Additional Poems (1837-1848) | Page 4

heads look queer;

Oh the ship from England used to bring
A hundred wigs a year!
The crows came cawing through the air
To pluck the Pilgrims' corn,

The bears came snuffing round the door
Whene'er a babe was born,

The rattlesnakes were bigger round
Than the but of the old rams
horn
The deacon blew at meeting time
On every "Sabbath" morn.
But soon they knocked the wigwams down,
And pine-tree trunk and
limb
Began to sprout among the leaves
In shape of steeples slim;

And out the little wharves were stretched
Along the ocean's rim,

And up the little school-house shot
To keep the boys in trim.
And when at length the College rose,
The sachem cocked his eye
At
every tutor's meagre ribs
Whose coat-tails whistled by
But when the
Greek and Hebrew words
Came tumbling from his jaws,
The
copper-colored children all
Ran screaming to the squaws.
And who was on the Catalogue
When college was begun?
Two
nephews of the President,
And the Professor's son;
(They turned a
little Indian by,
As brown as any bun;)
Lord! how the seniors
knocked about
The freshman class of one!

They had not then the dainty things
That commons now afford,
But
succotash and hominy
Were smoking on the board;
They did not
rattle round in gigs,
Or dash in long-tailed blues,
But always on
Commencement days
The tutors blacked their shoes.
God bless the ancient Puritans!
Their lot was hard enough;
But
honest hearts make iron arms,
And tender maids are tough;
So love
and faith have formed and fed
Our true-born Yankee stuff,
And
keep the kernel in the shell
The British found so rough!
THE ISLAND HUNTING-SONG
The island referred to is a domain of princely proportions, which has
long been the seat of a generous hospitality. Naushon is its old Indian
name. William Swain, Esq., commonly known as "the Governor," was
the proprietor of it at the time when this song was written. Mr. John M.
Forbes is his worthy successor in territorial rights and as a hospitable
entertainer. The Island Book has been the recipient of many poems
from visitors and friends of the owners of the old mansion.
No more the summer floweret charms,
The leaves will soon be sere,

And Autumn folds his jewelled arms
Around the dying year;
So,
ere the waning seasons claim
Our leafless groves awhile,
With
golden wine and glowing flame
We 'll crown our lonely isle.
Once more the merry voices sound
Within the antlered hall,
And
long and loud the baying hounds
Return the hunter's call;
And
through the woods, and o'er the hill,
And far along the bay,
The
driver's horn is sounding shrill,--
Up, sportsmen, and away!
No bars of steel or walls of stone
Our little empire bound,
But,
circling with his azure zone,
The sea runs foaming round;
The
whitening wave, the purpled skies,
The blue and lifted shore,
Braid
with their dim and blending dyes
Our wide horizon o'er.

And who will leave the grave debate
That shakes the smoky town,

To rule amid our island-state,
And wear our oak-leaf crown?
And
who will be awhile content
To hunt our woodland game,
And leave
the vulgar pack that scent
The reeking track of fame?
Ah, who that shares in toils like these
Will sigh not to prolong
Our
days beneath the broad-leaved trees,
Our nights of mirth and song?

Then leave the dust of noisy streets,
Ye outlaws of the wood,
And
follow through his green retreats
Your noble Robin Hood.
DEPARTED DAYS
YES, dear departed, cherished days,
Could Memory's hand restore

Your morning light, your evening rays,
From Time's gray urn once
more,
Then might this restless heart be still,
This straining eye
might close,
And Hope her fainting pinions fold,
While the fair
phantoms rose.
But, like a child in ocean's arms,
We strive against the stream,
Each
moment farther from the shore
Where life's young fountains gleam;

Each moment fainter wave the fields,
And wider rolls the sea;
The
mist grows dark,--the sun goes down,--
Day breaks,--and where are
we?
THE ONLY DAUGHTER
ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE
THEY bid me strike the idle strings,
As if my summer days
Had
shaken sunbeams from their wings
To warm my autumn lays;
They
bring to me their painted urn,
As if it were not time
To lift my
gauntlet and to spurn
The lists of boyish rhyme;
And were it not
that I have still
Some weakness in my heart
That clings around my
stronger will
And pleads for gentler art,
Perchance I had not turned
away
The thoughts grown tame with toil,
To cheat this lone and

pallid ray,
That wastes the midnight oil.
Alas! with every year I feel
Some roses leave my brow;
Too young
for wisdom's tardy seal,
Too old for garlands now.
Yet, while the
dewy breath of spring
Steals o'er the tingling air,
And spreads and
fans each emerald wing
The forest soon shall wear.
How bright the
opening year would seem,
Had I one look like thine
To meet me
when the morning beam
Unseals these lids of mine!
Too long I bear
this lonely lot,
That bids my heart run wild
To press the lips that
love me not,
To clasp the stranger's child.
How oft beyond the dashing seas,
Amidst those royal bowers,

Where danced the lilacs in the breeze,
And swung the
chestnut-flowers,
I wandered like a wearied slave
Whose morning
task is done,
To watch the little hands that gave
Their whiteness to
the sun;
To revel in the bright young eyes,
Whose