Verses from the Oldest Poolio | Page 3

cream!
They
vanished like the shapes that float
Upon a summer's dream.
A long, long draught,--an outstretched hand,--
And crackers, toast,
and tea,
They faded from the stranger's touch,
Like dew upon the
sea.
Then clouds were dark on many a brow,
Fear sat upon their souls,


And, in a bitter agony,
They clasped their buttered rolls.
A whisper trembled through the crowd,
Who could the stranger be?

And some were silent, for they thought
A cannibal was he.
What if the creature should arise,--
For he was stout and tall,--
And
swallow down a sophomore,
Coat, crow's-foot, cap, and all!
All sullenly the stranger rose;
They sat in mute despair;
He took his
hat from off the peg,
His coat from off the chair.
Four freshmen fainted on the seat,
Six swooned upon the floor;
Yet
on the fearful being passed,
And shut the chapel door.
There is full many a starving man,
That walks in bottle green,
But
never more that hungry one
In Commons hall was seen.
Yet often at the sunset hour,
When tolls the evening bell,
The
freshman lingers on the steps,
That frightful tale to tell.
THE TOADSTOOL
THERE 's a thing that grows by the fainting flower,
And springs in
the shade of the lady's bower;
The lily shrinks, and the rose turns pale,

When they feel its breath in the summer gale,
And the tulip curls
its leaves in pride,
And the blue-eyed violet starts aside;
But the lily
may flaunt, and the tulip stare,
For what does the honest toadstool
care?
She does not glow in a painted vest,
And she never blooms on
the maiden's breast;
But she comes, as the saintly sisters do,
In a
modest suit of a Quaker hue.
And, when the stars in the evening skies

Are weeping dew from their gentle eyes,
The toad comes out from
his hermit cell,
The tale of his faithful love to tell.
Oh, there is light in her lover's glance,
That flies to her heart like a
silver lance;
His breeches are made of spotted skin,
His jacket 'is

tight, and his pumps are thin;
In a cloudless night you may hear his
song,
As its pensive melody floats along,
And, if you will look by
the moonlight fair,
The trembling form of the toad is there.
And he twines his arms round her slender stem,
In the shade of her
velvet diadem;
But she turns away in her maiden shame,
And will
not breathe on the kindling flame;
He sings at her feet through the
live-long night,
And creeps to his cave at the break of light;
And
whenever he comes to the air above,
His throat is swelling with
baffled love.
THE SPECTRE PIG
A BALLAD
IT was the stalwart butcher man,
That knit his swarthy brow,
And
said the gentle Pig must die,
And sealed it with a vow.
And oh! it was the gentle Pig
Lay stretched upon the ground,
And
ah! it was the cruel knife
His little heart that found.
They took him then, those wicked men,
They trailed him all along;

They put a stick between his lips,
And through his heels a thong;
And round and round an oaken beam
A hempen cord they flung,

And, like a mighty pendulum,
All solemnly he swung!
Now say thy prayers, thou sinful man,
And think what thou hast done,

And read thy catechism well,
Thou bloody-minded one;
For if his sprite should walk by night,
It better were for thee,
That
thou wert mouldering in the ground,
Or bleaching in the sea.
It was the savage butcher then,
That made a mock of sin,
And
swore a very wicked oath,
He did not care a pin.

It was the butcher's youngest son,--
His voice was broke with sighs,

And with his pocket-handkerchief
He wiped his little eyes;
All young and ignornt was he,
But innocent and mild,
And, in his
soft simplicity,
Out spoke the tender child :--
"Oh, father, father, list to me;
The Pig is deadly sick,
And men have
hung him by his heels,
And fed him with a stick."
It was the bloody butcher then,
That laughed as he would die,
Yet
did he soothe the sorrowing child,
And bid him not to cry;--
"Oh, Nathan, Nathan, what's a Pig,
That thou shouldst weep and wail?

Come, bear thee like a butcher's child,
And thou shalt have his
tail!"
It was the butcher's daughter then,
So slender and so fair,
That
sobbed as it her heart would break,
And tore her yellow hair;
And thus she spoke in thrilling tone,--
Fast fell the tear-drops big:--

"Ah! woe is me! Alas! Alas!
The Pig! The Pig! The Pig!
Then did her wicked father's lips
Make merry with her woe,
And
call her many a naughty name,
Because she whimpered so.
Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones,
In vain your tears are shed,
Ye
cannot wash his crimson hand,
Ye cannot soothe the dead.
The bright sun folded on his breast
His robes of rosy flame,
And
softly over all the west
The shades of evening came.
He slept, and troops of murdered Pigs
Were busy with his dreams;

Loud rang their wild, unearthly shrieks,
Wide yawned their mortal
seams.
The clock struck twelve; the Dead hath heard;
He opened both his

eyes,
And sullenly he shook his tail
To lash the feeding flies.
One quiver of the hempen cord,--
One struggle and one bound,--

With stiffened