Would I leave my home—my native hills
For the city by the sea—
Or leave the lane where the woodbine swings
And all is dear to me?
Would I leave my birds for the stately ships
That sail in the harbor blue—
Leave the flowers, fresh from the hand of God
And kissed by the morning dew?
For the city by the sea—
Or leave the lane where the woodbine swings
And all is dear to me?
Would I leave my birds for the stately ships
That sail in the harbor blue—
Leave the flowers, fresh from the hand of God
And kissed by the morning dew?
Would I leave my cot for a mansion grand
In the city by the sea,—
Or leave the friends whom I long have loved
Who are so dear to me?
Would I leave my bower mid the roses sweet
Where the sun shines bright and fair—
Leave my pleasant strolls in the forest glade
In the country’s fragrant air?
In the city by the sea,—
Or leave the friends whom I long have loved
Who are so dear to me?
Would I leave my bower mid the roses sweet
Where the sun shines bright and fair—
Leave my pleasant strolls in the forest glade
In the country’s fragrant air?
THE MYSTIC RIVER
We are sailing down Life’s river—
Sailing onward day by day,
Onward, through the misty shadows
That, so dark, obscure the way.
Soon we shall be beckoned homeward,
There to meet with those we know
In that grand and glorious city
Where no sorrows ever go.
Sailing onward day by day,
Onward, through the misty shadows
That, so dark, obscure the way.
Soon we shall be beckoned homeward,
There to meet with those we know
In that grand and glorious city
Where no sorrows ever go.
We are drifting with the ripples,—
As they bear our barque along
We can catch in fitful accents
Echoes from the angels song.—
And we see the dim reflection
Of that bright celestial strand;
Where the bowers are ever blooming
In that peaceful, happy land.
As they bear our barque along
We can catch in fitful accents
Echoes from the angels song.—
And we see the dim reflection
Of that bright celestial strand;
Where the bowers are ever blooming
In that peaceful, happy land.
We know not how soon we’ll anchor
Where bright gems adorn the shore—
Where the living waters murmur,
And the breakers moan no more.—
But we’ll reach the pearly portal
And we’ll lay our armor down;
Casting all our burdens from us
’Neath the shelter of a crown.
Where bright gems adorn the shore—
Where the living waters murmur,
And the breakers moan no more.—
But we’ll reach the pearly portal
And we’ll lay our armor down;
Casting all our burdens from us
’Neath the shelter of a crown.
Near the Throne of Love e’er dwelling,
Sheltered safe from every woe;
No more sorrow, no more weeping,
Naught but glory shall we know.
There we shall be ever happy
In the mansion of the blest;
Blessed be the peace eternal—
Blessed is the sweet word—Rest.
Sheltered safe from every woe;
No more sorrow, no more weeping,
Naught but glory shall we know.
There we shall be ever happy
In the mansion of the blest;
Blessed be the peace eternal—
Blessed is the sweet word—Rest.
LOVED ONES PASSED AWAY
Within our home so cheerful
Where all is warm and bright;
Sometimes our hearts grow tearful,
And to darkness turns the light.
We see not the joys that surround us—
We heed not our friends bright and gay;
For memories, come crowding around us
Of loved ones passed away.
Where all is warm and bright;
Sometimes our hearts grow tearful,
And to darkness turns the light.
We see not the joys that surround us—
We heed not our friends bright and gay;
For memories, come crowding around us
Of loved ones passed away.
Without, the old home is the same,
Yet within, there is a change;
And feelings which we cannot name
Steal o’er us, sad and strange.
We see the dear forms of long ago,
Illume the twilight gray,—
Yet the darksome silence whispers low
Of loved ones passed away.
Yet within, there is a change;
And feelings which we cannot name
Steal o’er us, sad and strange.
We see the dear forms of long ago,
Illume the twilight gray,—
Yet the darksome silence whispers low
Of loved ones passed away.
ADVENTURE OF A LOVER
’Twas Saturday eve.—The love-lorn swain
Was hastening toward Jennie’s house;
His mien indicative of fear
For neither man nor mouse.
Was hastening toward Jennie’s house;
His mien indicative of fear
For neither man nor mouse.
But ere he reached the farmhouse gate
An object he chanced to spy.—
’Twas only a table-cloth Jennie had washed
And hung on the line to dry.
An object he chanced to spy.—
’Twas only a table-cloth Jennie had washed
And hung on the line to dry.
But he knew it not, so there he stood
Deciding what to do,—
He dare not venture too near the spook,—
Yet the gate he must go through!—
Deciding what to do,—
He dare not venture too near the spook,—
Yet the gate he must go through!—
The white cloth flapped in the gentle breeze—
’Twas too much for Jennie’s beau;
He turned and ran off down the hill
As fast as he could go!
’Twas too much for Jennie’s beau;
He turned and ran off down the hill
As fast as he could go!
He imagined that footsteps were following fast,—
So away like a gale ran he;
Nor did he stop, till he reached the top
Of Squire Pettigrew’s crab-apple tree!
———
Just then the moon, with a bright smiling face,
Came out from behind a black cloud,—
Little Nell, at the window, stood watching the moon,
And she uttered a cry long and loud.—
So away like a gale ran he;
Nor did he stop, till he reached the top
Of Squire Pettigrew’s crab-apple tree!
———
Just then the moon, with a bright smiling face,
Came out from behind a black cloud,—
Little Nell, at the window, stood watching the moon,
And she uttered a cry long and loud.—
“Oh! Mamma!—come look at this queer looking bird—
An owl is perched up in our tree!—
Or is it a night-hawk just taking a rest—
What kind of a bird can it be?”
An owl is perched up in our tree!—
Or is it a night-hawk just taking a rest—
What kind of a bird can it be?”
Miss Jennie came tripping along down the street,
In the hope of meeting her lover;—
Then he quietly let himself down from the tree
Before she had time to discover.
In the hope of meeting her lover;—
Then he quietly let himself down from the tree
Before she had time to discover.
Then arm in arm they returned to the gate,—
And he blushed, as in silence stood he
And saw the white spectre, which drove him in fright
To the top of the crab-apple tree!
And he blushed, as in silence stood he
And saw the white spectre, which drove him in fright
To the top of the crab-apple tree!
AS IT HAPPENED
As the circus train passed through the street
An Elephant caught the eye
Of a “rural duffer,” who remarked
As the creature lumbered by,—
While a wondering look stole o’er his phiz—
(No artist’s hand could paint it;)
“Wa-al neow, Maria,—I swan to man
That’s quite an insect, aint it?”
An Elephant caught the eye
Of a “rural duffer,” who remarked
As the creature lumbered by,—
While a wondering look stole o’er his phiz—
(No artist’s hand could paint it;)
“Wa-al neow, Maria,—I swan to man
That’s quite an insect, aint it?”
A city swell heard the remark,
And quickly turned his nose
Up, with an air that plainly said:
“Such horrid folks as those
May go their way—for they’ll pollute
The very atmosphere
With their uncouth ways and ignorance—
We can’t endure them here!”
———
The time rolled on,—and the city swell
Was brought to account one day
For the many bills and debts he owed—
He had not a cent to pay.
His creditors gobbled all his goods
And set them up for sale;
But the cash they brought did not suffice
So they marched him off to jail.—
———
The “duffer” shook his jolly sides
With a hearty, merry laugh;
And recalled the time when he “so shocked
The insipid city calf.”
“I pay my bills as I go along—
I owe no man,” said he;
“There’s no insect born that can compete
With a biped such as he!”
And quickly turned his nose
Up, with an air that plainly said:
“Such horrid folks as those
May go their way—for they’ll pollute
The very atmosphere
With their uncouth ways and ignorance—
We can’t endure them here!”
———
The time rolled on,—and the city swell
Was brought to account one day
For the many bills and debts he owed—
He had not a cent to pay.
His creditors gobbled all his goods
And set them up for sale;
But the cash they brought did not suffice
So they marched him off to jail.—
———
The “duffer” shook his jolly sides
With a hearty, merry laugh;
And recalled the time when he “so shocked
The insipid city calf.”
“I pay my bills as I go along—
I owe no man,” said he;
“There’s no insect born that can compete
With a biped such as he!”
THE CAPTIVE BUTTERFLY
(A true tale)
One morn as I walked in the meadow
Where flooded the sun’s golden light
Athwart tree and shrub—mid the grasses
A butterfly gorgeous and bright
Where flooded the sun’s golden light
Athwart tree and shrub—mid the grasses
A butterfly gorgeous and bright
Was caught in a web which a spider
Had deftly and craftily wrought;
Aloft as a snare she had placed it
And the unwary butterfly caught.
Had deftly and craftily wrought;
Aloft as a snare she had placed it
And the unwary butterfly caught.
Vainly the poor insect fluttered
To be freed from the web’s fleecy fold;
But its wings were caught fast in its meshes
And its fate could be plainly foretold.
To be freed from the web’s fleecy fold;
But its wings were caught fast in its meshes
And its fate could be plainly foretold.
It appealed to my heart so pathetic
Ne’er thought I to ignore its strife
It was one of God’s own little creatures
And it had a good right to its life.
Ne’er thought I to ignore its strife
It was one of God’s own little creatures
And it had a good right to its life.
So I knelt there beside the small captive
And gently the fine web I tore;
Then away on glad wings it bounded,
Rejoicing in freedom once more.
And gently the fine web I tore;
Then away on glad wings it bounded,
Rejoicing in freedom once more.
It was only a poor lowly insect,
Yet perchance, does the Good Father see
Small deeds that are wrought in the spirit of love
He would say “Ye did this unto Me.”
Yet perchance, does the Good Father see
Small deeds that are wrought in the spirit of love
He would say “Ye did this unto Me.”
In the Book where all works are recorded—
In that Haven up yonder so fair;
Who knows but one mark bright and shining
Now illumines my name “over there.”
In that Haven up yonder so fair;
Who knows but one mark bright and shining
Now illumines my name “over there.”
WHAT WOULD THEY DO?
’Tis true that the city is pleasant,
With its scenes ever varied and new;
But if it were not for the country
Oh, what would the city folks do?
Soon plenty would be superseded
By dearth with its train of distress;
The gaunt wolf would roam by the once happy home
Though riches untold you possess.
With its scenes ever varied and new;
But if it were not for the country
Oh, what would the city folks do?
Soon plenty would be superseded
By dearth with its train of distress;
The gaunt wolf would roam by the once happy home
Though riches untold you possess.
True, this may seem strangely in error,
But doubtless, if you will take heed
You’ll find that the sources are rural
Of that which supplies every need,
You say there are great mills and factories
By whose process rich fabrics are made;
But pause for a moment and ponder
How the material first came into trade.
But doubtless, if you will take heed
You’ll find that the sources are rural
Of that which supplies every need,
You say there are great mills and factories
By whose process rich fabrics are made;
But pause for a moment and ponder
How the material first came into trade.
Of Fashion’s apparel so dainty,
Of which our great stores are so full;
Whence comes that from which they were made—
The cotton, the silk and the wool?
’Tis not from the city—no, never!
But from the free sunshine and air
On the broad, verdant acres extending
O’er the glorious country so fair.
Of which our great stores are so full;
Whence comes that from which they were made—
The cotton, the silk and the wool?
’Tis not from the city—no, never!
But from the free sunshine and air
On the broad, verdant acres extending
O’er the glorious country so fair.
Tis true that the city has pleasures,
And aspirants to fashion and fame,—
But yet, should you search the world over
You’ll find it is ever the same.
’Tis the toil-harden’d hand of the farmer
By which are the multitude fed,—
Yea, the farmer—the “hard-handed” duffer,
Who supplies the vast cities with bread.
And aspirants to fashion and fame,—
But yet, should you search the world over
You’ll find it is ever the same.
’Tis the toil-harden’d hand of the farmer
By which are the multitude fed,—
Yea, the farmer—the “hard-handed” duffer,
Who supplies the vast cities with bread.
’Tis the farmer who toils on, unheeding
The mid-summer sun and the rain,
Who with diligence plucks the tares from the wheat
And garners the golden grain.
From the forests afar down the valley
Or up over mountainous height
Is sent timber for use in the city,
And fuel to make the hearths bright.
The mid-summer sun and the rain,
Who with diligence plucks the tares from the wheat
And garners the golden grain.
From the forests afar down the valley
Or up over mountainous height
Is sent timber for use in the city,
And fuel to make the hearths bright.
The orchards, the fields and the mead lands
Fraught with richness from West to the East
Send forth to the homes in the city
Rich viands and fruits for the feast.
True, the brilliant paved streets are abounding
With wonders and charms ever new—
But, if from the country excluded
Oh! what would the city folks do?
Fraught with richness from West to the East
Send forth to the homes in the city
Rich viands and fruits for the feast.
True, the brilliant paved streets are abounding
With wonders and charms ever new—
But, if from the country excluded
Oh! what would the city folks do?
Then have praise and respect for the farmer—
Be cordial to him when you meet—
Ne’er pass him with countenance scornful
Or gaze at the “old codger’s” feet,
Though he has not the costly apparel
Which you wear with such elegant grace—
Remember, you can’t live without him
Nor can aught in the world fill his place.
Be cordial to him when you meet—
Ne’er pass him with countenance scornful
Or gaze at the “old codger’s” feet,
Though he has not the costly apparel
Which you wear with such elegant grace—
Remember, you can’t live without him
Nor can aught in the world fill his place.
COURAGEOUSNESS
The house-wife came with smiling face,
Bearing in her hand a broom;
With thoughts intent, and purpose bent
On clearing up the room.
She spied an object on the floor,
Ne’er dreaming what it was;
But close inspection soon revealed
Its tail and head and claws!
Bearing in her hand a broom;
With thoughts intent, and purpose bent
On clearing up the room.
She spied an object on the floor,
Ne’er dreaming what it was;
But close inspection soon revealed
Its tail and head and claws!
What was the sound that pierced the air—
Was it an Indian’s yell?
Or a wandering note from some demon throat
From amidst the depths of—somewhere?
Oh, no! of a different origin
Were the tones that smote the air,—
’Twas only a frightened woman’s scream
As she mounted on a chair.
Was it an Indian’s yell?
Or a wandering note from some demon throat
From amidst the depths of—somewhere?
Oh, no! of a different origin
Were the tones that smote the air,—
’Twas only a frightened woman’s scream
As she mounted on a chair.
Oh dear! Oh dear! she had seen a mouse!
And it entered not her head
It would never, never do more harm
For the poor little thing was dead.
It seems the cat, in hunting, had
Caught more than she could master;
Of course old pussy never guessed
That it would cause disaster.
And it entered not her head
It would never, never do more harm
For the poor little thing was dead.
It seems the cat, in hunting, had
Caught more than she could master;
Of course old pussy never guessed
That it would cause disaster.
The mouse was in mischief, so old Puss
Had caught him in the night;
But the lady never paused to think
Whether it was wrong or right.
She knew ’twas a mouse—a horrid mouse,
And there she stood, dismayed;
What could she do, with no one near
To whom to appeal for aid?
Had caught him in the night;
But the lady never paused to think
Whether it was wrong or right.
She knew ’twas a mouse—a horrid mouse,
And there she stood, dismayed;
What could she do, with no one near
To whom to appeal for aid?
She stood for what seemed hours to her,—
(Her weapon was the broom;)
Waiting in vain for some one to come
And take her from the room.
At last she thought of a beautiful plan,
And making good her aim;
Jumped, and landed two yards the other side
Of the animal’s prostrate frame!
———
A short time thence her hubby came.—
He saw the signs of storm;
And to his brawny bosom close
He drew her fainting form.
When he had searched, and found the cause—
So motionless and stark;
Then to himself in undertone
He ventured this remark:—
(Her weapon was the broom;)
Waiting in vain for some one to come
And take her from the room.
At last she thought of a beautiful plan,
And making good her aim;
Jumped, and landed two yards the other side
Of the animal’s prostrate frame!
———
A short time thence her hubby came.—
He saw the signs of storm;
And to his brawny bosom close
He drew her fainting form.
When he had searched, and found the cause—
So motionless and stark;
Then to himself in undertone
He ventured this remark:—
“Women may talk about their rights
And wish for a chance to vote;
Put on the airs of a gentleman
And don the vest and coat,—
They’d better be content to wait
Until it can be said
That they are brave enough to fight
A mouse when it is dead!”
And wish for a chance to vote;
Put on the airs of a gentleman
And don the vest and coat,—
They’d better be content to wait
Until it can be said
That they are brave enough to fight
A mouse when it is dead!”
TALES THAT WERE TOLD
A decanter and a crystal cup
Met in a banquet hall;
The rosy light of the sparkling wine
Shed radiance over all.
Ah, ha! old friend—and how is this—
What is your mission here?
“A pure, sweet spirit bid me come,”
Replied the water clear.
Met in a banquet hall;
The rosy light of the sparkling wine
Shed radiance over all.
Ah, ha! old friend—and how is this—
What is your mission here?
“A pure, sweet spirit bid me come,”
Replied the water clear.
“So we have met,” said the ruby wine,
“Now let us social be,—
Let’s see who holds the greater power
O’er the nation, you or me.”
“I can boast” said he, “of mighty deeds—
I can tell you many a tale
Of woe, and folly, sin and crime,—
Can you, my friend so frail?
“Now let us social be,—
Let’s see who holds the greater power
O’er the nation, you or me.”
“I can boast” said he, “of mighty deeds—
I can tell you many a tale
Of woe, and folly, sin and crime,—
Can you, my friend so frail?
I have caused Old Age to droop and die—
I have caused fair Youth to fade;
I have blighted lives, and hopes destroyed,—
When I strike there is no aid.
I have hurled men down from their high estate—
Remorseful I’m not in the least,—
I have dragged them down, and down, until
They were level with the beast.
I have caused fair Youth to fade;
I have blighted lives, and hopes destroyed,—
When I strike there is no aid.
I have hurled men down from their high estate—
Remorseful I’m not in the least,—
I have dragged them down, and down, until
They were level with the beast.
I have happy homes made desolate
Ha, ha! I laugh with glee
As I see the babes every comfort denied,
While the money is wasted on me!
Tell me, my friend, Oh tell me I pray,
Of a power that is greater than mine—
Not yours—No! you are but water weak,
While I am the fiery wine!
Ha, ha! I laugh with glee
As I see the babes every comfort denied,
While the money is wasted on me!
Tell me, my friend, Oh tell me I pray,
Of a power that is greater than mine—
Not yours—No! you are but water weak,
While I am the fiery wine!
And though I am classed in the bar-room
Under many a different name,—
No matter what liquor they call me,
My spirit is always the same.
I have sunk big ships—Yes, sank them down
In the depths of the briny deep;
And for the loved who perished there
Their kindred e’er may weep.
Under many a different name,—
No matter what liquor they call me,
My spirit is always the same.
I have sunk big ships—Yes, sank them down
In the depths of the briny deep;
And for the loved who perished there
Their kindred e’er may weep.
I have wrecked the train—I have mansions burned
—’Neath my power man’s senses flee—
I have cast proud monarchs from their throne,—
Behold! this wrought by Me!
And this I say is not the half
Of the great success I win—
But I’ll no longer take the time
So you, pale friend, begin.”
* * *
“I do not boast” the water said,
Though my power is as potent as yours;
For to all who freely drink of me
It health and strength insures.
I gently sooth the sick and the faint,
I new life in the weary imbue;
And even the roses smile sweetly and bright
As I touch them with kisses of dew.
—’Neath my power man’s senses flee—
I have cast proud monarchs from their throne,—
Behold! this wrought by Me!
And this I say is not the half
Of the great success I win—
But I’ll no longer take the time
So you, pale friend, begin.”
* * *
“I do not boast” the water said,
Though my power is as potent as yours;
For to all who freely drink of me
It health and strength insures.
I gently sooth the sick and the faint,
I new life in the weary imbue;
And even the roses smile sweetly and bright
As I touch them with kisses of dew.
I turn the mill which grinds the grain—
I strengthen, I cleanse, I heal;
All things rejoice with grateful breath
When my cool hand they feel.
I send the brooklet on its way—
I lift the drooping vine,—
I make all vegetation grow—
Can you do that, Sir Wine?
I strengthen, I cleanse, I heal;
All things rejoice with grateful breath
When my cool hand they feel.
I send the brooklet on its way—
I lift the drooping vine,—
I make all vegetation grow—
Can you do that, Sir Wine?
Of our might and power we’ll not dispute—
(The result of our deeds will show;)
For the worth of me and the curse of you
All noble minded know.
No, no! Sir Wine, Your path is death,
While mine is safely trod;
You are cursed by a demon’s hand—
I, blessed by the hand of God.
(The result of our deeds will show;)
For the worth of me and the curse of you
All noble minded know.
No, no! Sir Wine, Your path is death,
While mine is safely trod;
You are cursed by a demon’s hand—
I, blessed by the hand of God.
BRAVERY
A youth once went to a party
Whose sweetheart was there with the rest;
The moments that flew on swift pinions
Were enjoyed with great fervor and zest.
’Til at length came the time for dispersing,
When each went their various ways—
This fond youth escorting his sweetheart—
His heart with emotion ablaze.
Whose sweetheart was there with the rest;
The moments that flew on swift pinions
Were enjoyed with great fervor and zest.
’Til at length came the time for dispersing,
When each went their various ways—
This fond youth escorting his sweetheart—
His heart with emotion ablaze.
On his sleeve her hand trustingly rested
As they wended their way through the wood,—
When lo! a white spectre before them
Appeared.—In their pathway it stood
Like a Goblin, with long arms extended
It swayed, while a wild, weird note
Like the wail of a disparing spirit
Came issuing from the Ghost’s throat.
As they wended their way through the wood,—
When lo! a white spectre before them
Appeared.—In their pathway it stood
Like a Goblin, with long arms extended
It swayed, while a wild, weird note
Like the wail of a disparing spirit
Came issuing from the Ghost’s throat.
THE MISSING LINK
The theory of Darwin
With evidence was bound;
But when the chain was broken
One link could not be found
Connecting Man and Monkey,—
Yet Modern Science shows
Advancement which may nearly
That missing link disclose.
With evidence was bound;
But when the chain was broken
One link could not be found
Connecting Man and Monkey,—
Yet Modern Science shows
Advancement which may nearly
That missing link disclose.
The “Telephonic System”
Has spread near and afar;
Until the Way-Back County
And Town connected are.
Thus, sturdy “country Jamie,”
With hands and cheeks so brown
And heart so true and loyal,
Can call up Reg. in town—
Has spread near and afar;
Until the Way-Back County
And Town connected are.
Thus, sturdy “country Jamie,”
With hands and cheeks so brown
And heart so true and loyal,
Can call up Reg. in town—
HE GOT LEFT
“I swan!” said farmer Joe one morn,—
“Them pesky crows shan’t have my corn!”
So he went to work, and soon he found
Two stakes, which he drove into the ground.
Then he brought to light some ragged pants
And a tattered coat soon found a chance;
While an old felt hat was perched for show
Upon the head of the old scare-crow.
“Them pesky crows shan’t have my corn!”
So he went to work, and soon he found
Two stakes, which he drove into the ground.
Then he brought to light some ragged pants
And a tattered coat soon found a chance;
While an old felt hat was perched for show
Upon the head of the old scare-crow.
One arm reached out while the other one
Held to his breast a rusty gun.
“There it is done, and now,” quoth he—
“See which will beat—them crows or me!”
So in the house the whole day he spent,
Feeling at ease and well content,—
While a broad grin o’er his features strayed
As he tho’t of the trick on the crows he’d played.
Held to his breast a rusty gun.
“There it is done, and now,” quoth he—
“See which will beat—them crows or me!”
So in the house the whole day he spent,
Feeling at ease and well content,—
While a broad grin o’er his features strayed
As he tho’t of the trick on the crows he’d played.
Meanwhile, two crows sat on a tree—
The young said to the old one:—“See
That horrid thing that’s standing yonder—
What is he doing here I wonder?
If he stays here what’s to be done?
For Mother, look, he’s got a gun!
Here in this tree all day I’ve stayed—
Oh, Mother! are you not afraid?
The young said to the old one:—“See
That horrid thing that’s standing yonder—
What is he doing here I wonder?
If he stays here what’s to be done?
For Mother, look, he’s got a gun!
Here in this tree all day I’ve stayed—
Oh, Mother! are you not afraid?
What shall we do? it takes my breath—
Must we stay here and starve to death—
Do you s’pose that old thing will hurt me?
I’m just as hungry as I can be!
But to get my grub I don’t know how—
For see, he’s looking at us now!
And what oh earth are we to do—
Oh, Mother! I’m afraid, aren’t you?”
Must we stay here and starve to death—
Do you s’pose that old thing will hurt me?
I’m just as hungry as I can be!
But to get my grub I don’t know how—
For see, he’s looking at us now!
And what oh earth are we to do—
Oh, Mother! I’m afraid, aren’t you?”
“You foolish child,” the old crow said,
“Fret not your silly little head—
That is our Corn King good and true,
He came and stayed here last year, too.—
He has come to us, armed with a gun;
To tell us when the planting’s done.
He tells us that we need not fear,
He’ll protect us as long as he is here.
“Fret not your silly little head—
That is our Corn King good and true,
He came and stayed here last year, too.—
He has come to us, armed with a gun;
To tell us when the planting’s done.
He tells us that we need not fear,
He’ll protect us as long as he is here.
THE JAY AND THE FROG
A blue-jay sat on a hickory limb,
And a bullfrog sat below
On a tuft of grass, where rushes green
Were waving to and fro.
While near him lay the glassy pool
Where the tad-poles leap’d in play;
But the old frog’s face wore a troubled frown
As he thus addressed the jay:—
And a bullfrog sat below
On a tuft of grass, where rushes green
Were waving to and fro.
While near him lay the glassy pool
Where the tad-poles leap’d in play;
But the old frog’s face wore a troubled frown
As he thus addressed the jay:—
“Did I wear your dress of brilliant hue
Instead of this coat of green;
I could have the best the world affords,
And always live serene.
You fly away to the fields of grain
Or feast on the cherries high;
While I sit here ’neath the rushes cool,
And snap at a wary fly.”
Instead of this coat of green;
I could have the best the world affords,
And always live serene.
You fly away to the fields of grain
Or feast on the cherries high;
While I sit here ’neath the rushes cool,
And snap at a wary fly.”
“Then why,” said the jay, “If you wish to rise
Do you not ascend this limb?”
“I will! I will!” cried the silly frog,
I’m tired of folks that swim!”
So he hopped from the tuft of grass to the tree,
Then up where the branches divide;
Then with a grin he crawled along
And perched by the blue-jay’s side.
Do you not ascend this limb?”
“I will! I will!” cried the silly frog,
I’m tired of folks that swim!”
So he hopped from the tuft of grass to the tree,
Then up where the branches divide;
Then with a grin he crawled along
And perched by the blue-jay’s side.
“I’m big as you, I’m big as you,”
Cried the frog in greatest glee;
“I wish my friends could see me now—
In this high society!”—
But his joy waned.—As a flock of jays
With one accord did rise
And, swooping down, they pecked at him
With harsh and jeering cries.
Cried the frog in greatest glee;
“I wish my friends could see me now—
In this high society!”—
But his joy waned.—As a flock of jays
With one accord did rise
And, swooping down, they pecked at him
With harsh and jeering cries.
’Till he was forced to quick retreat.—
As the rushes green he seeks
He said, as he leaped in the quiet pool
And escaped their cruel beaks:—
If this is the way the ‘high class’ treats
The lowly ones, ’tis clear
’Tis best that we should be content
To stay in our native sphere!
As the rushes green he seeks
He said, as he leaped in the quiet pool
And escaped their cruel beaks:—
If this is the way the ‘high class’ treats
The lowly ones, ’tis clear
’Tis best that we should be content
To stay in our native sphere!
Moral
When proud Ambition seeks to rise
From its accustomed ways;
Oft jealousies will jeer and peck,
As did the haughty jays.
* * *
To all who chance to read this tale,
Its simple warning speaks,—
“Ye who aspire to sphere’s aloft—
Beware of vicious beaks!”
From its accustomed ways;
Oft jealousies will jeer and peck,
As did the haughty jays.
* * *
To all who chance to read this tale,
Its simple warning speaks,—
“Ye who aspire to sphere’s aloft—
Beware of vicious beaks!”
THE COTTAGE BY THE RIVER
(Lines on a very old house situated on the west shore of the Nezinscot river, and some distance from any other dwelling.)
On the bank of Old Nezinscot,
Where the sparkling waters flow
Down this sea-ward course, as freely
As the roving winds that blow,
Stands a cottage by the river—
(Built upon the side-hill plan;—
Think it was a blacksmith built it
Else it was a crazy man!
Where the sparkling waters flow
Down this sea-ward course, as freely
As the roving winds that blow,
Stands a cottage by the river—
(Built upon the side-hill plan;—
Think it was a blacksmith built it
Else it was a crazy man!
Must have been an awful ship wreck
Once, upon Nezinscot’s waves;
When a score or more of sailors
Went down to their watery graves—
All except old Robinson Crusoe,
Guess he landed on a scow;
And this fact seems most emphatic
For man “Friday” lives there now!
Once, upon Nezinscot’s waves;
When a score or more of sailors
Went down to their watery graves—
All except old Robinson Crusoe,
Guess he landed on a scow;
And this fact seems most emphatic
For man “Friday” lives there now!
Probably, from out the wreckage
They contrived to save their goods,—
Then, with jack-knife and a hatchet
Built this cottage in the woods—
Must have been some ship-wreck’d sailor
By the angry tempest tossed—
Or an aeronaut that landed
Who with his balloon was lost.
They contrived to save their goods,—
Then, with jack-knife and a hatchet
Built this cottage in the woods—
Must have been some ship-wreck’d sailor
By the angry tempest tossed—
Or an aeronaut that landed
Who with his balloon was lost.
Doubtless, then, this lonely exile
Fought the wild-cat and the bear—
Else he’d not have pitched his cabin
Forty miles from any where—
Far away from habitation—
Neither do we often find
Houses that are built like this one
With the front door on behind!)
Fought the wild-cat and the bear—
Else he’d not have pitched his cabin
Forty miles from any where—
Far away from habitation—
Neither do we often find
Houses that are built like this one
With the front door on behind!)
Though in this salubrious climate
Often lurks the river fogs;—
Yet the sweet, halcyon chorus
Of the whip-poor-wills and frogs
When the twilight shadows gather
And the sun sinks in the west—
Calms and sooths the fever’d pillow,
Lulls the weary into rest.
Often lurks the river fogs;—
Yet the sweet, halcyon chorus
Of the whip-poor-wills and frogs
When the twilight shadows gather
And the sun sinks in the west—
Calms and sooths the fever’d pillow,
Lulls the weary into rest.
THE POET TO THE ARTIST
(To E. A. M.)
You painted a beautiful picture
And sent it a gift to me;
So I will write you a poem,—
But what shall the poem be?
Your picture, like beautiful sunset
So brilliant, will ever be praised,—
But my poem will be like a cipher
That some rude, reckless hand has erased!
And sent it a gift to me;
So I will write you a poem,—
But what shall the poem be?
Your picture, like beautiful sunset
So brilliant, will ever be praised,—
But my poem will be like a cipher
That some rude, reckless hand has erased!
Your picture seemed “Tidings of Gladness,”
—As the beautiful rainbow will cast
Its bright, glowing tints on the billows
Of clouds when the tempest is past.
Like the unbounded depth of the Ocean
Is the gratitude felt.—for your gift
Was like rending dark storm-clouds asunder
When a sunbeam shines bright thro’ the rift.
—As the beautiful rainbow will cast
Its bright, glowing tints on the billows
Of clouds when the tempest is past.
Like the unbounded depth of the Ocean
Is the gratitude felt.—for your gift
Was like rending dark storm-clouds asunder
When a sunbeam shines bright thro’ the rift.
Your picture was eagerly welcomed,
—As the first rosy tints of the dawn
Are welcomed by vigilant watchers
When the curtains of Night are withdrawn.
—As the rose hails the dew of the evening
When parched by the heat of the sun;
—As the hand, that with toil has grown weary
Welcomes rest when the day’s work is done—
—As the first rosy tints of the dawn
Are welcomed by vigilant watchers
When the curtains of Night are withdrawn.
—As the rose hails the dew of the evening
When parched by the heat of the sun;
—As the hand, that with toil has grown weary
Welcomes rest when the day’s work is done—
—So thus, for your picture a welcome
Most fervent will e’er be secure
But my poem—Ah! what of my poem?
—There can scarcely be aught to endure.
Tho’ your picture’s like beauteous landscape
That by Artists will ever be praised;
—Yet my poem will be like a cipher
That some rude, reckless hand has erased!
Most fervent will e’er be secure
But my poem—Ah! what of my poem?
—There can scarcely be aught to endure.
Tho’ your picture’s like beauteous landscape
That by Artists will ever be praised;
—Yet my poem will be like a cipher
That some rude, reckless hand has erased!