Earlier Poems (1830-1836) | Page 7

legs;

What though you're awkward at the trade,
There's time enough to
learn,--
So lean upon the rail, my lad,
And take another turn.
They've built us up a noble wall,
To keep the vulgar out;
We've
nothing in the world to do
But just to walk about;
So faster, now,
you middle men,
And try to beat the ends,--
It's pleasant work to
ramble round
Among one's honest friends.
Here, tread upon the long man's toes,
He sha'n't be lazy here,--
And
punch the little fellow's ribs,
And tweak that lubber's ear,--
He's lost
them both,--don't pull his hair,
Because he wears a scratch,
But
poke him in the further eye,
That is n't in the patch.
Hark! fellows, there 's the supper-bell,
And so our work is done;
It's
pretty sport,--suppose we take
A round or two for fun!
If ever they
should turn me out,
When I have better grown,
Now hang me, but I
mean to have
A treadmill of my own!
THE SEPTEMBER GALE
This tremendous hurricane occurred on the 23d of September, 1815. I
remember it well, being then seven years old. A full account of it was
published, I think, in the records of the American Academy of Arts and
Sciences. Some of my recollections are given in The Seasons, an article
to be found in a book of mine entitled Pages from an Old Volume of
Life.
I'M not a chicken; I have seen
Full many a chill September,
And

though I was a youngster then,
That gale I well remember;
The day
before, my kite-string snapped,
And I, my kite pursuing,
The wind
whisked off my palm-leaf hat;
For me two storms were brewing!
It came as quarrels sometimes do,
When married folks get clashing;

There was a heavy sigh or two,
Before the fire was flashing,--
A
little stir among the clouds,
Before they rent asunder,--
A little
rocking of the trees,
And then came on the thunder.
Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled!
They seemed like bursting
craters!
And oaks lay scattered on the ground
As if they were
p'taters;
And all above was in a howl,
And all below a clatter,--

The earth was like a frying-pan,
Or some such hissing matter.
It chanced to be our washing-day,
And all our things were drying;

The storm came roaring through the lines,
And set them all a flying;

I saw the shirts and petticoats
Go riding off like witches;
I lost,
ah! bitterly I wept,--
I lost my Sunday breeches!
I saw them straddling through the air,
Alas! too late to win them;
I
saw them chase the clouds, as if
The devil had been in them;
They
were my darlings and my pride,
My boyhood's only riches,--

"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,--
"My breeches! Oh my
breeches!"
That night I saw them in my dreams,
How changed from what I knew
them!
The dews had steeped their faded threads,
The winds had
whistled through them
I saw the wide and ghastly rents
Where
demon claws had torn them;
A hole was in their amplest part,
As if
an imp had worn them.
I have had many happy years,

And tailors kind and clever,
But
those young pantaloons have gone
Forever and forever!
And not till
fate has cut the last
Of all my earthly stitches,
This aching heart

shall cease to mourn
My loved, my long-lost breeches!
THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS
I WROTE some lines once on a time
In wondrous merry mood,

And thought, as usual, men would say
They were exceeding good.
They were so queer, so very queer,
I laughed as I would die;
Albeit,
in the general way,
A sober man am I.
I called my servant, and he came;
How kind it was of him
To mind
a slender man like me,
He of the mighty limb.
"These to the printer," I exclaimed,
And, in my humorous way,
I
added, (as a trifling jest,)
"There'll be the devil to pay."
He took the paper, and I watched,
And saw him peep within;
At the
first line he read, his face
Was all upon the grin.
He read the next; the grin grew broad,
And shot from ear to ear;
He
read the third; a chuckling noise
I now began to hear.
The fourth; he broke into a roar;
The fifth; his waistband split;
The
sixth; he burst five buttons off,
And tumbled in a fit.
Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watched that wretched man,

And since, I never dare to write
As funny as I can.
THE LAST READER
I SOMETIMES sit beneath a tree
And read my own sweet songs;

Though naught they may to others be,
Each humble line prolongs
A
tone that might have passed away
But for that scarce remembered lay.
I keep them like a lock or leaf
That some dear girl has given;
Frail
record of an hour, as brief
As sunset clouds in heaven,
But

spreading purple twilight still
High over memory's shadowed hill.
They lie upon my pathway bleak,
Those flowers that once ran wild,

As on a father's careworn cheek
The ringlets of his child;
The
golden mingling with the gray,
And stealing half its snows away.
What care I though the dust is spread
Around these yellow leaves,

Or o'er them his sarcastic thread
Oblivion's insect weaves
Though
weeds are tangled on the stream,
It still reflects my morning's beam.
And therefore love I such as smile
On these neglected