Additional Poems (1837-1848) | Page 3

fold
flying
Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest.
Borne on
her Northern pine,
Long o'er the foaming brine
Spread her broad
banner to storm and to sun;
Heaven keep her ever free,
Wide as o'er
land and sea
Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won

ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL
This "punch-bowl" was, according to old family tradition, a caudle-cup.
It is a massive piece of silver, its cherubs and other ornaments of coarse
repousse work, and has two handles like a loving-cup, by which it was
held, or passed from guest to guest.
THIS ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times, Of joyous
days and jolly nights, and merry Christmas times; They were a free and
jovial race, but honest, brave, and true, Who dipped their ladle in the
punch when this old bowl was new.
A Spanish galleon brought the bar,--so runs the ancient tale; 'T was
hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail; And now
and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail, He wiped
his brow and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale.
'T was purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame, Who
saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same;
And oft as on
the ancient stock another twig was found,
'T was filled with candle
spiced and hot, and handed smoking round.
But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine, Who used to
follow Timothy, and take a little wine,
But hated punch and prelacy;
and so it was, perhaps,
He went to Leyden, where he found
conventicles and schnapps.
And then, of course, you know what's next: it left the Dutchman's shore
With those that in the Mayflower came,--a hundred souls and more,--
Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes,--
To judge by
what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads.
'T was on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing, dim, When brave
Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim; The little
Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword, And all his sturdy
men-at-arms were ranged about the board.

He poured the fiery Hollands in,--the man that never feared,-- He took
a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard; And one by
one the musketeers--the men that fought and prayed-- All drank as 't
were their mother's milk, and not a man afraid.
That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew, He heard
the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo; And there the
sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin, Run from the white
man when you find he smells of "Hollands gin!"
A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows, A
thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose, When once
again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy,-- 'T was mingled by a
mother's hand to cheer her parting boy.
Drink, John, she said, 't will do you good,--poor child,
you'll never
bear
This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air; And
if--God bless me!--you were hurt, 't would keep away the chill. So John
did drink,--and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill!
I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer; I tell
you, 't was a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here. 'T is but the fool
that loves excess; hast thou a drunken soul? Thy bane is in thy shallow
skull, not in my silver bowl!
I love the memory of the past,--its pressed yet fragrant flowers,-- The
moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy on its towers; Nay, this poor
bauble it bequeathed,--my eyes grow moist and dim, To think of all the
vanished joys that danced around its brim.
Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me; The goblet
hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be;
And may the cherubs on
its face protect me from the sin
That dooms one to those dreadful
words,--"My dear, where HAVE you been?"
A SONG
FOR THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF HARVARD

COLLEGE, 1836
This song, which I had the temerity to sing myself (/felix auda-cia/, Mr.
Franklin Dexter had the goodness to call it), was sent in a little too late
to be printed with the official account of the celebration. It was written
at the suggestion of Dr. Jacob Bigelow, who thought the popular tune
"The Poacher's Song" would be a good model for a lively ballad or
ditty. He himself wrote the admirable Latin song to be found in the
record of the meeting.
WHEN the Puritans came over
Our hills and swamps to clear,
The
woods were full of catamounts,
And Indians red as deer,
With
tomahawks and scalping-knives,
That make folks'