and loved, 
 
 The mother that infant' s affection who proved ; 
 
6-k O, WHY SHOULD THE SPIEIT ? 
 
 The husband that mother and infant who blessed, 
 Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. 
 
 The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, 
 Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs are by : 
 And the memorj^ of those who loved her and praised, 
 Are alike from the minds of the living erased. 
 
 The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne, 
 The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn ; 
 The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave, 
 Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave. 
 
 The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap ; 
 The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the style ; 
 The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread 
 Have faded away like the grass that we tread. 
 
 The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven, 
 The sinner who dared to remain unf orgiven. 
 The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, 
 Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. 
 
 So the multitude goes, like the flower or the weed 
 That withers away to let others succeed ; 
 So the multitude comes, even those we behold, 
 To repeat every tale that has often been told. 
 
o, WHY suouLD THE sriKiT i 65 
 
 For we are the same our fathers liave been ; 
 We see the same sights our fathers have seen ; 
 We drink the same stream and view the same sun, 
 And run the same course our fathers have run. 
 
 Tlie thoughts we are thinking our fathei-s would thiuk, 
 From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink, 
 To the life we are clinging they also would cling ; 
 But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing. 
 
 They loved, but the story we cannot unfold ; 
 They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold, 
 They grieved, but no wail from their slumber will come; 
 They ioyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb. 
 
 They died, aye ! they died ; and we things that are now, 
 Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow. 
 Who make in their dwelling a transient abode. 
 Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road. 
 
 Yea ! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, 
 We mingle together in sunshine and rain ; 
 And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge, 
 Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 
 
 'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath. 
 From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, 
 From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud — 
 O, why should tlie spirit of mortal be proud ? 
 
SPRING. 
 
 o ! where the rosy-bosomed Hours, 
 
 Fair Venus' train, appear, 
 Disclose the long-expecting flowers 
 
 And wake the purple year ! 
 The Attic warbler pours her throat 
 Responsive to the cuckoo's note, 
 
 The untaught harmony of spring : 
 While, whispering pleasures as they fly, 
 Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky 
 
 Their gathered fragrance fling. 
 
SPRING. 67 
 
 Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch 
 
 A broader, browner shade, 
 Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech 
 
 O'er-canopies the glade, 
 Beside some water's rushy brink 
 With me the Muse shall sit, and think 
 
 (At ease reclined in rustic state) 
 How vain the ardor of the crowd, 
 How low, how little are the proud, 
 
 How indigent the great ! 
 
 Still is the toiling hand of care ; 
 
 The panting herds repose : 
 Yet hark, how through the peopled air 
 
 The busy murmur glows ! 
 The insect youth are on the wing, 
 Eager to taste the honeyed spring 
 
 And float amid the liquid noon : 
 Some lightly o'er the current skim, 
 Some show their gayly gilded trim 
 
 Quick-glancing to the sun. 
 
 To Contemplation's sober eye 
 
 Such is the race of man ; 
 And they that creep, and they that fly 
 
 Shall end where they began. 
 
€8 SPRING. 
 
 Alike the busy and the gay 
 
 But flutter through life' s little day, 
 
 In Fortune's varying colors drest : 
 Brushed by the hand of rough mischance 
 Or chilled by age, their airy dance 
 
 They leave, in dust to rest. 
 
 Methinks I hear in accents low 
 The sportive kind reply : 
 Poor moralist ! and what art thou I 
 A solitary fly ! 
 Thy joys no glittering female meets, 
 No hive hast thou of hoa rded sweets, 
 
 No painted plumage to display ; 
 On hasty wings thy youth is flown ; 
 Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone , — 
 We frolic while 'tis May, 
 
PROFESSOR MORSE.* 
 
 ids't tliou die to be at rest, 
 
 Thou of the noble soul and giant mind? 
 Had' st thou grown weary in the hopeless quest 
 
 Of blessedness that mortals seldom find ? 
 Had care and toil and sorrow all combined 
 
 To bring that sickness of soul, that mars 
 The happiness that God for men designed. 
 
 * This poem was PugRpst rt by the romark once made by riofessor Morse to 
 n friend: "I vvimld gladly have availed myself of any divine authorization to 
 terminate a life of which th'; possessor wa' weary." 
 
70 PROFESSOR MORSE. 
 
 Till thy sad spirit spui^ned its prison bars, 
 And pined to soar away amid the burning stars. 
 
 Perchance an angel sought thee in that hour, 
 A blessed angel from the world of light, 
 
 Teaching submission to Almighty power, 
 Whose dealings all are equal, just, and right. 
 
 Perchance Hope whispered of a future, bright 
 And glorious in its triumphs. Soon it came. 
 
 A world admiring hailed thee with delight. 
 And learned joyed to trace thy deathless name 
 L^pon her ponderous tomes in characters of flame. 
 
 Thou brightest meteor of a starry age, 
 
 What does the world not owe thee ? 
 Thou hast wrought for scientitic lore a glowing page, 
 
 Th}^ mighty energy of mind has brought 
 To man a wondrous agent ; it has taught 
 
 The viewless lightning, in flight sublime. 
 To bear upon its wings embodied thought, 
 
 Warm from its birth-place to the farthest clime, 
 
 Annihilating space, vanquishing e'en time. 
 
 Did'st thou look down into the shadowy tomb, 
 And crave the privilege to slumber there, 
 
 Unhonored and forgotten ? Thou on whom 
 
 Kind heaven bestowed endowments rich and rare, 
 
 Was life a burden that thou could' st not bear? 
 
PKOFESSOK MORSPl 71 
 
 A lesson this to those whose souls have striven 
 With disappointment, sorrow, and despair, 
 Until they feed on poison, and are driven 
 To quench the vital spark that Deity hath given. 
 
 And it should teach our restless hearts how dim 
 And erring is our finite vision here, — 
 
 Should make us trust, through liumble faith, in Him 
 Who sees alike the distant and the near. 
 
 When storm clouds gather o'er us dark and drear, 
 And lightnings flash, and winds are wild and high, 
 
 No radiant beam of sunshine comes to cheer ; 
 But when the wrecking tempest has gone by, 
 God sets the blessed bow of promise in the sky. 
 
 
 
THE GLEANER. 
 
 EFOKB the bright snn rises over the hill. 
 In the corn-field poor Mary is seen, 
 Impatient her little blue apron to fill 
 With the few scattered ears she can glean. 
 
 "Poor girl, hard at work in the heat of the sun, 
 
 How tired and hot you must be ; 
 Why don't you leave off as the others have done, 
 
 And sit with them under the tree ? ' ' 
 
 " Oh, no ; for my mother lies ill in her bed, 
 
 Too feeble to spin or to knit ; 
 And my poor little brothers are crying for bread, 
 
 But we hardly can give them a bit." 
 
EVENING. 
 
 ITTLE girl, it is time to retire to your rest, 
 
 The sheep are put into tlie fold, 
 The linnet forsakes us, and flies to her nest, 
 
 To shelter her young from the cold. 
 
 The owl has flown out of his lonely retreat. 
 And screams through the tall shady trees ; 
 
 The nightingale takes on the hawthorn her seat. 
 And sinss to the soft dving breeze. 
 
 The sun appears now to have finished his race. 
 
 And sinks once again to his rest ; 
 But though we no longer can see his bright face, 
 
 He leaves a gold streak in the west. 
 
74 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 Little girl, have you finished your daily employ 
 
 With industry, patience, and care ? 
 If so, lay your head on your pillow with joy, 
 
 And sleep away peacefully there. 
 
 The moon through your curtains shall cheerfuUj' peep, 
 
 Her silver beams rest on your eyes ; 
 And mild evening breezes shall fan you to sleep, 
 
 Till bright morning bid you arise. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 WAKE, little girl, it is time to arise. 
 Come shake drowsy sleep from your eye ; 
 
 The lark is now warbling his notes to the skies, 
 And the sun is far mounted on high. 
 
MOKNING. 75 
 
 Oh come, for the fields with gay flowers abound, 
 
 The dewdrop is quivering still. 
 The lowing herds graze in the pastures, around, 
 
 And the sheep-bell is heard from the hill. 
 
 Oh come, for the bee has flown out of his bed, 
 
 Impatient bis work to renew ; 
 The spider is weaving her delicate thread. 
 
 Which brilliantly glitters with dew. 
 
 Oh come, for the ant has crept out of her cell, 
 
 And forth to her labor she goes ; 
 She knows the true value of moments too well 
 
 To waste them in idle rej)ose. 
 
 Awake, little sleeper, and do not despise 
 
 Of insects instruction to ask ; 
 From your pillow with good resolutions arise, 
 
 And cheerfully go to your task. 
 
HOME. 
 
 HERE is a land, of every land the pride, 
 Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside ; 
 Where brighter suns dispense serener light, 
 And milder moons emparadise the night ; 
 A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth. 
 Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth : 
 The wandering mariner, whose eye explores 
 The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores. 
 Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, 
 Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air ; 
 In every clime the magnet of his soul. 
 Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole ; 
 
HOME. 77 
 
 For in this land of Heaven' s peculiar grace, 
 
 The heritage of nature' s noblest race, 
 
 There is a spot of earth supremely blest — 
 
 A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest — 
 
 Where man, creation' s tyrant, casts aside 
 
 His sword and sceptre, pageantrj^ and pride, 
 
 While in his softened looks benignly blend 
 
 The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend. 
 
 Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife. 
 
 Strew with "fresh flowers the narrow way of life : 
 
 In the clear heaven of her delightful eye 
 
 An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; 
 
 Around her knees domestic duties meet, 
 
 And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. 
 
 "Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found ? " 
 
 Art thou a man ? — a patriot ? — look around ; 
 
 Oh, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, 
 
 That land thy country, and that spot thy home. 
 
 Man, through all ages of revolving time, 
 Unchanging man, in every varying clime. 
 Deems his own land of every land the pride. 
 Beloved of Heaven o'er all the world beside ; 
 His home the spot of earth supremely blest, 
 A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. 
 
THE CHRISTMAS TREE. 
 
 ^H, the Christmas tree ! the Christmas tree ! 
 Green are the boughs of the Christmas tree ; 
 And wherever I am, on the land or the sea, 
 There always appears at this season to me 
 The vision bright of a Christmas tree, 
 
 have been in lands where ice and snow 
 Were all around, above and below ; 
 But even then I caught the glow, 
 Shimmering over a wintry sea, 
 From a distant land and the Christmas tree. 
 
 In lands that are scorched by a tropical sun, 
 Where summer and winter are both as one, 
 
THE CHRISTMAS TREE. 79 
 
 I have stood on the shore when the day was done, 
 And caught the echoes of innocent glee 
 From a far-away land and a Christmas tree. 
 
 Wherever I am, in the East or the West, 
 
 Though distant from home and the ones I love best, 
 
 I feel that I am by its memories blest ; 
 
 And over the miles intervening I see 
 
 The glimmering light of the Christmas tree. 
 
 Let the voices of sorrow and mourning cease, 
 
 And the mourner break forth in a carol of peace ; 
 
 And over each care, like a golden fleece, 
 
 Fall the halo of love, with its benison free, 
 
 On the hearts that are cheered by the Christmas tree. 
 
 Away with all doubts, all cares and fears, — 
 It is not the season for sighs and tears ; 
 For down through the eighteen hundred years 
 Comes a voice that is saying to you and to me : 
 "Kejoice, for I gave you the Christmas tree." 
 
 Brightly the stars may be shining to-night, 
 
 The moon flood the world with its silvery light. 
 
 Or the clouds hide the moon and the stars from our sight; 
 
 But we care not how heavy the darkness may be, 
 
 There's no cloud o'er the light of the Christmas tree ! 
 
80 
 
 THE CinilSTxMAS TKEE. 
 
 There are gifts here for all, for the young and tiie old ; 
 Here are trinkets and toys of more value than gold : 
 May the warm hearts that proffer them never grow cold. 
 But look back, from the heights of the future to be, 
 At the bright shining lights of this Christmas tree. 
 
 Oh, the Christmas tree ! the Christmas tree ! 
 'Tis a beautiful sight for the eye to see 
 The cheerful wave of its branches green. 
 And friendship's gifts that are placed between: 
 Oh, a beautiful sight is the Christmas tree ! 
 
 Zy-jl-i^ 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 013 978 781 A