Earlier Poems (1830-1836) | Page 5

in a green
surtout.
Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright
As these, thy
puny brethren; and thy breath
Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy
air;
But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau,
Stripped of his
gaudy hues and essences,
And growing portly in his sober garments.
Is that a swan that rides upon the water?
Oh no, it is that other gentle
bird,
Which is the patron of our noble calling.
I well remember, in
my early years,
When these young hands first closed upon a goose;

I have a scar upon my thimble finger,
Which chronicles the hour of
young ambition.
My father was a tailor, and his father,
And my
sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors;
They had an ancient
goose,--it was an heirloom
From some remoter tailor of our race.
It
happened I did see it on a time
When none was near, and I did deal
with it,
And it did burn me,--oh, most fearfully!
It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs,
And leap elastic from the level
counter,
Leaving the petty grievances of earth,
The breaking thread,
the din of clashing shears,
And all the needles that do wound the
spirit,
For such a pensive hour of soothing silence.
Kind Nature,
shuffling in her loose undress,
Lays bare her shady bosom;--I can feel

With all around me;--I can hail the flowers
That sprig earth's
mantle,--and yon quiet bird,
That rides the stream, is to me as a
brother.
The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets,
Where Nature
stows away her loveliness.
But this unnatural posture of the legs

Cramps my extended calves, and I must go
Where I can coil them in
their wonted fashion.
THE DORCHESTER GIANT

The "pudding-stone" is a remarkable conglomerate found very
abundantly in the towns mentioned, all of which are in the

neighborhood of Boston. We used in those primitive days to ask friends
to ride with us when we meant to take them to drive with us.
THERE was a giant in time of old,
A mighty one was he;
He had a
wife, but she was a scold,
So he kept her shut in his mammoth fold;

And he had children three.
It happened to be an election day,
And the giants were choosing a
king
The people were not democrats then,
They did not talk of the
rights of men,
And all that sort of thing.
Then the giant took his children three,
And fastened them in the pen;

The children roared; quoth the giant, "Be still!"
And Dorchester
Heights and Milton Hill
Rolled back the sound again.
Then he brought them a pudding stuffed with plums,
As big as the
State-House dome;
Quoth he, "There 's something for you to eat;
So
stop your mouths with your 'lection treat,
And wait till your dad
comes home."
So the giant pulled him a chestnut stout,
And whittled the boughs
away;
The boys and their mother set up a shout,
Said he, "You 're in,
and you can't get out,
Bellow as loud as you may."
Off he went, and he growled a tune
As he strode the fields along;
'T
is said a buffalo fainted away,
And fell as cold as a lump of clay,

When he heard the giant's song.
But whether the story 's true or not,
It is n't for me to show;
There 's
many a thing that 's twice as queer
In somebody's lectures that we
hear,
And those are true, you know.
What are those lone ones doing now,
The wife and the children sad?

Oh, they are in a terrible rout,
Screaming, and throwing their
pudding about,
Acting as they were mad.

They flung it over to Roxbury hills,
They flung it over the plain,

And all over Milton and Dorchester too
Great lumps of pudding the
giants threw;
They tumbled as thick as rain.
Giant and mammoth have passed away,
For ages have floated by;

The suet is hard as a marrow-bone,
And every plum is turned to a
stone,
But there the puddings lie.
And if, some pleasant afternoon,
You 'll ask me out to ride,
The
whole of the story I will tell,
And you shall see where the puddings
fell,
And pay for the punch beside.
TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A LADY"
IN THE ATHENAEUM
GALLERY
WELL, Miss, I wonder where you live,
I wonder what's your name,

I wonder how you came to be
In such a stylish frame;
Perhaps
you were a favorite child,
Perhaps an only one;
Perhaps your
friends were not aware
You had your portrait done
Yet you must be a harmless soul;
I cannot think that Sin
Would
care to throw his loaded dice,
With such a stake to win;
I cannot
think you would provoke
The poet's wicked pen,
Or make young
women bite their lips,
Or ruin fine young men.
Pray, did you ever hear, my love,
Of boys that go about,
Who, for a
very trifling sum,
Will snip one's picture out?
I'm not averse to red
and white,
But all things have their place,
I think a profile cut in
black
Would suit your style of face!
I love sweet features; I will own
That I should like myself
To see
my portrait on a wall,
Or bust upon a shelf;
But nature sometimes
makes one up

Of such sad odds and ends,
It really might be