Verses from the Oldest Poolio | Page 8

their woe,
And now they keep an
oyster-shop for mermaids down below.
A NOONTIDE LYRIC
THE dinner-bell, the dinner-bell
Is ringing loud and clear;
Through
hill and plain, through street and lane,
It echoes far and near;
From
curtained hall and whitewashed stall,
Wherever men can hide,
Like
bursting waves from ocean caves,
They float upon the tide.
I smell the smell of roasted meat!
I hear the hissing fry
The beggars
know where they can go,
But where, oh where shall I?
At twelve
o'clock men took my hand,
At two they only stare,
And eye me
with a fearful look,
As if I were a bear!
The poet lays his laurels down,
And hastens to his greens;
The
happy tailor quits his goose,
To riot on his beans;
The weary
cobbler snaps his thread,
The printer leaves his pi;
His very devil
hath a home,
But what, oh what have I?
Methinks I hear an angel voice,
That softly seems to say
"Pale
stranger, all may yet be well,
Then wipe thy tears away;
Erect thy
head, and cock thy hat,
And follow me afar,
And thou shalt have a
jolly meal,
And charge it at the bar."

I hear the voice! I go! I go!
Prepare your meat and wine!
They little
heed their future need
Who pay not when they dine.
Give me to-day
the rosy bowl,
Give me one golden dream,--
To-morrow kick away
the stool,
And dangle from the beam!
THE HOT SEASON
THE folks, that on the first of May
Wore winter coats and hose,

Began to say, the first of June,
"Good Lord! how hot it grows!"
At
last two Fahrenheits blew up,
And killed two children small,
And
one barometer shot dead
A tutor with its ball!
Now all day long the locusts sang
Among the leafless trees;
Three
new hotels warped inside out,
The pumps could only wheeze;
And
ripe old wine, that twenty years
Had cobwebbed o'er in vain,
Came
spouting through the rotten corks
Like Joly's best champagne
The Worcester locomotives did
Their trip in half an hour;
The
Lowell cars ran forty miles
Before they checked the power;
Roll
brimstone soon became a drug,
And loco-focos fell;
All asked for
ice, but everywhere
Saltpetre was to sell.
Plump men of mornings ordered tights,
But, ere the scorching noons,

Their candle-moulds had grown as loose
As Cossack pantaloons!

The dogs ran mad,--men could not try
If water they would choose;

A horse fell dead,--he only left
Four red-hot, rusty shoes!
But soon the people could not bear
The slightest hint of fire;

Allusions to caloric drew
A flood of savage ire;
The leaves on heat were all torn out
From every book at school,

And many blackguards kicked and caned,

Because they said, "Keep
cool!"
The gas-light companies were mobbed,
The bakers all were shot,


The penny press began to talk
Of lynching Doctor Nott;
And all
about the warehouse steps
Were angry men in droves,
Crashing and
splintering through the doors
To smash the patent stoves!
The abolition men and maids
Were tanned to such a hue,
You
scarce could tell them from their friends,
Unless their eyes were blue;

And, when I left, society
Had burst its ancient guards,
And
Brattle Street and Temple Place
Were interchanging cards
A PORTRAIT
A STILL, sweet, placid, moonlight face,
And slightly nonchalant,

Which seems to claim a middle place
Between one's love and aunt,

Where childhood's star has left a ray
In woman's sunniest sky,
As
morning dew and blushing day
On fruit and blossom lie.
And yet,--and yet I cannot love
Those lovely lines on steel;
They
beam too much of heaven above,
Earth's darker shades to feel;

Perchance some early weeds of care
Around my heart have grown,

And brows unfurrowed seem not fair,
Because they mock my own.
Alas! when Eden's gates were sealed,
How oft some sheltered flower

Breathed o'er the wanderers of the field,
Like their own bridal
bower;
Yet, saddened by its loveliness,
And humbled by its pride,

Earth's fairest child they could not bless,
It mocked them when
they sighed.
AN EVENING THOUGHT
WRITTEN AT SEA
IF sometimes in the dark blue eye,
Or in the deep red wine,
Or
soothed by gentlest melody,
Still warms this heart of mine,
Yet
something colder in the blood,
And calmer in the brain,
Have
whispered that my youth's bright flood

Ebbs, not to flow again.

If by Helvetia's azure lake,
Or Arno's yellow stream,
Each star of
memory could awake,
As in my first young dream,
I know that
when mine eye shall greet
The hillsides bleak and bare,
That gird
my home, it will not meet
My childhood's sunsets there.
Oh, when love's first, sweet, stolen kiss
Burned on my boyish brow,

Was that young forehead worn as this?
Was that flushed cheek as
now?
Were that wild pulse and throbbing heart
Like these, which
vainly strive,
In thankless strains of soulless art,
To dream
themselves alive?
Alas! the morning dew is gone,
Gone ere the full of day;
Life's iron
fetter still is on,
Its wreaths all torn away;
Happy if still some casual
hour
Can warm the fading shrine,
Too soon to chill beyond the
power
Of love, or song, or wine!
THE WASP AND THE HORNET
THE two proud sisters of the sea,
In glory and in doom!--
Well may
the eternal waters be
Their broad, unsculptured tomb!
The wind that
rings along the wave,
The clear, unshadowed sun,
Are torch and
trumpet o'er the brave,
Whose last green wreath is won!
No stranger-hand their banners furled,
No victor's shout they heard;

Unseen, above