Autumn Leaves | Page 8

like murmuring wave.
Bootless he came,--and bootless wends he
back,
Gnawing his gloveless thumb, and pacing slow.
Bright eyes
might gaze on him, compassionate,
But that yon rosy maiden, early
afoot,
Is o'er her shoulder watching, with wild fear,
A horned host
that rushes by amain,
Bellowing bassoon-like music. Angry shouts

Of drovers, horrid menace, and dire curse,
Shrill scream of imitative
boy, and crack
Of cruel whip, the tread of clumsy feet
Are hurrying
on:--but now, with instinct sure,
Madly those doomed ones bolt from
the dread road
That leads to Brighton and to death. They charge
Up
Brattle Street. Screaming the maiden flies,
Nor heeds the loss of
fluttering veil, upborne
On sportive breeze, and sailing far away.

And now a flock of sheep, bleating, bewildered,
With tiny footprints
fret the dusty square,
And huddling strive to elude relentless fate.

And hark! with snuffling grunt, and now and then
A squeak, a squad
of long-nosed gentry run
The gutters to explore, with comic jerk
Of
the investigating snout, and wink
At passer-by, and saucy, lounging
gait,
And independent, lash-defying course.
And now the baker,
with his steaming load,
Hums like the humble-bee from door to door,

And thoughts of breakfast rise; and harmonies
Domestic, song of
kettle, and hissing urn,
Glad voices, and the sound of hurrying feet,

Clatter of chairs, and din of knife and fork,
Bring to a close the
Melodies of Morn.
THE SOUNDS OF EVENING IN CAMBRIDGE.

The Melodies of Morning late I sang.
Recall we now those Melodies
of Even
Which charmed our ear, the summer-day o'erpast;
Full of
the theme, O Phoebus, hear me sing.
What time thy golden car draws
near its goal,--
Mount Auburn's pillared summit,--chorus loud
Of
mud-born songsters fills the dewy air.
Hark! in yon shallow pool,
what melody
Is poured from swelling throats, liquid and bubbling,

As if the plaintive notes thrilled struggling through
The stagnant
waters and the waving reeds.
Monotonous the melancholy strain,

Save when the bull-frog, from some slimy depth
Profound, sends up
his deep "Poo-toob!" "Poo-toob!"
Like a staccato note of double bass

Marking the cadence. The unwearied crickets
Fill up the harmony;
and the whippoorwill
His mournful solo sings among the willows.

The tree-toad's pleasant trilling croak proclaims
A coming rain; a
welcome evil, sure,
When streets are one long ash-heap, and the
flowers
Fainting or crisp in sun-baked borders stand.
Mount
Auburn's gate is closed. The latest 'bus
Down Brattle Street goes
rumbling. Laborers
Hie home, by twos and threes; homeliest phizzes,

Voices high-pitched, and tongues with telltale burr-r-r-r, The
short-stemmed pipe, diffusing odors vile,
Garments of comic and
misfitting make,
And steps which tend to Curran's door, (a man

Ignoble, yet quite worthy of the name
Of Fill-pot Curran,) all
proclaim the race
Adopted by Columbia, grumblingly,
When their
step-mother country casts them off.
Here with a creaking barrow,
piled with tools
Keen as the wit that wields them, hurries by
A man
of different stamp. His well-trained limbs
Move with a certain grace
and readiness,
Skilful intelligence every muscle swaying.
Rapid his
tread, yet firm; his scheming brain
Teems with broad plans, and
hopes of future wealth,
And time and life move all too slow for him.

Will he industrious gains and home renounce
To grow more
quickly rich in lands unblest?
Hear'st thou that gleeful shout? Who
opes the gate,
The neatly painted gate, and runs before
With noisy
joy? Now from the trellised door
Toddles another bright-haired boy.
And now
Captive they lead the father; strong their grasp;
He cannot

break away.
Dreamily quiet
The dewy twilight of a summer eve.
Tired mortals
lounge at casement or at door,
While deepening shadows gather
round. No lamp
Save in yon shop, whose sable minister
His
evening customers attends. Anon,
With squeaking bucket on his arm,
emerges
The errand-boy, slow marching to the tune
Of "Uncle
Ned" or "Norma," whistled shrill.
Hark! heard you not against the
window-pane
The dash of horny skull in mad career,
And a loud
buzz of terror? He'll be in,
This horrid beetle; yes,--and in my hair!

Close all the blinds; 't is dismal, but 't is safe.
Listen! Methought I
heard delicious music,
Faint and afar. Pray, is the Boat-Club out?

Do the Pierian minstrels meet to-night?
Or chime the bells of Boston,
or the Port?
Nearer now, nearer--Ah! bloodthirsty villain,
Is 't you?
Too late I closed the blind! Alas!
List! there's another trump!--There,
two of 'em!--
Two? A quintette at least. Mosquito chorus!
A--ah!
my cheek! And oh! again, my eyelid!
I gave myself a stunning cuff
on the ear
And all in vain. Flap we our handkerchief;
Flap, flap! (A
smash.) Quick, quick, bring in a lamp!
I've switched a flower-vase
from the shelf. Ah me!
Splash on my head, and then upon my feet,

The water poured;--I'm drowned! my slipper's full!
My dickey--ah! 't
is cruel! Flowers are nonsense!
I'd have them amaranths all, or made
of paper.
Here, wring my neckcloth, and rub down my hair!
Now
Mr. Brackett, punctual man, is ringing
The curfew bell; 't is nine
o'clock already.
'T is early bedtime, yet methinks 't were joy
On
mattress cool to stretch supine. At midnight,
Were it winter, I were
less fatigued, less sleepy.
Sleep! I invoke thee, "comfortable bird,

That broodest o'er the troubled waves of life,

And hushest them to
peace." All hail the man
Who first invented bed! O, wondrous soft

This pillow to my weary head! right soon
My dizzy thoughts shall
o'er the