Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty,
While plying the needle with exquisite art:
The bright little needle-the swift-flying needle,
The needle directed by beauty and art.
If love have a potent, a magical token,
A talisman, ever resistless and true,—
A charm that is never evaded or broken,
A witchery certain the heart to subdue,-
'Tis this, and his armory never has furnished
So keen and unerring, or polished a dart;
Let beauty direct it, so pointed and burnished,
And, oh! it is certain of touching the heart,
The bright little needle-the swift-flying needle,
The needle directed by beauty and art.
Be wise then, ye maidens, nor seek admiration
By dressing for conquest, and flirting with all;
You never, whate'er be your fortune or station,
Appear half so lovely at rout or at ball,
As gayly convened at a work-covered table,
Each cheerfully active and playing her part,
Beguiling the task with a song or a fable,
And plying the needle with exquisite art:
The bright little needle-the swift-flying needle,
The needle directed by beauty and art.
Samuel Griswold Goodrich.
Father of Lakes! thy waters bend
Beyond the eagle's utmost view,
When, throned in heaven, he sees thee send
Back to the sky its world of blue.
Boundless and deep, the forests weave
Their twilight shade their borders o'er,
And threatening cliffs, like giants, heave
Their rugged forms along thy shore.
Pale silence, mid thy hollow caves,
With listening ear, in sadness broods;
Or startled Echo, o'er thy waves,
Sends the hoarse wolf-notes of thy woods.
Nor can the light canoes, that glide
Across thy breast like things of air,
Chase from thy lone and level tide
The spell of stillness reigning there.
Yet round this waste of wood and wave,
Unheard, unseen, a spirit lives,
That, breathing o'er each rock and cave,
To all a wild, strange aspect gives.
The thunder-riven oak, that flings
Its grisly arms athwart the sky,
A sudden, startling image brings
To the lone traveler's kindled eye.
The gnarled oak and braided boughs, that show
Their dim forms in the forest shade,
Like wrestling serpents seem, and throw
Fantastic horrors through the glade.
The very echoes round this shore
Have caught a strange and gibbering tone;
For they have told the war-whoop o'er,
Till the wild chorus is their own.
Wave of the wilderness, adieu!
Adieu, ye rocks, ye wilds and woods! Roll on, thou element of blue,
And fill these awful solitudes!
Thou hast no tale to tell of man,-
God is thy theme. Ye sounding caves,
Whisper of Him, whose mighty plan
Deems as a bubble all your waves!
Rouse! brothers, rouse! we've far to travel,
Free as the winds we long to roam,
Far through the prairie, far through the forest,
Over the mountains we'll find a home.
We cannot breathe in crowded cities,
We're strangers to the ways of trade;
We long to feel the grass beneath us,
And ply the hatchet and the spade.
Meadows and hills and ancient woodlands
Offer us pasture, fruit, and corn;
Needing our presence, courting our labor;-
Why should we linger like men forlorn?
We love to hear the ringing rifle,
The smiting axe, the falling tree;-
And though our life be rough and lonely,
If it be honest, what care we?
Fair elbow-room for men to thrive in!
Wide elbow-room for work or play!
If cities follow, tracing our footsteps,
Ever to westward shall point our way!
Rude though our life, it suits our spirit,
And new-born States in future years
Shall own us founders of a nation,—
And bless the hardy pioneers.
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Come, dear old comrade, you and I
Will steal an hour from days gone by,
The shining days when life was new,
And all was bright with morning dew,
The lusty days of long ago,
When you were Bill and I was Joe.
Your name may flaunt a titled trail
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail,
And mine as brief appendix wear
As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare;
Today, old friend, remember still
That I am Joe and you are Bill.
You've won the great world's envied prize,
And grand you look in people's eyes,
With HON. and LL. D.
In big brave letters, fair to see,-
Your fist, old fellow! off they go!-
How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?
You've worn the judge's ermined robe;
You've taught your name to half the globe;
You've sung mankind a deathless strain;
You've made the dead past live again:
The world may call you what it will,
But you and I are Joe and Bill.
The chaffing young folks stare and say,
"See those old buffers, bent and gray,-
They talk like fellows in their teens!
Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means,
And shake their heads; they little know
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe!-
How Bill forgets his hour of pride,
While Joe sits smiling by his side;
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise,
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes,-
Those calm stern eyes, that melt and fill
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.
Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame?
A fitful tongue of leaping flame;
A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust,
That lifts a pinch of mortal dust;
A few swift years, and who can show
Which dust was Bill and which was Joe?
The weary idol takes his stand,
Holds out his bruised and aching hand,
While gaping thousands come and go,-
How vain it seems, this empty show!
Till all at once his pulses thrill;-
'Tis poor old Joe's "God bless you, Bill!”
And shall we breathe in happier spheres
The names that pleased our mortal ears,
In some sweet lull of harp and song
For earth-born spirits none too long,
Just whispering of the world below
Where this was Bill and that was Joe?
No matter; while our home is here
No sounding name is half so dear;
When fades at length our lingering day,
Who cares what pompous tombstones say?
Read on the hearts that love us still,
Hic jacet Joe.
Thomas Dunn English.
Here from the brow of the hill I look,
Through a lattice of boughs and leaves,
On the gray old mill with its gambrel roof,
And the moss on its rotting eaves.
I hear the clatter that jars its walls,
And the rushing water's sound,
And I see the black floats rise and fall
As the wheel goes slowly round.
I rode there often when I was young,
With my grist on the horse before,
And talked with Nelly, the miller's girl,
As I waited my turn at the door;
And while she tossed her ringlets brown,
And flirted and chatted so fee,
The wheel might stop or the wheel might go,
It was all the same to me.
'Tis twenty years since last I stood
On the spot where I stand today,
And Nelly is wed, and the miller is dead,
And the mill and I are gray.
But both, till we fall into ruin and wreck,
To our fortune of toil are bound;
And the man goes, and the stream flows,
And the wheel moves slowly round.
Our old brown homestead reared its walls
From the wayside dust aloof,
Where the apple-boughs could almost cast
Their fruit upon its roof;
And the cherry tree so near it grew
That when awake I've lain
In the lonesome nights, I've heard the limbs
As they creaked against the pane;
And those orchard trees, oh those orchard trees!
I've seen my little brothers rocked
In their tops by the summer breeze.
The sweet-brier, under the window-sill,
Which the early birds made glad,
And the damask rose by the garden-fence,
Were all the flowers we had.
I've looked at many a flower since then,
Exotics rich and rare,
That to other eyes were lovelier
But not to me so fair;
For those roses bright, oh those roses bright!
I have twined them in my sister's locks,
That are hid in the dust from sight.
We had a well, a deep old well,
Where the spring was never dry,
And the cool drops down from the mossy stones
Were falling constantly,
And there never was water half so sweet
As the draught which filled my cup,
Drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep
That my father's hand set up.
And that deep old well, oh that deep old well!
I remember now the plashing sound
Of the bucket as it fell.
Our homestead had an ample hearth,
Where at night we loved to meet;
There my mother's voice was always kind,
And her smile was always sweet;
And there I've sat on my father's knee,
And watched his thoughtful brow,
With my childish hand in his raven hair,-
That hair is silver now!
But that broad hearth's light, oh that broad hearth's light!
And my father's look, and my mother's smile,
They are in my heart tonight!
Henry W. Longfellow.
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary.
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary.
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining.
Thy fate is the common fate of all;
Into each life some rain must fall;
Some days must be dark and dreary.
OUT OF THE OLD HOUSE, NANCY.
Out of the old house, Nancy-moved up into the new;
All the hurry and worry is just as good as through.
Only a bounden duty remains for you and I
And that's to stand on the door-step, here, and bid the old house good-bye.
What a shell we've lived in these nineteen or twenty years!
Wonder it hadn't smashed in and tumbled about our ears;
Wonder it stuck together, and answered till today;
But every individual log was put up here to stay.
Things looked rather new, though, when this old house was built;
And things that blossomed you would've made some women wilt;
And every other day, then, as sure as day would break,
My neighbor Ager came this way, invitin' me to "shake."
And you, for want of neighbors, was sometimes blue and sad,
For wolves and bears and wild cats was the nearest ones you had;
But lookin' ahead to the clearin' we worked with all our might,
Until we was fairly out of the woods and things was goin' right.
Look up there at our new house!-ain't it a thing to see?
Tall and big and handsome, and new as new can be;
All in apple-pie order, especially the shelves,
And never a debt to say but what we own it all ourselves.
Look at our old log house-how little it now appears!
But it's never gone back on us for nineteen or twenty years;
An' I won't go back on it now, or go to pokin' fun
There's such a thing as praisin' a thing for the good that it has done.
Probably you remember how rich we was that night,
When we was fairly settled, an' had things snug and tight:
We feel as proud as you please, Nancy, over the house that's new,
But we felt as proud under this old roof, and a good deal prouder, too.
|