Second Book of Verse
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THE HAWTHORNE CHILDREN
THE Hawthorne children, seven in all,Are famous friends of mine;And with what pleasure I recallHow, years ago, one gloomy fallI took a tedious railway line,And journeyed by slow stages downUnto that soporiferous town(Albeit one worth seeing)Where Hildegarde, John, Henry, Fred,And Beatrix and Gwendolen,And she that was the baby then, —These famous seven, as aforesaid,Lived, moved, and had their being.The Hawthorne children gave me suchA welcome by the seaThat the eight of us were soon in touch,And, though their mother marvelled much,Happy as larks were we.Egad, I was a boy againWith Henry, John, and Gwendolen;And oh the funny capersI cut with Hildegarde and Fred!And oh the pranks we children played;And oh the deafening noise we made —'Twould shock my family if they readAbout it in the papers!The Hawthorne children all were smart:The girls, as I recall,Had comprehended every artAppealing to the head and heart;The boys were gifted, all.'Twas Hildegarde who showed me howTo hitch a horse and milk a cowAnd cook the best of suppers;With Beatrix upon the sandsI sprinted daily, and was beat;'Twas Henry trained me to the featOf walking round upon my handsInstead of on my uppers.The Hawthorne children liked me bestOf evenings, after tea,For then, by general request,I spun them yarns about the West, —Yarns all involving Me!I represented how I'd slainThe bison on his native plain;And divers tales of wonderI told of how I'd fought and bledIn Indian scrimmages galore,Till Mrs. Hawthorne quoth, "No more,"And packed her darlings off to bed,To dream of blood and thunder.They must have changed a deal since then;The misses, tall and fair,And those three handsome, lusty men, —Would they be girls and boys again,Were I to happen there,Down in that spot beside the seaWhere we made such tumultuous gleeThat dull autumnal weather?Ah, me! the years go swiftly by;And yet how fondly I recallThe week when we were children all,Dear Hawthorne children, you and I,Just eight of us together!THE BOTTLE AND THE BIRD
ONCE on a time a friend of mine prevailed on me to goTo see the dazzling splendors of a sinful ballet show;And after we had revelled in the saltatory sights,We sought a neighboring café for more tangible delights.When I demanded of my friend what viands he preferred,He quoth: "A large cold bottle, and a small hot bird!"Fool that I was, I did not know what anguish hidden liesWithin the morceau that allures the nostrils and the eyes!There is a glorious candor in an honest quart of wine,A certain inspiration which I cannot well define!How it bubbles, how it sparkles, how its gurgling seems to say:"Come! on a tide of rapture let me float your soul away!"But the crispy, steaming mouthful that is spread upon your plate, —How it discounts human sapience and satirizes fate!You wouldn't think a thing so small could cause the pains and achesThat certainly accrue to him that of that thing partakes;To me, at least, (a guileless wight!) it never once occurredWhat horror was encompassed in that small hot bird.Oh, what a head I had on me when I awoke next day,And what a firm conviction of intestinal decay!What seas of mineral water and of bromide I appliedTo quench those fierce volcanic fires that rioted inside!And oh the thousand solemn, awful vows I plighted thenNever to tax my system with a small hot bird again!The doctor seemed to doubt that birds could worry people so,But, bless him! since I ate the bird, I guess I ought to know!The acidous condition of my stomach, so he said,Bespoke a vinous irritant that amplified my head,And, ergo, the causation of the thing, as he inferred,Was the large cold bottle, —not the small hot bird.Of course I know it wasn't, and I'm sure you'll say I'm rightIf ever it has been your wont to train around at night.How sweet is retrospection when one's heart is bathed in wine,And before its balmy breath how do the ills of life decline!How the gracious juices drown what griefs would vex a mortal breast,And float the flattered soul into the port of dreamless rest!But you, O noxious, pygmy bird! whether it be you fly,Or paddle in the stagnant pools that sweltering festering lie, —I curse you and your evil kind for that you do me wrong,Engendering poisons that corrupt my petted muse of song;Go, get thee hence! and never more discomfit me and mine, —I fain would barter all thy brood for one sweet draught of wine!So hither come, O sportive youth! when fades the telltale day, —Come hither, with your fillets and your wreaths of posies gay;We shall unloose the fragrant seas of seething, frothing wineWhich now the cobwebbed glass and envious wire and corks confine,And midst the pleasing revelry the praises shall be heardOf the large cold bottle, —not the small hot bird!AN ECLOGUE FROM VIRGIL
[The exile Melibœus finds Tityrus in possession of his own farm, restored to him by the Emperor Augustus, and a conversation ensues. The poem is in praise of Augustus, peace, and pastoral life.]
MELIBŒUSTityrus, all in the shade of the wide-spreading beech-tree reclining,Sweet is that music you've made on your pipe that is oaten and slender;Exiles from home, you beguile our hearts from their hopeless repining,As you sing Amaryllis the while in pastorals tuneful and tender.TITYRUSA god – yes, a god, I declare – vouchsafes me these pleasant conditions,And often I gayly repair with a tender white lamb to his altar;He gives me the leisure to play my greatly admired compositions,While my heifers go browsing all day, unhampered of bell and of halter.MELIBŒUSI do not begrudge you repose; I simply admit I'm confoundedTo find you unscathed of the woes of pillage and tumult and battle.To exile and hardship devote, and by merciless enemies hounded,I drag at this wretched old goat and coax on my famishing cattle.Oh, often the omens presaged the horrors which now overwhelm me —But, come, if not elsewise engaged, who is this good deity, tell me!TITYRUS (reminiscently)The city – the city called Rome, with my head full of herding and tillage,I used to compare with my home, these pastures wherein you now wander;But I didn't take long to find out that the city surpasses the villageAs the cypress surpasses the sprout that thrives in the thicket out yonder.MELIBŒUSTell me, good gossip, I pray, what led you to visit the city?TITYRUSLiberty! which on a day regarded my lot with compassion;My age and distresses, forsooth, compelled that proud mistress to pity,That had snubbed the attentions of youth in most reprehensible fashion.Oh, happy, thrice happy, the day when the cold Galatea forsook me;And equally happy, I say, the hour when that other girl took me!MELIBŒUS (slyly, as if addressing the damsel)So now, Amaryllis, the truth of your ill-disguised grief I discover!You pined for a favorite youth with cityfied damsels hobnobbing;And soon your surroundings partook of your grief for your recusant lover, —The pine-trees, the copse and the brook, for Tityrus ever went sobbing.TITYRUSMelibœus, what else could I do? Fate doled me no morsel of pity;My toil was all vain the year through, no matter how earnest or clever,Till, at last, came that god among men, that king from that wonderful city,And quoth: "Take your homesteads again; they are yours and your assigns forever!"MELIBŒUSHappy, oh, happy old man! rich in what 's better than money, —Rich in contentment, you can gather sweet peace by mere listening;Bees with soft murmurings go hither and thither for honey,Cattle all gratefully low in pastures where fountains are glistening —Hark! in the shade of that rock the pruner with singing rejoices, —The dove in the elm and the flock of wood-pigeons hoarsely repining,The plash of the sacred cascade, – ah, restful, indeed, are these voices,Tityrus, all in the shade of your wide-spreading beech-tree reclining!TITYRUSAnd he who insures this to me – oh, craven I were not to love him!Nay, rather the fish of the sea shall vacate the water they swim in,The stag quit his bountiful grove to graze in the ether above him,While folk antipodean rove along with their children and women!MELIBŒUS (suddenly recalling his own misery)But we who are exiled must go; and whither – ah, whither – God knoweth!Some into those regions of snow or of desert where Death reigneth only;Some off to the country of Crete, where rapid Oaxes down floweth;And desperate others retreat to Britain, the bleak isle and lonely.Dear land of my birth! shall I see the horde of invaders oppress thee?Shall the wealth that outspringeth from thee by the hand of the alien be squandered?Dear cottage wherein I was born! shall another in conquest possess thee,Another demolish in scorn the fields and the groves where I've wandered?My flock! nevermore shall you graze on that furze-covered hillside above me;Gone, gone are the halcyon days when my reed piped defiance to sorrow!Nevermore in the vine-covered grot shall I sing of the loved ones that love me, —Let yesterday's peace be forgot in dread of the stormy to-morrow!TITYRUSBut rest you this night with me here; my bed, – we will share it together,As soon as you've tasted my cheer, my apples and chestnuts and cheeses;The evening already is nigh, – the shadows creep over the heather,And the smoke is rocked up to the sky to the lullaby song of the breezes.PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE
ALL day long they come and go, —Pittypat and Tippytoe;Footprints up and down the hall,Playthings scattered on the floor,Finger-marks along the wall,Tell-tale streaks upon the door, —By these presents you shall knowPittypat and Tippytoe.How they riot at their play!And, a dozen times a day,In they troop, demanding bread, —Only buttered bread will do,And that butter must be spreadInches thick with sugar too!Never yet have I said, "No,Pittypat and Tippytoe!"Sometimes there are griefs to soothe,Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth;For – I much regret to say —Tippytoe and PittypatSometimes interrupt their playWith an internecine spat;Fie! oh, fie! to quarrel so,Pittypat and Tippytoe!Oh, the thousand worrying thingsEvery day recurrent brings!Hands to scrub and hair to brush,Search for playthings gone amiss,Many a murmuring to hush,Many a little bump to kiss;Life's indeed a fleeting show,Pittypat and Tippytoe!And when day is at an end,There are little duds to mend;Little frocks are strangely torn,Little shoes great holes reveal,Little hose, but one day worn,Rudely yawn at toe or heel!Who but you could work such woe,Pittypat and Tippytoe!But when comes this thought to me,"Some there are that childless be,"Stealing to their little beds,With a love I cannot speak,Tenderly I stroke their heads,Fondly kiss each velvet cheek.God help those who do not knowA Pittypat or Tippytoe!On the floor, along the hall,Rudely traced upon the wall,There are proofs in every kindOf the havoc they have wrought;And upon my heart you'd findJust such trademarks, if you sought.Oh, how glad I am 'tis so,Pittypat and Tippytoe!ASHES ON THE SLIDE
WHEN Jim and Bill and I were boys a many years ago.How gayly did we use to hail the coming of the snow!Our sleds, fresh painted red and with their runners round and bright,Seemed to respond right briskly to our clamor of delightAs we dragged them up the slippery road that climbed the rugged hillWhere perched the old frame meetin'-house, so solemn-like and still.Ah, coasting in those days – those good old days – was fun indeed!Sleds at that time I'd have you know were paragons of speed!And if the hill got bare in spots, as hills will do, why thenWe'd haul on ice and snow to patch those bald spots up again;But, oh! with what sad certainty our spirits would subsideWhen Deacon Frisbee sprinkled ashes where we used to slide!The deacon he would roll his eyes and gnash his toothless gums,And clear his skinny throat, and twirl his saintly, bony thumbs,And tell you: "When I wuz a boy, they taught me to eschewThe godless, ribald vanities which modern youth pursue!The pathway that leads down to hell is slippery, straight, and wide;And Satan lurks for prey where little boys are wont to slide!"Now, he who ever in his life has been a little boyWill not reprove me when he hears the language I employTo stigmatize as wickedness the deacon's zealous spiteIn interfering with the play wherein we found delight;And so I say, with confidence, not unalloyed of pride:"Gol durn the man who sprinkles ashes where the youngsters slide!"But Deacon Frisbee long ago went to his lasting rest,His money well invested in farm mortgages out West;Bill, Jim, and I, no longer boys, have learned through years of strifeThat the troubles of the little boy pursue the man through life;That here and there along the course wherein we hoped to glideSome envious hand has sprinkled ashes just to spoil our slide!And that malicious, envious hand is not the deacon's now.Grim, ruthless Fate, that evil sprite none other is than thou!Riches and honors, peace and care come at thy beck and go;The soul, elate with joy to-day, to-morrow writhes in woe;And till a man has turned his face unto the wall and died,He must expect to get his share of ashes on his slide!THE LOST CUPID OF MOSCHUS
"CUPID!" Venus went a-crying;"Cupid, whither dost thou stray?Tell me, people, hither hieing,Have you seen my runaway?Speak, – my kiss shall be your pay!Yes, and sweets more gratifying,If you bring him back to-day."Cupid," Venus went a-calling,"Is a rosy little youth,But his beauty is inthralling.He will speak you fair, in sooth,Wheedle you with glib untruth, —Honey-like his words; but gallingAre his deeds, and full of ruth!"Cupid's hair is curling yellow,And he hath a saucy face;With his chubby hands the fellowShooteth into farthest space,Heedless of all time and place;King and squire and punchinelloHe delighteth to abase!"Nude and winged the prankish blade is,And he speedeth everywhere,Vexing gentlemen and ladies,Callow youths and damsels fairWhom he catcheth unaware, —Venturing even into Hades,He hath sown his torments there!"For that bow, that bow and quiver, —Oh, they are a cruel twain!Thinking of them makes me shiver.Oft, with all his might and main,Cupid sends those darts profaneWhizzing through my heart and liver,Setting fire to every vein!"And the torch he carries blazing, —Truly 'tis a tiny one;Yet, that tiny torch upraising,Cupid scarifies the sun!Ah, good people, there is noneKnows what mischief most amazingCupid's evil torch hath done!"Show no mercy when you find him!Spite of every specious pleaAnd of all his whimpering, bind him!Full of flatteries is he;Armed with treachery, cap-a-pie,He 'll play 'possum; never mind him, —March him straightway back to me!"Bow and arrows and sweet kissesHe will offer you, no doubt;But beware those proffered blisses, —They are venomous throughout!Seize and bind him fast about;Mind you, – most important this is:Bind him, bring him, but – watch out!"CHRISTMAS EVE
OH, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,The evening shades are falling, —Hush thee, my dear, dost thou not hearThe voice of the Master calling?Deep lies the snow upon the earth,But all the sky is ringingWith joyous song, and all night longThe stars shall dance, with singing.Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,And close thine eyes in dreaming,And angels fair shall lead thee whereThe singing stars are beaming.A shepherd calls his little lambs,And he longeth to caress them;He bids them rest upon his breast,That his tender love may bless them.So, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,Whilst evening shades are falling,And above the song of the heavenly throngThou shalt hear the Master calling.CARLSBAD
DEAR Palmer, just a year ago we did the Carlsbad cure,Which, though it be exceeding slow, is as exceeding sure;To corpulency you were prone, dyspepsia bothered me, —You tipped the beam at twenty stone and I at ten stone three!The cure, they told us, works both ways: it makes the fat man lean;The thin man, after many days, achieves a portly mien;And though it 's true you still are fat, while I am like a crow, —All skin and feathers, – what of that? The cure takes time, you know.The Carlsbad scenery is sublime, – that's what the guide-books say;We did not think so at that time, nor think I so to-day!The bluffs that squeeze the panting town permit no pleasing views,But weigh the mortal spirits down and give a chap the blues.With nothing to amuse us then or mitigate our spleen,We rose and went to bed again, with three bad meals between;And constantly we made our moan, – ah, none so drear as we,When you were weighing twenty stone and I but ten stone three!We never scaled the mountain-side, for walking was my bane,And you were much too big to ride the mules that there obtain;And so we loitered in the shade with Israel out in force,Or through the Pupp'sche allee strayed and heard the band discourse.Sometimes it pleased us to recline upon the Tepl's brink,Or watch the bilious human line file round to get a drink;Anon the portier's piping tone embittered you and me,When you were weighing twenty stone and I but ten stone three!And oh! those awful things to eat! No pudding, cake, or pie,But just a little dab of meat, and crusts absurdly dry;Then, too, that water twice a day, – one swallow was enoughTo take one's appetite away, – the tepid, awful stuff!Tortured by hunger's cruel stings, I 'd little else to doThan feast my eyes upon the things prescribed and cooked for you.The goodies went to you alone, the husks all fell to me,When you were weighing twenty stone and I weighed ten stone three.Yet happy days! and rapturous ills! and sweetly dismal date!When, sandwiched in between those hills, we twain bemoaned our fate.The little woes we suffered then like mists have sped away,And I were glad to share again those ills with you to-day, —To flounder in those rains of June that flood that Austrian vale,To quaff that tepid Kaiserbrunn and starve on victuals stale!And often, leagues and leagues away from where we suffered then,With envious yearnings I survey what cannot be again!And often in my quiet home, through dim and misty eyes,I seem to see that curhaus dome blink at the radiant skies;I seem to hear that Wiener band above the Tepl's roar, —To feel the pressure of your hand and hear your voice once more;And, better yet, my heart is warm with thoughts of you and yours,For friendship hath a sweeter charm than thrice ten thousand cures!So I am happy to have known that time across the seaWhen you were weighing twenty stone and I weighed ten stone three.THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE
HAVE you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree?'Tis a marvel of great renown!It blooms on the shore of the Lollipop SeaIn the garden of Shut-Eye Town;The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet(As those who have tasted it say)That good little children have only to eatOf that fruit to be happy next day.When you've got to the tree, you would have a hard timeTo capture the fruit which I sing;The tree is so tall that no person could climbTo the boughs where the sugar-plums swing!But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat,And a gingerbread dog prowls below;And this is the way you contrive to get atThose sugar-plums tempting you so:You say but the word to that gingerbread dog,And he barks with such terrible zestThat the chocolate cat is at once all agog,As her swelling proportions attest.And the chocolate cat goes cavorting aroundFrom this leafy limb unto that,And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground, —Hurrah for that chocolate cat!There are marshmallows, gum-drops, and peppermint canes,With stripings of scarlet or gold,And you carry away of the treasure that rainsAs much as your apron can hold!So come, little child, cuddle closer to meIn your dainty white nightcap and gown,And I'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum TreeIn the garden of Shut-Eye Town.RED
ANY color, so long as it's red,Is the color that suits me best,Though I will allow there is much to be saidFor yellow and green and the rest;But the feeble tints which some affectIn the things they make or buyHave never – I say it with all respect —Appealed to my critical eye.There's that in red that warmeth the blood,And quickeneth a man within,And bringeth to speedy and perfect budThe germs of original sin;So, though I'm properly born and bred,I'll own, with a certain zest,That any color, so long as it's red,Is the color that suits me best.For where is a color that can compareWith the blush of a buxom lass;Or where such warmth as of the hairOf the genuine white horse class?And, lo! reflected within this cupOf cheery Bordeaux I seeWhat inspiration girdeth me up, —Yes, red is the color for me!Through acres and acres of art I've strayedIn Italy, Germany, France;On many a picture a master has madeI've squandered a passing glance:Marines I hate, madonnas andThose Dutch freaks I detest;But the peerless daubs of my native land, —They're red, and I like them best.'Tis little I care how folk deride, —I'm backed by the West, at least;And we are free to say that we can't abideThe tastes that obtain down East;And we're mighty proud to have it saidThat here in the versatile WestMost any color, so long as it's red,Is the color that suits us best.JEWISH LULLABY
MY harp is on the willow-tree,Else would I sing, O love, to theeA song of long ago, —Perchance the song that Miriam sungEre yet Judæa's heart was wrungBy centuries of woe.The shadow of those centuries liesDeep in thy dark and mournful eyes;But, hush! and close them now,And in the dreams that thou shalt dreamThe light of other days shall seemTo glorify thy brow.I ate my crust in tears to-day,As, scourged, I went upon my way,And yet my darling smiled, —Ay, beating at my breast, he laughed;My anguish curdled not the draught,'Twas sweet with love, my child.Our harp is on the willow-tree:I have no song to sing to thee,As shadows round us roll;But, hush! and sleep, and thou shalt hearJehovah's voice that speaks to cheerJudæa's fainting soul.AT CHEYENNE
YOUNG Lochinvar came in from the west,With fringe on his trousers and fur on his vest;The width of his hat brim could nowhere be beat,His No. 10 brogans were chock full of feet,His girdle was horrent with pistols and things,And he nourished a handful of aces on kings.The fair Mariana sate watching a star,When who should turn up but the young Lochinvar!Her pulchritude gave him a pectoral glow,And he reined up his hoss with stentorian "Whoa!"Then turned on the maiden a rapturous grin,And modestly asked if he mightn't step in.With presence of mind that was marvellous quite,The fair Mariana replied that he might;So in through the portal rode young Lochinvar,Pre-empted the claim, and cleaned out the bar.Though the justice allowed he wa'n't wholly to blame,He taxed him ten dollars and costs, just the same.THE NAUGHTY DOLL
MY dolly is a dreadful care, —Her name is Miss Amandy;I dress her up and curl her hair,And feed her taffy candy.Yet, heedless of the pleading voiceOf her devoted mother,She will not wed her mother's choice,But says she'll wed another.I'd have her wed the china vase, —There is no Dresden rarer;You might go searching every placeAnd never find a fairer.He is a gentle, pinkish youth, —Of that there's no denying;Yet when I speak of him, forsooth!Amandy falls to crying.She loves the drum, – that's very plain, —And scorns the vase so clever,And, weeping, vows she will remainA spinster doll forever!The protestations of the drumI am convinced are hollow;When once distressing times should comeHow soon would ruin follow!Yet all in vain the Dresden boyFrom yonder mantel woos her;A mania for that vulgar toy,The noisy drum, imbues her.In vain I wheel her to and fro,And reason with her mildly:Her waxen tears in torrents flow,Her sawdust heart beats wildly.I'm sure that when I'm big and tall,And wear long trailing dresses,I sha'n't encourage beaux at allTill mamma acquiesces;Our choice will be a suitor thenAs pretty as this vase is, —Oh, how we'll hate the noisy menWith whiskers on their faces!THE PNEUMOGASTRIC NERVE
UPON an average, twice a week,When anguish clouds my brow,My good physician friend I seekTo know "what ails me now."He taps me on the back and chest,And scans my tongue for bile,And lays an ear against my breastAnd listens there awhile;Then is he ready to admitThat all he can observeIs something wrong inside, to wit:My pneumogastric nerve!Now, when these Latin names withinDyspeptic hulks like mineGo wrong, a fellow should beginTo draw what's called the line.It seems, however, that this same,Which in my hulk abounds,Is not, despite its awful name,So fatal as it sounds;Yet of all torments known to me,I'll say without reserve,There is no torment like to thee,Thou pneumogastric nerve!This subtle, envious nerve appearsTo be a patient foe, —It waited nearly forty yearsIts chance to lay me low;Then, like some blithering blast of hell,It struck this guileless bard,And in that evil hour I fellProdigious far and hard.Alas! what things I dearly love —Pies, puddings, and preserves —Are sure to rouse the vengeance ofAll pneumogastric nerves!Oh that I could remodel man!I'd end these cruel painsBy hitting on a different planFrom that which now obtains.The stomach, greatly amplified,Anon should occupyThe all of that domain insideWhere heart and lungs now lie.But, first of all, I should deposeThat diabolic curveAnd author of my thousand woes,The pneumogastric nerve!