Life has leaves to tread And flowers to cherish; summer round thee glows; Wait not till autumn's fading robes are shed, But while its petals still are burning red Gather life's full-blown rose! I LIKE YOU AND I LOVE YOU I LIKE YOU Met I LOVE You, face to face; The path was narrow, and they could not pass.
I LIKE YOU smiled; I LOVE YOU cried, Alas! And so they halted for a little space.
"Turn thou and go before," I LOVE YOU said, "Down the green pathway, bright with many a flower; Deep in the valley, lo! my bridal bower Awaits thee." But I LIKE YOU shook his head.
Then while they lingered on the span-wide shelf That shaped a pathway round the rocky ledge, I LIKE You bared his icy dagger's edge, And first he slew I LOVE You,--then himself.
LA MAISON D'OR (BAR HARBOR) FROM this fair home behold on either side The restful mountains or the restless sea So the warm sheltering walls of life divide Time and its tides from still eternity.
Look on the waves: their stormy voices teach That not on earth may toil and struggle cease.
Look on the mountains: better far than speech Their silent promise of eternal peace.
TOO YOUNG FOR LOVE Too young for love?
Ah, say not so! Tell reddening rose-buds not to blow Wait not for spring to pass away,-- Love's summer months begin with May! Too young for love?
Ah, say not so! Too young?
Too young?
Ah, no! no! no! Too young for love?
Ah, say not so, To practise all love learned in May.
June soon will come with lengthened day While daisies bloom and tulips glow! Too young for love?
Ah, say not so! Too young?
Too young?
Ah, no! no! no! THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN; OR, THE RETURN OF THE WITCHES LOOK out! Look out, boys! Clear the track! The witches are here! They've all come back! They hanged them high,--No use! No use! What cares a witch for a hangman's noose?
They buried them deep, but they wouldn't lie still, For cats and witches are hard to kill; They swore they shouldn't and wouldn't die,-- Books said they did, but they lie! they lie! A couple of hundred years, or so, They had knocked about in the world below, When an Essex Deacon dropped in to call, And a homesick feeling seized them all; For he came from a place they knew full well, And many a tale he had to tell.
They longed to visit the haunts of men, To see the old dwellings they knew again, And ride on their broomsticks all around Their wide domain of unhallowed ground.
In Essex county there's many a roof Well known to him of the cloven hoof; The small square windows are full in view Which the midnight hags went sailing through, On their well-trained broomsticks mounted high, Seen like shadows against the sky; Crossing the track of owls and bats, Hugging before them their coal-black cats.
Well did they know, those gray old wives, The sights we see in our daily drives Shimmer of lake and shine of sea, Browne's bare hill with its lonely tree, (It was n't then as we see it now, With one scant scalp-lock to shade its brow;) Dusky nooks in the Essex woods, Dark, dim, Dante-like solitudes, Where the tree-toad watches the sinuous snake Glide through his forests of fern and brake; Ipswich River; its old stone bridge; Far off Andover's Indian Ridge, And many a scene where history tells Some shadow of bygone terror dwells,-- Of "Norman's Woe" with its tale of dread, Of the Screeching Woman of Marblehead, (The fearful story that turns men pale Don't bid me tell it,--my speech would fail.) Who would not, will not, if he can, Bathe in the breezes of fair Cape Ann,-- Rest in the bowers her bays enfold, Loved by the sachems and squaws of old?
Home where the white magnolias bloom, Sweet with the bayberry's chaste perfume, Hugged by the woods and kissed by the sea! Where is the Eden like to thee?
For that "couple of hundred years, or so," There had been no peace in the world below; The witches still grumbling, "It is n't fair; Come, give us a taste of the upper air! We 've had enough of your sulphur springs, And the evil odor that round them clings; We long for a drink that is cool and nice,-- Great buckets of water with Wenham ice; We've served you well up-stairs, you know; You 're a good old--fellow--come, let us go!" I don't feel sure of his being good, But he happened to be in a pleasant mood,-- As fiends with their skins full sometimes are,-- (He'd been drinking with "roughs" at a Boston bar.) So what does he do but up and shout To a graybeard turnkey, "Let 'em out!" To mind his orders was all he knew; The gates swung open, and out they flew.
"Where are our broomsticks ?" the beldams cried.
"Here are your broomsticks," an imp replied.
"They 've been in--the place you know--so long They smell of brimstone uncommon strong; But they've gained by being left alone,-- Just look, and you'll see how tall they've grown." "And where is my cat ?" a vixen squalled.
"Yes, where are our cats ?" the witches bawled, And began to call them all by name As fast as they called the cats, they came There was bob-tailed Tommy and long-tailed Tim, And wall-eyed Jacky and green-eyed Jim, And splay-foot Benny and slim-legged Beau, And Skinny and Squally, and Jerry and Joe, And many another that came at call,-- It would take too long to count them all.
All black,--one could hardly tell which was which, But every cat knew his own old witch; And she knew hers as hers knew her,-- Ah, didn't they curl their tails and purr! No sooner the withered hags were free Than out they swarmed for a midnight spree; I couldn't tell all they did in rhymes, But the Essex people had dreadful times.
The Swampscott fishermen still relate How a strange sea-monster stole their bait; How their nets were tangled in loops and knots, And they found dead crabs in their lobster-pots.
Poor Danvers grieved for her blasted crops, And Wilmington mourned over mildewed hops.
A blight played havoc with Beverly beans,-- It was all the work of those hateful queans! A dreadful panic began at "Pride's," Where the witches stopped in their midnight rides, And there rose strange rumors and vague alarms 'Mid the peaceful dwellers at Beverly Farms.
Now when the Boss of the Beldams found That without his leave they were ramping round, He called,--they could hear him twenty miles, From Chelsea beach to the Misery Isles; The deafest old granny knew his tone Without the trick of the telephone.
"Come here, you witches! Come here!" says he,-- "At your games of old, without asking me! I'll give you a little job to do That will keep you stirring, you godless crew!" They came, of course, at their master's call, The witches, the broomsticks, the cats, and all; He led the hags to a railway train The horses were trying to drag in vain.
"Now, then," says he, "you've had your fun, And here are the cars you've got to run.
The driver may just unhitch his team, We don't want horses, we don't want steam; You may keep your old black cats to hug, But the loaded train you've got to lug." Since then on many a car you 'll see A broomstick plain as plain can be; On every stick there's a witch astride,-- The string you see to her leg is tied.
She will do a mischief if she can, But the string is held by a careful man, And whenever the evil-minded witch Would cut some caper, he gives a twitch.
As for the hag, you can't see her, But hark! you can hear her black cat's purr, And now and then, as a car goes by, You may catch a gleam from her wicked eye.
Often you've looked on a rushing train, But just what moved it was not so plain.
It couldn't be those wires above, For they could neither pull nor shove; Where was the motor that made it go You couldn't guess, but now you know.
Remember my rhymes when you ride again On the rattling rail by the broomstick train! TARTARUS WHILE in my simple gospel creed That "God is Love" so plain I read, Shall dreams of heathen birth affright My pathway through the coming night?
Ah, Lord of life, though spectres pale Fill with their threats the shadowy vale, With Thee my faltering steps to aid, How can I dare to be afraid?
Shall mouldering page or fading scroll Outface the charter of the soul?
Shall priesthood's palsied arm protect The wrong our human hearts reject, And smite the lips whose shuddering cry Proclaims a cruel creed a lie?
The wizard's rope we disallow Was justice once,--is murder now! Is there a world of blank despair, And dwells the Omnipresent there?
Does He behold with smile serene The shows of that unending scene, Where sleepless, hopeless anguish lies, And, ever dying, never dies?
Say, does He hear the sufferer's groan, And is that child of wrath his own?
O mortal, wavering in thy trust, Lift thy pale forehead from the dust! The mists that cloud thy darkened eyes Fade ere they reach the o'erarching skies When the blind heralds of despair Would bid thee doubt a Father's care, Look up from earth, and read above On heaven's blue tablet, GOD IS LOVE! AT THE TURN OF THE ROAD THE glory has passed from the goldenrod's plume, The purple-hued asters still linger in bloom The birch is bright yellow, the sumachs are red, The maples like torches aflame overhead.
But what if the joy of the summer is past, And winter's wild herald is blowing his blast?
For me dull November is sweeter than May, For my love is its sunshine,--she meets me to-day! Will she come?
Will the ring-dove return to her nest?
Will the needle swing back from the east or the west?
At the stroke of the hour she will be at her gate; A friend may prove laggard,--love never comes late.
Do I see her afar in the distance?
Not yet.
Too early! Too early! She could not forget! When I cross the old bridge where the brook overflowed, She will flash full in sight at the turn of the road.
I pass the low wall where the ivy entwines; I tread the brown pathway that leads through the pines; I haste by the boulder that lies in the field, Where her promise at parting was lovingly sealed.
Will she come by the hillside or round through the wood?
Will she wear her brown dress or her mantle and hood?
The minute draws near,--but her watch may go wrong; My heart will be asking, What keeps her so long?
Why doubt for a moment?
More shame if I do! Why question?
Why tremble?
Are angels more true?
She would come to the lover who calls her his own Though she trod in the track of a whirling cyclone! I crossed the old bridge ere the minute had passed.
I looked: lo! my Love stood before me at last.
Her eyes, how they sparkled, her cheeks, how they glowed, As we met, face to face, at the turn of the road! IN VITA MINERVA VEX not the Muse with idle prayers,-- She will not hear thy call; She steals upon thee unawares, Or seeks thee not at all.
Soft as the moonbeams when they sought Endymion's fragrant bower, She parts the whispering leaves of thought To show her full-blown flower.
For thee her wooing hour has passed, The singing birds have flown, And winter comes with icy blast To chill thy buds unblown.
Yet, though the woods no longer thrill As once their arches rung, Sweet echoes hover round thee still Of songs thy summer sung.
Live in thy past; await no more The rush of heaven-sent wings; Earth still has music left in store While Memory sighs and sings.
READINGS OVER THE TEACUPS FIVE STORIES AND A SEQUEL TO MY OLD READERS You know "The Teacups," that congenial set Which round the Teapot you have often met; The grave DICTATOR, him you knew of old,-- Knew as the shepherd of another fold Grayer he looks, less youthful, but the same As when you called him by a different name.
Near him the MISTRESS, whose experienced skill Has taught her duly every cup to fill; "Weak;" "strong;" "cool;" "lukewarm;" "hot as you can pour;" "No sweetening;" "sugared;" "two lumps;" "one lump more." Next, the PROFESSOR, whose scholastic phrase At every turn the teacher's tongue betrays, Trying so hard to make his speech precise The captious listener finds it overnice.
Nor be forgotten our ANNEXES twain, Nor HE, the owner of the squinting brain, Which, while its curious fancies we pursue, Oft makes us question, "Are we crack-brained too ?" Along the board our growing list extends, As one by one we count our clustering friends,-- The youthful DOCTOR waiting for his share Of fits and fevers when his crown gets bare; In strong, dark lines our square-nibbed pen should draw The lordly presence of the MAN OF LAW; Our bashful TUTOR claims a humbler place, A lighter touch, his slender form to trace.
Mark the fair lady he is seated by,-- Some say he is her lover,--some deny,-- Watch them together,--time alone can show If dead-ripe friendship turns to love or no.
Where in my list of phrases shall I seek The fitting words of NUMBER FIVE to speak?
Such task demands a readier pen than mine,-- What if I steal the Tutor's Valentine?
Why should I call her gracious, winning, fair?
Why with the loveliest of her sex compare?
Those varied charms have many a Muse inspired,-- At last their worn superlatives have tired; Wit, beauty, sweetness, each alluring grace, All these in honeyed verse have found their place; I need them not,--two little words I find Which hold them all in happiest form combined; No more with baffled language will I strive,-- All in one breath I utter: Number Five! Now count our teaspoons--if you care to learn How many tinkling cups were served in turn,-- Add all together, you will find them ten,-- Our young MUSICIAN joined us now and then.
Our bright DELILAH you must needs recall, The comely handmaid, youngest of us all; Need I remind you how the little maid Came at a pinch to our Professor's aid,-- Trimmed his long locks with unrelenting shears And eased his looks of half a score of years?
Sometimes, at table, as you well must know, The stream of talk will all at once run low, The air seems smitten with a sudden chill, The wit grows silent and the gossip still; This was our poet's chance, the hour of need, When rhymes and stories we were used to read.
One day a whisper round the teacups stole,-- "No scrap of paper in the silver bowl!" (Our "poet's corner" may I not expect My kindly reader still may recollect ?) "What! not a line to keep our souls alive ?" Spoke in her silvery accents Number Five.
"No matter, something we must find to read,-- Find it or make it,--yes, we must indeed! Now I remember I have seen at times Some curious stories in a book of rhymes,-- How certain secrets, long in silence sealed, In after days were guessed at or revealed.
Those stories, doubtless, some of you must know,-- They all were written many a year ago; But an old story, be it false or true, Twice told, well told, is twice as good as new; Wait but three sips and I will go myself, And fetch the book of verses from its shelf." No time was lost in finding what she sought,-- Gone but one moment,--lo! the book is brought.
"Now, then, Professor, fortune has decreed That you, this evening, shall be first to read,-- Lucky for us that listen, for in fact Who reads this poem must know how to _act_." Right well she knew that in his greener age He had a mighty hankering for the stage.
The patient audience had not long to wait; Pleased with his chance, he smiled and took the bait; Through his wild hair his coaxing fingers ran,-- He spread the page before him and began.
THE BANKER'S SECRET THE Banker's dinner is the stateliest feast The town has heard of for a year, at least; The sparry lustres shed their broadest blaze, Damask and silver catch and spread the rays; The florist's triumphs crown the daintier spoil Won from the sea, the forest, or the soil; The steaming hot-house yields its largest pines, The sunless vaults unearth their oldest wines; With one admiring look the scene survey, And turn a moment from the bright display.
Of all the joys of earthly pride or power, What gives most life, worth living, in an hour?
When Victory settles on the doubtful fight And the last foeman wheels in panting flight, No thrill like this is felt beneath the sun; Life's sovereign moment is a battle won.
But say what next?
To shape a Senate's choice, By the strong magic of the master's voice; To ride the stormy tempest of debate That whirls the wavering fortunes of the state.
Third in the list, the happy lover's prize Is won by honeyed words from women's eyes.
If some would have it first instead of third, So let it be,--I answer not a word.
The fourth,--sweet readers, let the thoughtless half Have its small shrug and inoffensive laugh; Let the grave quarter wear its virtuous frown, The stern half-quarter try to scowl us down; But the last eighth, the choice and sifted few, Will hear my words, and, pleased, confess them true.
Among the great whom Heaven has made to shine, How few have learned the art of arts,--to dine! Nature, indulgent to our daily need, Kind-hearted mother! taught us all to feed; But the chief art,--how rarely Nature flings This choicest gift among her social kings Say, man of truth, has life a brighter hour Than waits the chosen guest who knows his power?
He moves with ease, itself an angel charm,-- Lifts with light touch my lady's jewelled arm, Slides to his seat, half leading and half led, Smiling but quiet till the grace is said, Then gently kindles, while by slow degrees Creep softly out the little arts that please; Bright looks, the cheerful language of the eye, The neat, crisp question and the gay reply,-- Talk light and airy, such as well may pass Between the rested fork and lifted glass;-- With play like this the earlier evening flies, Till rustling silks proclaim the ladies rise.
His hour has come,--he looks along the chairs, As the Great Duke surveyed his iron squares.
That's the young traveller,--is n't much to show,-- Fast on the road, but at the table slow.
Next him,--you see the author in his look,-- His forehead lined with wrinkles like a book,-- Wrote the great history of the ancient Huns,-- Holds back to fire among the heavy guns.
Oh, there's our poet seated at his side, Beloved of ladies, soft, cerulean-eyed.
Poets are prosy in their common talk, As the fast trotters, for the most part, walk.
And there's our well-dressed gentleman, who sits, By right divine, no doubt, among the wits, Who airs his tailor's patterns when he walks, The man that often speaks, but never talks.
Why should he talk, whose presence lends a grace To every table where he shows his face?
He knows the manual of the silver fork, Can name his claret--if he sees the cork,-- Remark that "White-top" was considered fine, But swear the "Juno" is the better wine;-- Is not this talking?
Ask Quintilian's rules; If they say No, the town has many fools.
Pause for a moment,--for our eyes behold The plain unsceptred king, the man of gold, The thrice illustrious threefold millionnaire; Mark his slow-creeping, dead, metallic stare; His eyes, dull glimmering, like the balance-pan That weighs its guinea as he weighs his man.
Who's next?
An artist in a satin tie Whose ample folds defeat the curious eye.
And there 's the cousin,--must be asked, you know,-- Looks like a spinster at a baby-show.
Hope he is cool,--they set him next the door,-- And likes his place, between the gap and bore.
Next comes a Congressman, distinguished guest We don't count him,--they asked him with the rest; And then some white cravats, with well-shaped ties, And heads above them which their owners prize.
Of all that cluster round the genial board, Not one so radiant as the banquet's lord.
Some say they fancy, but they know not why, A shade of trouble brooding in his eye, Nothing, perhaps,--the rooms are overhot,-- Yet see his cheek,--the dull-red burning spot,-- Taste the brown sherry which he does not pass,-- Ha! That is brandy; see him fill his glass! But not forgetful of his feasting friends, To each in turn some lively word he sends; See how he throws his baited lines about, And plays his men as anglers play their trout.
A question drops among the listening crew And hits the traveller, pat on Timbuctoo.
We're on the Niger, somewhere near its source,-- Not the least hurry, take the river's course Through Kissi, Foota, Kankan, Bammakoo, Bambarra, Sego, so to Timbuctoo, Thence down to Youri;--stop him if we can, We can't fare worse,--wake up the Congressman! The Congressman, once on his talking legs, Stirs up his knowledge to its thickest dregs; Tremendous draught for dining men to quaff! Nothing will choke him but a purpling laugh.
A word,--a shout,--a mighty roar,--'t is done; Extinguished; lassoed by a treacherous pun.
A laugh is priming to the loaded soul; The scattering shots become a steady roll, Broke by sharp cracks that run along the line, The light artillery of the talker's wine.
The kindling goblets flame with golden dews, The hoarded flasks their tawny fire diffuse, And the Rhine's breast-milk gushes cold and bright, Pale as the moon and maddening as her light; With crimson juice the thirsty southern sky Sucks from the hills where buried armies lie, So that the dreamy passion it imparts Is drawn from heroes' bones and lovers' hearts.
But lulls will come; the flashing soul transmits Its gleams of light in alternating fits.
The shower of talk that rattled down amain Ends in small patterings like an April's rain; With the dry sticks all bonfires are begun; Bring the first fagot, proser number one The voices halt; the game is at a stand; Now for a solo from the master-hand 'T is but a story,--quite a simple thing,-- An aria touched upon a single string, But every accent comes with such a grace The stupid servants listen in their place, Each with his waiter in his lifted hands, Still as a well-bred pointer when he stands.
A query checks him: "Is he quite exact ?" (This from a grizzled, square-jawed man of fact.) The sparkling story leaves him to his fate, Crushed by a witness, smothered with a date, As a swift river, sown with many a star, Runs brighter, rippling on a shallow bar.
The smooth divine suggests a graver doubt; A neat quotation bowls the parson out; Then, sliding gayly from his own display, He laughs the learned dulness all away.
So, with the merry tale and jovial song, The jocund evening whirls itself along, Till the last chorus shrieks its loud encore, And the white neckcloths vanish through the door.
One savage word!--The menials know its tone, And slink away; the master stands alone.
"Well played, by -- -"; breathe not what were best unheard; His goblet shivers while he speaks the word,-- "If wine tells truth,--and so have said the wise,-- It makes me laugh to think how brandy lies! Bankrupt to-morrow,--millionnaire to-day,-- The farce is over,--now begins the play!" The spring he touches lets a panel glide; An iron closet harks beneath the slide, Bright with such treasures as a search might bring From the deep pockets of a truant king.
Two diamonds, eyeballs of a god of bronze, Bought from his faithful priest, a pious bonze; A string of brilliants; rubies, three or four; Bags of old coin and bars of virgin ore; A jewelled poniard and a Turkish knife, Noiseless and useful if we come to strife.
Gone! As a pirate flies before the wind, And not one tear for all he leaves behind From all the love his better years have known Fled like a felon,--ah! but not alone! The chariot flashes through a lantern's glare,-- Oh the wild eyes! the storm of sable hair! Still to his side the broken heart will cling,-- The bride of shame, the wife without the ring Hark, the deep oath,--the wail of frenzied woe,-- Lost! lost to hope of Heaven and peace below! He kept his secret; but the seed of crime Bursts of itself in God's appointed time.
The lives he wrecked were scattered far and wide; One never blamed nor wept,--she only died.
None knew his lot, though idle tongues would say He sought a lonely refuge far away, And there, with borrowed name and altered mien, He died unheeded, as he lived unseen.
The moral market had the usual chills Of Virtue suffering from protested bills; The White Cravats, to friendship's memory true, Sighed for the past, surveyed the future too; Their sorrow breathed in one expressive line,-- "Gave pleasant dinners; who has got his wine ?".

.

.

.

.