Songs and Other Verse | Page 8

father there,
The conversation never flagged
so far as I'm aware;
Sometimes I'd hold her worsted, sometimes we'd
play at games, Sometimes dissect the apples which we'd named each
other's names. Oh how I loathed the shrill-toned clock that told me
when to go-- 'Twas ten o'clock at half-past eight when I was Mary's
beau.
Now there was Luther Baker--because he'd come of age
And thought
himself some pumpkins because he drove the stage-- He fancied he
could cut me out; but Mary was my friend--
Elsewise I'm sure the
issue had had a tragic end.
For Luther Baker was a man I never could
abide,
And, when it came to Mary, either he or I had died.
I merely
cite this instance incidentally to show
That I was quite in earnest
when I was Mary's beau.
How often now those sights, those pleasant sights, recur again: The

little township that was all the world I knew of then-- The
meeting-house upon the hill, the tavern just beyond,
Old deacon
Packard's general store, the sawmill by the pond, The village elms I
vainly sought to conquer in my quest
Of that surpassing trophy, the
golden oriole's nest.
And, last of all those visions that come back
from long ago, The pretty face that thrilled my soul when I was Mary's
beau.
Hush, gentle wife, there is no need a pang should vex your heart-- 'T is
many years since fate ordained that she and I should part; To each a
true, maturer love came in good time, and yet
It brought not with its
nobler grace the power to forget.
And would you fain begrudge me
now the sentimental joy
That comes of recollections of my sparkings
when a boy?
I warrant me that, were your heart put to the rack, 't
would show That it had predilections when I was Mary's beau.
And, Mary, should these lines of mine seek out your biding place, God
grant they bring the old sweet smile back to your pretty face-- God
grant they bring you thoughts of me, not as I am to-day, With faltering
step and brimming eyes and aspect grimly gray; But thoughts that
picture me as fair and full of life and glee As _we_ were in the olden
times--as _you_ shall always be.
Think of me ever, Mary, as the boy
you used to know
When time was fleet, and life was sweet, and I was
Mary's beau.
Dear hills of old New England, look down with tender eyes
Upon one
little lonely grave that in your bosom lies;
For in that cradle sleeps a
child who was so fair to see
God yearned to have unto Himself the
joy she brought to me; And bid your winds sing soft and low the song
of other days, When, hand in hand and heart to heart, we went our
pleasant ways-- Ah me! but could I sing again that song of long ago,

Instead of this poor idle song of being Mary's beau.
JESSIE
When I remark her golden hair
Swoon on her glorious shoulders,
I

marvel not that sight so rare
Doth ravish all beholders;
For summon
hence all pretty girls
Renowned for beauteous tresses,
And you
shall find among their curls
There's none so fair as Jessie's.
And Jessie's eyes are, oh, so blue
And full of sweet revealings--

They seem to look you through and through
And read your inmost
feelings;
Nor black emits such ardent fires,
Nor brown such truth
expresses--
Admit it, all ye gallant squires--
There are no eyes like
Jessie's.
Her voice (like liquid beams that roll
From moonland to the river)
Steals subtly to the raptured soul,
Therein to lie and quiver;
Or falls upon the grateful ear
With chaste and warm caresses--
Ah, all concede the truth (who
hear):
There's no such voice as Jessie's.
Of other charms she hath such store
All rivalry excelling,
Though I used adjectives galore,
They'd fail me in the telling;
But now discretion stays my hand--
Adieu, eyes, voice, and tresses.
Of all the husbands in the land
There's none so fierce as Jessie's.
TO EMMA ABBOTT
There--let thy hands be folded
Awhile in sleep's repose;
The patient hands that wearied not,
But
earnestly and nobly wrought

In charity and faith;
And let thy dear eyes close--
The eyes that
looked alway to God,
Nor quailed beneath the chastening rod
Of sorrow;
Fold thou thy hands and eyes
For just a little while,
And with a smile
Dream of the morrow.
And, O white voiceless flower,
The dream which thou shalt dream
Should be a glimpse of heavenly
things,
For yonder like a seraph sings
The sweetness of a life
With faith alway its theme;
While speedeth
from those realms above
The messenger of that dear love
That healeth sorrow.
So sleep a little while,
For thou shalt wake and
sing
Before thy King
When cometh the morrow.
THE GREAT JOURNALIST IN SPAIN
Good editor Dana--God bless him, we say--
Will soon be afloat on
the main,
Will be steaming away
Through the mist and the spray

To the sensuous climate of Spain.
Strange sights shall he see in