Autumn Leaves | Page 8

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 brink of sleep?Fall into chaos and be lost. I dream.?Now comes mine enemy, not silently,?But with insulting and defiant warning;?Come, banquet, if thou wilt; I offer thee?My cheek, my arm. Tease me not, hovering high?With that continuous hum; I fain would rest.?Come, do thy worst at once. Bite, scoundrel, bite!?Thou insect vulture, seize thy helpless prey!?No ceremony! (I'd have none with thee,?Could I but find thee.) Fainter now and farther?The tiny war-whoop; now I hear it not.?A cowardly assassin he;