THE VILLAGE ON THE TAR
DEDICATED TO PETTIGREW COUNCIL NO 1. F. OF T.
A DRUNKARD in a distant town lay dying on his bed,
There was lack of woman’s gentle touch about his fevered head,
But a comrade stood beside him, and wiped the foam away,
That bubbled through his frothy lips, to hear what he might say.
The poor inebriate faltered, as he caught that comrade’s eye,
And he said, “’Tis hard, far, far from home ’mid strangers thus to die.
Take a message and a token to my friends away so far,
For Louisburg’s my native place, the village on the Tar.
There was lack of woman’s gentle touch about his fevered head,
But a comrade stood beside him, and wiped the foam away,
That bubbled through his frothy lips, to hear what he might say.
The poor inebriate faltered, as he caught that comrade’s eye,
And he said, “’Tis hard, far, far from home ’mid strangers thus to die.
Take a message and a token to my friends away so far,
For Louisburg’s my native place, the village on the Tar.
“Tell my brothers and companions, should they ever wish to know
The story of the fallen, ah! the fallen one so low,
That we drank the whole night deeply, and when at last ’twas o’er,
Full many a form lay beastly drunk along the barroom floor.
And there were ’mid those wretches some who had long served sin,
Their bloated features telling well what faithful slaves they’d been;
And some were young and had not on the Hell-path entered far—
And one was from the village, the village on the Tar.
The story of the fallen, ah! the fallen one so low,
That we drank the whole night deeply, and when at last ’twas o’er,
Full many a form lay beastly drunk along the barroom floor.
And there were ’mid those wretches some who had long served sin,
Their bloated features telling well what faithful slaves they’d been;
And some were young and had not on the Hell-path entered far—
And one was from the village, the village on the Tar.
“Tell my mother that her other sons may still some comfort prove,
But I, in even childhood, would scorn that mother’s love;
And when she called the children to lift up the evening prayer,
One form was always missing, there was e’er one vacant chair,
For my father was a drunkard, and even as a child
He taught my little feet to tread the road to ruin wild;
And when he died and left us to dispute about his will,
I let them take whate’er they would, but kept my father’s ‘still,’
And with sottish love I used it till its venomed ‘worm’ did gnaw
My soul, my mind, my very life, in the village on the Taw.[A]
But I, in even childhood, would scorn that mother’s love;
And when she called the children to lift up the evening prayer,
One form was always missing, there was e’er one vacant chair,
For my father was a drunkard, and even as a child
He taught my little feet to tread the road to ruin wild;
And when he died and left us to dispute about his will,
I let them take whate’er they would, but kept my father’s ‘still,’
And with sottish love I used it till its venomed ‘worm’ did gnaw
My soul, my mind, my very life, in the village on the Taw.[A]
“Tell my sister oft to weep for me with sad and drooping head,
When she sees the wine flow freely, that poison ruby red,
And to turn her back upon it, with deep and burning shame,
For her brother fell before it and disgraced the fam’ly name.
And if a drunkard seeks her love, oh! tell her, for my sake,
To shun the loathsome creature, as she would a deadly snake,
And have the old ‘still’ torn away, its fragments scattered far,
For the honor of the village, the village on the Tar.
When she sees the wine flow freely, that poison ruby red,
And to turn her back upon it, with deep and burning shame,
For her brother fell before it and disgraced the fam’ly name.
And if a drunkard seeks her love, oh! tell her, for my sake,
To shun the loathsome creature, as she would a deadly snake,
And have the old ‘still’ torn away, its fragments scattered far,
For the honor of the village, the village on the Tar.
“There’s another, not a sister; in the merry days of old,
You’d have known her by the dark blue eye, and hair of wavy gold;
Too gentle e’er to chide me, too devoted e’er to hate,
She loved me, though oft warned by all to shun the dreaded fate.
Tell her the last night of my life—for ere the morning dawn,
My body will be tenantless, my clay-chained spirit gone—
I dreamed I stood beside her, and in those lovely blue depths saw
The merry light that cheered me, in the village on the Taw.[A]
You’d have known her by the dark blue eye, and hair of wavy gold;
Too gentle e’er to chide me, too devoted e’er to hate,
She loved me, though oft warned by all to shun the dreaded fate.
Tell her the last night of my life—for ere the morning dawn,
My body will be tenantless, my clay-chained spirit gone—
I dreamed I stood beside her, and in those lovely blue depths saw
The merry light that cheered me, in the village on the Taw.[A]
“I saw the old Tar hurrying on its bubbles to the sea,
As men on life’s waves e’er are swept towards eternity;
And the rippling waters mingled with the warbling of the birds,
Returned soft silvery echoes to my deep impassioned words;
And in those listening ears I poured the sweet tho’ time-worn story,
While swimming were those love-lit eyes, in all their tear-pearled glory;
And her little hand was closely pressed in mine so brown and braw,
Ah! I no more shall meet her, in the village on the Taw.”[A]
As men on life’s waves e’er are swept towards eternity;
And the rippling waters mingled with the warbling of the birds,
Returned soft silvery echoes to my deep impassioned words;
And in those listening ears I poured the sweet tho’ time-worn story,
While swimming were those love-lit eyes, in all their tear-pearled glory;
And her little hand was closely pressed in mine so brown and braw,
Ah! I no more shall meet her, in the village on the Taw.”[A]
He ceased to speak, and through his frame there ran a shiver slight,
His blood-shot eyes rolled inward and revealed their ghastly white,
His swollen tongue protruded, o’er his face a pallor spread,
His comrade touched his pulse—’twas still—and he was with the dead.
The moon from her pavilion, in the blue-draped fleecy cloud,
Through the window o’er the corpse had thrown her pale but ghostly shroud,
The same moon that gazing upon that couch of straw.
Was bathing in a silver flood the village on the Taw.[A]
His blood-shot eyes rolled inward and revealed their ghastly white,
His swollen tongue protruded, o’er his face a pallor spread,
His comrade touched his pulse—’twas still—and he was with the dead.
The moon from her pavilion, in the blue-draped fleecy cloud,
Through the window o’er the corpse had thrown her pale but ghostly shroud,
The same moon that gazing upon that couch of straw.
Was bathing in a silver flood the village on the Taw.[A]
[A] The Indian name of this river was Taw.—Publisher.
REQUIESCAM
Oh! give me a grave in a lone, gloomy dell,
By the side of a deep, swift creek,
Where the ripples run like a tinkling bell,
Through the grassy nooks, where love so well
The minnows to play hide and seek!
By the side of a deep, swift creek,
Where the ripples run like a tinkling bell,
Through the grassy nooks, where love so well
The minnows to play hide and seek!
Where in summer the thick twining foliage weaves
A green, arching roof upon high,
And the rain-drops fall from the dripping eaves,
Like tears of grief from the weeping leaves
On the face upturned to the sky!
A green, arching roof upon high,
And the rain-drops fall from the dripping eaves,
Like tears of grief from the weeping leaves
On the face upturned to the sky!
Where the silence frightens the birds away,
And all is still, dreary and weird,
Except, perchance at the close of day,
The bittern’s boom or the crane’s hoarse bray,
Floating over the swamp, is heard.
And all is still, dreary and weird,
Except, perchance at the close of day,
The bittern’s boom or the crane’s hoarse bray,
Floating over the swamp, is heard.
Where the dusky wolf and the antlered deer
Ever shun the dark, haunted ground;
Where the crouching panther ventures near,
His tawny coat all bristling with fear,
At the sight of the low, red mound.
Ever shun the dark, haunted ground;
Where the crouching panther ventures near,
His tawny coat all bristling with fear,
At the sight of the low, red mound.
Where at twilight gray, the lone whippoorwill
May perch on the stake at my head,
And with its unearthly, tremulous trill
The dreary gloom of the whole place fill
With a requiem over the dead.
May perch on the stake at my head,
And with its unearthly, tremulous trill
The dreary gloom of the whole place fill
With a requiem over the dead.
Where the greater the ruin in earth’s damp mold,
The greater the contrast will prove,
When the weary wings of my spirit I fold,
In heaven, and swell with a bright harp of gold,
The grand pealing anthem of love.
The greater the contrast will prove,
When the weary wings of my spirit I fold,
In heaven, and swell with a bright harp of gold,
The grand pealing anthem of love.
LINES TO AN ANALYTICAL GEOMETRY
KNOWN TO THE STUDENTS AS “MISS ANNIE”
WRITTEN AT THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA, 1866
At “Elysium” chum and I were sitting,
Across our vision memories flitting,
Talking, smoking, often spitting
On the hearth, not on the floor;
When suddenly we heard a spluttering,
As of book leaves madly flutt’ring,
Some one there seemed slowly mutt’ring,
At the bookcase, not the door.
Across our vision memories flitting,
Talking, smoking, often spitting
On the hearth, not on the floor;
When suddenly we heard a spluttering,
As of book leaves madly flutt’ring,
Some one there seemed slowly mutt’ring,
At the bookcase, not the door.
Wildly springing to my feet
(Chum with fright seemed tied t’ his seat),
Dreading, fearing I should meet
What so like a ghost had spoken—
Fellow members, if you’re able
To believe what seemed a fable,
I saw “Miss Annie” on the table,
With rage and anger almost choking.
(Chum with fright seemed tied t’ his seat),
Dreading, fearing I should meet
What so like a ghost had spoken—
Fellow members, if you’re able
To believe what seemed a fable,
I saw “Miss Annie” on the table,
With rage and anger almost choking.
Then without a bow or bend,
Sitting up upon one end,
Without preface thus began—
While we both in wonder stared:
“O ye worthless lazy scamps!
Talk about your midnight lamps,
While I’m in the bookcase crampt,
To what can such Sophs be compared?
Sitting up upon one end,
Without preface thus began—
While we both in wonder stared:
“O ye worthless lazy scamps!
Talk about your midnight lamps,
While I’m in the bookcase crampt,
To what can such Sophs be compared?
“Here you’ll sit and smoke and talk,
To-morrow morn to black-board walk,
Seize your ‘ruler’ and your chalk,
Then I hope get badly ‘rushed.’
Oh! the present generation,
Such neglect to education,
Blood and scissors! thunderation!”
She was so mad the tears forth gushed.
To-morrow morn to black-board walk,
Seize your ‘ruler’ and your chalk,
Then I hope get badly ‘rushed.’
Oh! the present generation,
Such neglect to education,
Blood and scissors! thunderation!”
She was so mad the tears forth gushed.
Chum and I had heard enough
To put us both in quite a huff,
So just to stop her noisome stuff
I sprang and seized her by the collar.
George jumped up and grabbed the poker,
Shouted, “Edwin, try to choke her!
We’ll stop her mouth, a darned old croaker,
Squeeze her tight and make her ‘holloa.’”
To put us both in quite a huff,
So just to stop her noisome stuff
I sprang and seized her by the collar.
George jumped up and grabbed the poker,
Shouted, “Edwin, try to choke her!
We’ll stop her mouth, a darned old croaker,
Squeeze her tight and make her ‘holloa.’”
To the fire we held her near,
Still she showed no signs of fear.
“Shall the red coals be your bier?”
She shook her leaves and fluttered, “No.”
Now my face with anger flushes,
Covered first with scarlet blushes,
I cried, “Will you again e’er ‘rush’ us?”
Quoth Miss Annie, “Evermore.”
Still she showed no signs of fear.
“Shall the red coals be your bier?”
She shook her leaves and fluttered, “No.”
Now my face with anger flushes,
Covered first with scarlet blushes,
I cried, “Will you again e’er ‘rush’ us?”
Quoth Miss Annie, “Evermore.”
“Book or fiend,” I cried, up starting,
“Be that word our sign of parting.”
Then I, in my vengeance darting,
Hurled her in the embers red.
She slightly quivered, slowly burned;
From the sickening sight I turned,
Yet from her this lesson learned,
Prepare before you go to bed.
“Be that word our sign of parting.”
Then I, in my vengeance darting,
Hurled her in the embers red.
She slightly quivered, slowly burned;
From the sickening sight I turned,
Yet from her this lesson learned,
Prepare before you go to bed.
LINES TO COUSINS C. AND E.
ON THE BIRTH OF THEIR LITTLE DAUGHTER
The marriage over, from the train
Of watching seraphs, one long strain
Of gratulation broke.
And then were still the rustling wings,
And fingers hushed the throbbing strings,
While thus an angel spoke:
Of watching seraphs, one long strain
Of gratulation broke.
And then were still the rustling wings,
And fingers hushed the throbbing strings,
While thus an angel spoke:
“Who’ll go to earth to bless this pair
With angel child, beneath their care
Be trained for bliss or woe?”
He ceased, and from the throng sprang three,
Faith, Love, and spotless Purity.
These knelt, and said “We’ll go.”
With angel child, beneath their care
Be trained for bliss or woe?”
He ceased, and from the throng sprang three,
Faith, Love, and spotless Purity.
These knelt, and said “We’ll go.”
Dear cousins, to you these are sent,
Three spirits in one being blent.
It is a jewel rare.
Oh! keep her pure as when first given,
Guide her faith from Earth to Heaven,
Guard her love with care.
Three spirits in one being blent.
It is a jewel rare.
Oh! keep her pure as when first given,
Guide her faith from Earth to Heaven,
Guard her love with care.
May, 1867.
THE DEVIL OUTDONE;
OR,
THE GUARD OF THE SULPHUR LAKE
To her who sent me the Valentine with the cutting irony, “Don’t I look pretty in church?” these lines are respectfully inscribed. Not knowing her name, I will call her “Taters,” as she drew her elegant and tasty simile from that vegetable.
The Devil was sitting one morning below,
And he seemed much perplexed as to what he must do,
For his dark brows would knit, and he’d stamp on the ground,
And flap his great wings till floating around
Were the ashes and feathers.
At last with an air
Of resolve he threw himself back in his chair,
Lit a brimstone cigar, and touched a small bell.
An imp appeared, bowed, and on his face fell.
“Cloven-foot,” said the D——, “what’s the news from the fire?”
“My liege, the great ape has ceased to inspire
The victims with terror; they fear him no more,
And continually crawl from the flames to the shore.”
“Well, Cloven-foot, I had most certainly thought
When from Africa’s wilds that baboon you brought,
He’d prove such a guard for the great Sulphur Lake
The wretches would ne’er cease before him to quake.
Now go up to earth, and search till you find
Something uglier far, then quick seize and bind
And bring it to me; and if it beats the baboon
I’ll reward you. Be sure to return just as soon
As ’tis possible, and above all things to choose
An object whose countenance never will lose
Its hideous novelty.” The imp bowed and withdrew,
And swiftly to earth on his errand he flew;
But in vain did he search where the gorillas roam,
Or the jungles of Bengal, the fierce tiger’s home.
In vain throughout Europe he searched every place;
Nowhere could he find the requisite face.
Frustrated and weary, with deep despair frantic,
He was skimming the waves of the tossing Atlantic.
A few pinion strokes, and he stood on the shore
Of the New World, and through it began to explore.
But all was in vain, till he chanced to alight
In a sweet little village, one smiling morn bright.
Disguising himself, he attended the church,
Not hoping to find the object of search,
But just for the fun.
As he stood with the throng
That were watching the College girls marching along,
He caught a slight glimpse of Miss “Tater’s” sweet face;
He sprang to her side, clasped her in embrace,
And as he plunged downward he said to himself,
“Here’s one will compete with the African elf.”
He soon furled his wing on the Plutonian shore,
And to his dark ruler his fair burden bore.
As the Valentine sender came into sight
The Devil himself started back with affright.
“Whew! whew!” whistled he, “she’ll do, I declare!
Go bring the baboon, and let them compare.”
The imp disappeared, then returned with the ape,
A creature most frightful in feature and shape.
His head was oblong and perfectly bald,
Running back from his eyes—no forehead at all;
His eyeballs were white, their sockets deep red;
His long, glistening teeth strung with human-flesh shred,
The gore of his victims from his fingers’ ends flowed;
And round his lank limbs candescent chains glowed,
In front of Miss “Taters” this creature was led;
He gave a look, yelled, and fainted stone dead.
“By my tongs,” quoth the Devil, “she’s rather too hard
For the old fellow; she’ll make a capital guard.
Take her down to the fire.” The imp led the way
And far down they went from the clear light of day,
Down, down, till the air was all smoky and red,
Till the tumult of hell seemed bursting her head;
Down, down, till the piteous wails and the moans
Of the tortured but echoed the jeers and the groans
Of the fiends. Down, down, till they came to the lake
That scorches and scalds, but never will slake
The thirst of its victims. Far out on its breast
It would heave them anon on the red foaming crest
Of a billow, then plunge them far deeper beneath
Its boiling bosom, in torture to seethe.
Along the hot shore the poor creatures would crawl,
To pant and to rest from their terrible thrall.
From their bodies all smoking the lava would stream,
While the shriveled flesh peeled from each quiv’ring limb,
And their heart-piercing shrieks rose higher and higher,
As the tongue of each wave licked them back in the fire.
But as soon as Miss “Taters” had come where they were
Every noise was hushed, not a sound could you hear.
’Twas a wonder indeed, and the wonder increased,
When the billows of crimson their torture surge ceased.
When the imp had examined more closely, he found
The victims had fainted, the fire gone down.
He hurried her back to his master and said,
“The fires are out, and the wretches are dead.”
“What, the fires extinguished! those fires of old!
Take her back! I begin e’en myself to feel cold!
She’ll ruin us all with her terrible face;
She’s rather hard-favored for even this place.”
And he seemed much perplexed as to what he must do,
For his dark brows would knit, and he’d stamp on the ground,
And flap his great wings till floating around
Were the ashes and feathers.
At last with an air
Of resolve he threw himself back in his chair,
Lit a brimstone cigar, and touched a small bell.
An imp appeared, bowed, and on his face fell.
“Cloven-foot,” said the D——, “what’s the news from the fire?”
“My liege, the great ape has ceased to inspire
The victims with terror; they fear him no more,
And continually crawl from the flames to the shore.”
“Well, Cloven-foot, I had most certainly thought
When from Africa’s wilds that baboon you brought,
He’d prove such a guard for the great Sulphur Lake
The wretches would ne’er cease before him to quake.
Now go up to earth, and search till you find
Something uglier far, then quick seize and bind
And bring it to me; and if it beats the baboon
I’ll reward you. Be sure to return just as soon
As ’tis possible, and above all things to choose
An object whose countenance never will lose
Its hideous novelty.” The imp bowed and withdrew,
And swiftly to earth on his errand he flew;
But in vain did he search where the gorillas roam,
Or the jungles of Bengal, the fierce tiger’s home.
In vain throughout Europe he searched every place;
Nowhere could he find the requisite face.
Frustrated and weary, with deep despair frantic,
He was skimming the waves of the tossing Atlantic.
A few pinion strokes, and he stood on the shore
Of the New World, and through it began to explore.
But all was in vain, till he chanced to alight
In a sweet little village, one smiling morn bright.
Disguising himself, he attended the church,
Not hoping to find the object of search,
But just for the fun.
As he stood with the throng
That were watching the College girls marching along,
He caught a slight glimpse of Miss “Tater’s” sweet face;
He sprang to her side, clasped her in embrace,
And as he plunged downward he said to himself,
“Here’s one will compete with the African elf.”
He soon furled his wing on the Plutonian shore,
And to his dark ruler his fair burden bore.
As the Valentine sender came into sight
The Devil himself started back with affright.
“Whew! whew!” whistled he, “she’ll do, I declare!
Go bring the baboon, and let them compare.”
The imp disappeared, then returned with the ape,
A creature most frightful in feature and shape.
His head was oblong and perfectly bald,
Running back from his eyes—no forehead at all;
His eyeballs were white, their sockets deep red;
His long, glistening teeth strung with human-flesh shred,
The gore of his victims from his fingers’ ends flowed;
And round his lank limbs candescent chains glowed,
In front of Miss “Taters” this creature was led;
He gave a look, yelled, and fainted stone dead.
“By my tongs,” quoth the Devil, “she’s rather too hard
For the old fellow; she’ll make a capital guard.
Take her down to the fire.” The imp led the way
And far down they went from the clear light of day,
Down, down, till the air was all smoky and red,
Till the tumult of hell seemed bursting her head;
Down, down, till the piteous wails and the moans
Of the tortured but echoed the jeers and the groans
Of the fiends. Down, down, till they came to the lake
That scorches and scalds, but never will slake
The thirst of its victims. Far out on its breast
It would heave them anon on the red foaming crest
Of a billow, then plunge them far deeper beneath
Its boiling bosom, in torture to seethe.
Along the hot shore the poor creatures would crawl,
To pant and to rest from their terrible thrall.
From their bodies all smoking the lava would stream,
While the shriveled flesh peeled from each quiv’ring limb,
And their heart-piercing shrieks rose higher and higher,
As the tongue of each wave licked them back in the fire.
But as soon as Miss “Taters” had come where they were
Every noise was hushed, not a sound could you hear.
’Twas a wonder indeed, and the wonder increased,
When the billows of crimson their torture surge ceased.
When the imp had examined more closely, he found
The victims had fainted, the fire gone down.
He hurried her back to his master and said,
“The fires are out, and the wretches are dead.”
“What, the fires extinguished! those fires of old!
Take her back! I begin e’en myself to feel cold!
She’ll ruin us all with her terrible face;
She’s rather hard-favored for even this place.”
April, 1867.
THE SUNFLOWER
LINES SUGGESTED BY OBSERVING GEN. PETTIGREW’S NAME OMITTED IN MRS. DOWNING’S “MEMORIAL FLOWERS” AND IN THE “SOUTHERN BOUQUET”
When poets cull memorial flowers,
With which our martyrs’ graves to strew,
They choose no one in Nature’s bowers
For Pettigrew.
With which our martyrs’ graves to strew,
They choose no one in Nature’s bowers
For Pettigrew.
Yet there is one, and only one,
Which truly represents his name;
A flower that revels in the sun,
And drinks his flame.
Which truly represents his name;
A flower that revels in the sun,
And drinks his flame.
A flower that opens when, all red,
The sun hath kissed the eastern skies;
But westward turned, it droops its head
And proudly dies.
The sun hath kissed the eastern skies;
But westward turned, it droops its head
And proudly dies.
Thus when the sun of victory sheared
Its gory way o’er clouds of war,
This flower’s tow’ring crest appeared
A beacon star.
Its gory way o’er clouds of war,
This flower’s tow’ring crest appeared
A beacon star.
And in its gorgeous, glorious rays,
This flower basked, and only bowed
When coming conquest’s bloody haze
That sun did shroud.
This flower basked, and only bowed
When coming conquest’s bloody haze
That sun did shroud.
Crushed flower, with thy broken stem,
I’ll keep thee near to typify
The fallen form; the hero’s fame
Can never die.
I’ll keep thee near to typify
The fallen form; the hero’s fame
Can never die.
June 19th, 1867.
AN ELEGY
WRITTEN ON THE ROTUNDA STEPS, UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA, 1868
The bell the knell of evening lecture tolls,
The thronging students pour from every door;
The tutor gathers up his notes and rolls,
And homeward wends his weary way once more.
The thronging students pour from every door;
The tutor gathers up his notes and rolls,
And homeward wends his weary way once more.
The noisy crowd is gone, there is a pause,
And hushed is all the busy hum and whirl,
Save where from yonder room breaks loud applause
That welcomes some professor’s parting “curl.”
And hushed is all the busy hum and whirl,
Save where from yonder room breaks loud applause
That welcomes some professor’s parting “curl.”
Save that from yonder plain, the lower lawn,
Some base-ball novice makes harsh rhyms to psalm,
Because a veteran, with his hands of horn,
Has “pitched” too “hot” a ball for his soft palm.
Some base-ball novice makes harsh rhyms to psalm,
Because a veteran, with his hands of horn,
Has “pitched” too “hot” a ball for his soft palm.
Beneath those balconies, along those rows,
Where sinks the wall in many a jail-like cell,
Each wrapped in silence now and in repose,
The minstrels of the “Calathump” do dwell.
Where sinks the wall in many a jail-like cell,
Each wrapped in silence now and in repose,
The minstrels of the “Calathump” do dwell.
The whispered call of evil-masking night,
The signal whistle of the well-known crew,
The bumping bang of “blowers” beat with might,
Will often rouse the “Nippers of Peru.”
The signal whistle of the well-known crew,
The bumping bang of “blowers” beat with might,
Will often rouse the “Nippers of Peru.”
For them in vain for hours their hearts will burn,
While busy housewives tremble at their noise,
And frightened children to their fathers turn,
Too badly scared to think of play or toys.
While busy housewives tremble at their noise,
And frightened children to their fathers turn,
Too badly scared to think of play or toys.
Oft has th’ rotunda echoed to their songs,
In dulcet strains that on the still air broke;
Oft has the lawn resounded with their gongs,
That roared and rattled ’neath their sturdy stroke.
In dulcet strains that on the still air broke;
Oft has the lawn resounded with their gongs,
That roared and rattled ’neath their sturdy stroke.
Let not their victims mock th’ infernal din,
Coal-scuttle drums, and clarion paper trump;
But let them hear with a sardonic “grin,”
The hideous clamor of a “Calathump.”
Coal-scuttle drums, and clarion paper trump;
But let them hear with a sardonic “grin,”
The hideous clamor of a “Calathump.”
The boast of Mozart, or Beethoven’s pride,
The sweetest notes Von Weber ever gave,
Alike would prove harsh dissonance beside
The gushing concord of one college stave.
The sweetest notes Von Weber ever gave,
Alike would prove harsh dissonance beside
The gushing concord of one college stave.
To-night upon their pillows will be laid
Heads that are pregnant with some secret plan;
Hands that a “poker” often may have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy an old tin pan.
Heads that are pregnant with some secret plan;
Hands that a “poker” often may have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy an old tin pan.
In vain grave study holds before their gaze
Her ample page and honor’s glittering roll;
The fire of “frolic” in their bosom plays,
And warms the devilish current of their soul.
Her ample page and honor’s glittering roll;
The fire of “frolic” in their bosom plays,
And warms the devilish current of their soul.
Full many a mind that might have nations hurled
About as toys, has hid its talents rare;
And many a voice that might have moved a world,
Has cracked in shoutings on the midnight air.
About as toys, has hid its talents rare;
And many a voice that might have moved a world,
Has cracked in shoutings on the midnight air.
Some village Hampden here by night may bawl,
Some unknown Milton, but by no means mute;
Some David that may soothe a savage Saul,
As yet entirely guiltless of a lute.
Some unknown Milton, but by no means mute;
Some David that may soothe a savage Saul,
As yet entirely guiltless of a lute.
The applause of gaping urchins to command,
The darkies’ laughter at their quaint disguise,
A few short words from some one to the band,
This is their sole reward, their hard-earned prize.
The darkies’ laughter at their quaint disguise,
A few short words from some one to the band,
This is their sole reward, their hard-earned prize.
But who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
Would start to nip with dry and husky throttle?
Whene’er they march along the Devil’s way,
They take his own peculiar seal, the bottle.
Would start to nip with dry and husky throttle?
Whene’er they march along the Devil’s way,
They take his own peculiar seal, the bottle.
Amid the madding crowd that gathers thick,
A moving pandemonium they stray,
And down those much frequented walks of brick
They hold the noisy tenor of their way.
A moving pandemonium they stray,
And down those much frequented walks of brick
They hold the noisy tenor of their way.
THE EPIGRAM
Here go at last, all yelling to the town,
A band of youths to Judson’s too well known;
Fair science ever met their darkest frown,
And foul intemperance marked them for her own.
A band of youths to Judson’s too well known;
Fair science ever met their darkest frown,
And foul intemperance marked them for her own.
Small is their bounty, but “a drink” they chime,
As round the crowded counter many jam;
Each gives to Judson (all he has) a dime,
Each gets from him (’tis all he wants) a dram.
As round the crowded counter many jam;
Each gives to Judson (all he has) a dime,
Each gets from him (’tis all he wants) a dram.
January, 1868.
FIRE EYES
Hast thou on summer’s eve ere marked
The storm on cloud wings soaring high,
And spreading far his pinions black,
Across the blue good-natured sky?
And hast thou seen from ’neath his brow
The lightning’s eye gleam fiercely bright,
As if to pierce a thousand foes
With daggers of his living light?
As flash the lightnings in the skies,
So gleam, when angry, “Fire Eyes.”
The storm on cloud wings soaring high,
And spreading far his pinions black,
Across the blue good-natured sky?
And hast thou seen from ’neath his brow
The lightning’s eye gleam fiercely bright,
As if to pierce a thousand foes
With daggers of his living light?
As flash the lightnings in the skies,
So gleam, when angry, “Fire Eyes.”
Hast thou on autumn eve e’er seen
The sun just nestling on his pillow,
While sapphire clouds were silver-fringed,
As seafoam crests the surging billow?
And hast thou seen the golden gaze
The sun bestows on Nature fair,
That dyes the gorgeous landscape o’er
And almost melts the amber air?
As beams the sun on autumn skies
So smile, when pleased, bright “Fire Eyes.”
The sun just nestling on his pillow,
While sapphire clouds were silver-fringed,
As seafoam crests the surging billow?
And hast thou seen the golden gaze
The sun bestows on Nature fair,
That dyes the gorgeous landscape o’er
And almost melts the amber air?
As beams the sun on autumn skies
So smile, when pleased, bright “Fire Eyes.”
MY DARLING’S JESSAMINE
’Twas only a sprig of white jessamine,
That came in a letter she wrote;
But I value it more than the costliest vine
Whose tendrils o’er marble-carved trellis-work twine:
’Twas worn at my darling one’s throat.
That came in a letter she wrote;
But I value it more than the costliest vine
Whose tendrils o’er marble-carved trellis-work twine:
’Twas worn at my darling one’s throat.
A throat that encages the nightingale’s trill,
And sweetens each silvery note,
And I think as I hear, in a rapturous thrill,
Her voice, whose volume can heaven’s dome fill,
That the angels have lent her a throat.
And sweetens each silvery note,
And I think as I hear, in a rapturous thrill,
Her voice, whose volume can heaven’s dome fill,
That the angels have lent her a throat.
More sweet than exotics that Fashion dupes wear
As through the gay ballroom they float!
In the leaves of my Bible I laid it with care,
More sacredly dear than a buried friend’s hair
Since worn at my darling one’s throat!
As through the gay ballroom they float!
In the leaves of my Bible I laid it with care,
More sacredly dear than a buried friend’s hair
Since worn at my darling one’s throat!
THE PARTING SHIP
In pensive mood I stood upon the quay,
Where busy Commerce plied her energy;
Where loading vessels hung their sails at rest,
And rose and fell, upon the water’s breast.
Where busy little tugs with hissing steam
Buried their noses in the foaming stream.
Near by, a steamer in a paneled wharf
Chafed at her chains and panted to be off.
A strange, mysterious ship, no pennon bold
Her nation or her destination told;
No crew was seen, no farewell song was sung,
No parting loved ones to each other clung;
No wife was weeping on her husband’s neck,
No mother blessed her wayward boy on deck.
A ceaseless throng pressed through the cabin door,
As if they longed to leave their native shore;
No backward glance, no tearful farewell view,
And no one seemed to think home worth adieu.
At last the bell was rung, the plank was drawn,
And with a shivering sigh, the ship was gone.
Then as I marked her curving track of foam,
I wondered in what waters she would roam;
I thought of those on board, the reckless air
Of their departure, and I breathed a prayer.
A red-haired man stood turning up a wheel,
That wound a clanking chain upon a reel;
I laid a coin upon his brawny hand,
And asked him, “Who thus leave their native land?”
He leaned upon his wheel and closed one eye,
As if the lid were burdened with a sty;
Then with a laugh he answered, “By the devil’s spleen and liver,
It’s on’y a Fulton ferry-boat a’gwine a’gross East River.”
Where busy Commerce plied her energy;
Where loading vessels hung their sails at rest,
And rose and fell, upon the water’s breast.
Where busy little tugs with hissing steam
Buried their noses in the foaming stream.
Near by, a steamer in a paneled wharf
Chafed at her chains and panted to be off.
A strange, mysterious ship, no pennon bold
Her nation or her destination told;
No crew was seen, no farewell song was sung,
No parting loved ones to each other clung;
No wife was weeping on her husband’s neck,
No mother blessed her wayward boy on deck.
A ceaseless throng pressed through the cabin door,
As if they longed to leave their native shore;
No backward glance, no tearful farewell view,
And no one seemed to think home worth adieu.
At last the bell was rung, the plank was drawn,
And with a shivering sigh, the ship was gone.
Then as I marked her curving track of foam,
I wondered in what waters she would roam;
I thought of those on board, the reckless air
Of their departure, and I breathed a prayer.
A red-haired man stood turning up a wheel,
That wound a clanking chain upon a reel;
I laid a coin upon his brawny hand,
And asked him, “Who thus leave their native land?”
He leaned upon his wheel and closed one eye,
As if the lid were burdened with a sty;
Then with a laugh he answered, “By the devil’s spleen and liver,
It’s on’y a Fulton ferry-boat a’gwine a’gross East River.”
TO M——, FROM E——
WRITTEN ON THE FLY-LEAF OF A BIBLE
One year of sweetest love intense!
One year of mutual confidence!
One year of gazing into eyes,
In which the love-light never dies!
One year of clasping hands, that thrill
With throbbing love from life’s red rill
One year of clouds, whose transient shade
The after glory brighter made!
One year of doubts, whose fleeting rust
Could not corrode our links of trust!
One year of prayer, whose pleading tone
Has for each other sued the Throne!
One year together—may it prove
Prophetic of our earthly love!
One year each other’s—may it be
A type of our eternity!
One year of mutual confidence!
One year of gazing into eyes,
In which the love-light never dies!
One year of clasping hands, that thrill
With throbbing love from life’s red rill
One year of clouds, whose transient shade
The after glory brighter made!
One year of doubts, whose fleeting rust
Could not corrode our links of trust!
One year of prayer, whose pleading tone
Has for each other sued the Throne!
One year together—may it prove
Prophetic of our earthly love!
One year each other’s—may it be
A type of our eternity!
Sunday, May, 1871.
UNDER THE PINES
“TELL THEM TO BURY ME UNDER THE PINES AT HOME.” FROM “SEA GIFT.”
I would not rest in the moldering tomb
Of the grim church-yard, where the ivy twines,
But make me a grave in the forest’s gloom,
Where the breezes wave, like a soldier’s plume,
Each dark-green bough of the dear old pines;
Of the grim church-yard, where the ivy twines,
But make me a grave in the forest’s gloom,
Where the breezes wave, like a soldier’s plume,
Each dark-green bough of the dear old pines;
Where the lights and shadows softly merge,
And the sun-flakes sift through the netted vines;
Where the sea winds, sad with the sob of the surge,
From the harp-leaves sweep a solemn dirge
For the dead beneath the sighing pines.
And the sun-flakes sift through the netted vines;
Where the sea winds, sad with the sob of the surge,
From the harp-leaves sweep a solemn dirge
For the dead beneath the sighing pines.
When the winter’s icy fingers sow
The mound with jewels till it shines,
And cowled in hoods of glistening snow,
Like white-veiled sisters bending low,
Bow, sorrowing, the silent pines.
The mound with jewels till it shines,
And cowled in hoods of glistening snow,
Like white-veiled sisters bending low,
Bow, sorrowing, the silent pines.
While others fought for cities proud,
For fertile plains and wealth of mines,
I breathed the sulph’rous battle cloud,
I bared my breast, and took my shroud
For the land where wave the grand old pines.
For fertile plains and wealth of mines,
I breathed the sulph’rous battle cloud,
I bared my breast, and took my shroud
For the land where wave the grand old pines.
Though comrades sigh and loved ones weep
For the form shot down in the battle lines,
In my grave of blood I gladly sleep,
If the life I gave will help to keep
The Vandal’s foot from the Land of Pines.
* * * * * * * * * *
The Vandal’s foot hath pressed our sod,
His heel hath crushed our sacred shrines;
And, bowing ’neath the chastening rod,
We lift our hearts and hands to God,
And cry: “Oh! save our Land of Pines!”
For the form shot down in the battle lines,
In my grave of blood I gladly sleep,
If the life I gave will help to keep
The Vandal’s foot from the Land of Pines.
* * * * * * * * * *
The Vandal’s foot hath pressed our sod,
His heel hath crushed our sacred shrines;
And, bowing ’neath the chastening rod,
We lift our hearts and hands to God,
And cry: “Oh! save our Land of Pines!”
THE LAST LOOK
TO MARY
Do not fasten the lid of the coffin down yet;
Let me have a long look at the face of my pet.
Please all quit the chamber and pull to the door,
And leave me alone with my darling once more.
Let me have a long look at the face of my pet.
Please all quit the chamber and pull to the door,
And leave me alone with my darling once more.
Is this little Ethel, so cold, and so still!
Beat, beat, breaking heart, ’gainst God’s mystic will,
Remember, O Christ, thou didst dread thine own cup,
And while I drink mine, let thine arm bear me up.
Beat, beat, breaking heart, ’gainst God’s mystic will,
Remember, O Christ, thou didst dread thine own cup,
And while I drink mine, let thine arm bear me up.
But the moments are fleeting: I must stamp on my brain,
Each dear little feature, for never again
Can I touch her; and only God measures how much
Affection a mother conveys by her touch.
Each dear little feature, for never again
Can I touch her; and only God measures how much
Affection a mother conveys by her touch.
Oh! dear little head, oh! dear little hair,
So silken, so golden, so soft, and so fair,
Will I never more smooth it? Oh! help me, my God,
To bear this worst stroke of the chastening rod.
So silken, so golden, so soft, and so fair,
Will I never more smooth it? Oh! help me, my God,
To bear this worst stroke of the chastening rod.
Those bright little eyes that used to feign sleep,
Or sparkle so merrily, playing at peep,
Closed forever! And yet they seemed closed with a sigh,
As if for our sake she regretted to die.
Or sparkle so merrily, playing at peep,
Closed forever! And yet they seemed closed with a sigh,
As if for our sake she regretted to die.
And that dear little mouth, once so warm and so soft,
Always willing to kiss you, no matter how oft,
Cold and rigid, without the least tremor of breath,
How could you claim Ethel, O pitiless death!
Always willing to kiss you, no matter how oft,
Cold and rigid, without the least tremor of breath,
How could you claim Ethel, O pitiless death!
Her hands! No, ’twill kill me to think how they wove
Through my daily existence a tissue of love.
Each finger’s a print upon memory’s page,
That will brighten, thank God! and not dim with my age.
Through my daily existence a tissue of love.
Each finger’s a print upon memory’s page,
That will brighten, thank God! and not dim with my age.
Sick or well, they were ready at every request
To amuse us: sweet hands! they deserve a sweet rest.
Their last little trick was to wipe “Bopeep’s” eye,
Their last little gesture, to wave us good-bye.
To amuse us: sweet hands! they deserve a sweet rest.
Their last little trick was to wipe “Bopeep’s” eye,
Their last little gesture, to wave us good-bye.
Little feet! little feet, how dark the heart’s gloom,
Where your patter is hushed in that desolate room!
For oh! ’twas a sight sweet beyond all compare,
To see little “Frisky” rock back in her chair.
* * * * * * * * * *
O Father! have mercy, and grant me thy grace
To see, through this frown, the smile on thy face;
To feel that this sorrow is sent for the best,
And to learn from my darling a lesson of rest.
Where your patter is hushed in that desolate room!
For oh! ’twas a sight sweet beyond all compare,
To see little “Frisky” rock back in her chair.
* * * * * * * * * *
O Father! have mercy, and grant me thy grace
To see, through this frown, the smile on thy face;
To feel that this sorrow is sent for the best,
And to learn from my darling a lesson of rest.
LINES WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF AN UNKNOWN FRIEND
We’ve never met; I’ve never pressed your hand,
Nor caught the light of Friendship in your eyes;
Yet bound by grief, between two graves we stand,
And mingle tears, and hear each other’s sighs.
Nor caught the light of Friendship in your eyes;
Yet bound by grief, between two graves we stand,
And mingle tears, and hear each other’s sighs.
The same dark wings have taken from each hearth
The brightest jewel of the circle there,
And poor Faith stumbles at the mound of earth,
And feebly yields her place to wan Despair.
The brightest jewel of the circle there,
And poor Faith stumbles at the mound of earth,
And feebly yields her place to wan Despair.
The same dear Christ that took our little one,
And laid her precious head upon His breast,
In tender love called home your darling son
To enter early his eternal rest.
And laid her precious head upon His breast,
In tender love called home your darling son
To enter early his eternal rest.
But who could stand beside the open tomb,
And hear the clods fall on the coffin lid,
And see deep underneath the earthen gloom,
The dearest love of life forever hid?
And hear the clods fall on the coffin lid,
And see deep underneath the earthen gloom,
The dearest love of life forever hid?
Could we not hear the grave’s red lips proclaim,
“I am the Resurrection and the Life,”
And realize that Death in Jesus’ name
Is only rest from labor, pain, and strife?
“I am the Resurrection and the Life,”
And realize that Death in Jesus’ name
Is only rest from labor, pain, and strife?
’Tis hard to feel assured our sainted dead
Are happy there, as we could make them here;
We love them so we give them up with dread,
And lay them in Christ’s arms with doubt and fear.
Are happy there, as we could make them here;
We love them so we give them up with dread,
And lay them in Christ’s arms with doubt and fear.
Oh! for a faith that sees in all God sends
The kindness of a father to his son;
That prays, in every trial—if it ends
In joy or grief, “Thy will, O Lord, be done.”
The kindness of a father to his son;
That prays, in every trial—if it ends
In joy or grief, “Thy will, O Lord, be done.”
Beneath the same dark shadow let us kneel,
And lift our broken hearts in prayer to God
That while He chastens, He will help us feel
The wisdom of His purpose in the rod.
And lift our broken hearts in prayer to God
That while He chastens, He will help us feel
The wisdom of His purpose in the rod.
We are not strangers now; from heart to heart
The electric chords of mutual sorrow thrill.
And clasping hands across the miles apart,
We stand resolved, to “suffer and be still.”
The electric chords of mutual sorrow thrill.
And clasping hands across the miles apart,
We stand resolved, to “suffer and be still.”