Earlier Poems (1830-1836) | Page 7

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 songs,?Nor deem that flattery's needless wile?My opening bosom wrongs;?For who would trample, at my side,?A few pale buds, my garden's pride?
It may be that my scanty ore?Long years have washed away,?And where were golden sands before?Is naught but common clay;?Still something sparkles in the sun?For memory to look back upon.
And when my name no more is heard,?My lyre no more is known,?Still let me, like a winter's bird,?In silence and alone,?Fold over them the weary wing?Once flashing through the dews of spring.
Yes, let my fancy fondly wrap?My youth in its decline,?And riot in the rosy lap?Of thoughts that once were mine,?And give the worm my little store?When the last reader reads no more!
POETRY:
A METRICAL ESSAY, READ BEFORE THE PHI BETA KAPPA SOCIETY,
HARVARD UNIVERSITY, AUGUST, 1836
TO CHARLES WENTWORTH UPHAM, THE FOLLOWING METRICAL ESSAY IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.
This Academic Poem presents the simple and partial views of a young person trained after the schools of classical English verse as represented by Pope, Goldsmith, and Campbell, with whose lines his memory was early stocked. It will