Earlier Poems (1830-1836) | Page 5

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 quite as well?Hushed up among one's friends!
THE COMET
THE Comet! He is on his way,?And singing as he flies;?The whizzing planets shrink before?The spectre of the skies;?Ah! well may regal orbs burn blue,?And satellites turn pale,?Ten million cubic miles of head,?Ten billion leagues of tail!
On, on by whistling spheres of light?He flashes and he flames;?He turns not to the left nor right,?He asks them not their names;?One spurn from his demoniac heel,--?Away, away they fly,?Where darkness might be bottled up?And sold for "Tyrian dye."
And what would happen to the land,?And how would look the sea,?If in the bearded devil's path?Our earth should chance to be??Full hot and high the sea would boil,?Full red the forests gleam;?Methought I saw and heard it all?In a dyspeptic dream!
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