Part 2 out of 3
For what her own wits would allow her;
And, making her way through the cask,
She helped herself well to the flour.
The candles she scraped to their wicks;
And, mischievous in her invention,
Would do many more naughty tricks,
Which I, as her friend, cannot mention.
Kit, too, had her living to make,
And yet, she was so above toiling,
She'd sooner attack the beef-steak,
When the cook had prepared it for broiling.
And so, near a dish of warm toast,
She often most patiently lingered,
To seize her first chance; yet, could boast
That none ever called her _light-fingered_.
But mending, or minding herself,
She thought would be quite too much labor,
And so peeped about on the shelf,
To spy out the faults of her neighbor.
For Mouse loved to promenade there,
While Kit would watch close to waylay her;
And once, in the midst of her fare,
Up bounded Miss Kitty to slay her!
But this was as luckless a jump
As ever Kit made, with the clatter
Of knife, skimmer, spoon, and a thump,
Which she got, as she threw down the platter.
While Mouse glided under a dish.
Escaping the mortal disaster,
Miss Kitty turned off to a fish,
The breakfast elect for her master.
Said she to herself, "Tis clear gain,--
This rarity, fresh from the water,
Will save my white mittens the stain--
And me from the trouble of slaughter!"
But her racket, she found to her cost,
The plot had most fatally thickened;
And all hope of mercy was lost,
As Jack's coming footstep was quickened.
He seized her, and binding her fast.
Declared he could never forgive her;
So Kitty was sentenced and cast,
With a stone at her neck, in the river!
But Mouse still continued to thieve;
And often, alone in her dwelling,
Would silently laugh in her sleeve,
At the scene in the tale I've been telling--
Till once, by a fatal mishap,
The little unfortunate rover
Perceived herself close in a trap,
And felt that her race was now over.
She knew she must leave all behind;
And thus, in the midst of her terrors,
As every thing rushed to her mind,
Began her confession of errors:--
"You'll find, on the word of a Mouse,
Whom hope has for ever forsaken,
The following things in my house,
Which I have unlawfully taken:
"A cork, that was soaked in the beer,
Which I nibbled until I was merry;
Some kernels of corn from the ear,
The skin and the stone of a cherry:--
"Some hemp-seed I took from the bird,
And found most deliriously tasted,
While safe in my covert, I heard
Its owner complain that 'twas wasted:--
"You'll find a few cucumber seeds,
Which I thought, if they could but be hollowed,
Would answer to string out for beads;
So the inside of all I have swallowed:--
"A few crumbs of biscuit and cheese,
Which I thought might a long time supply me
With luncheon--some rice and split peas,
Which seemed well prepared to keep by me:--
"A cluster of curls which I stole
At night from a young lady's toilet,
And made me a bed of it whole,
As tearing it open would spoil it;--
"And as, in a long summer day
I'd time both or reading and spelling,
I gnawed up the whole of a play,
And carried it home to my dwelling.
"I wish you'd set fire to my place;
And pray you at once to despatch me,
That none of my enemy's race,
In the form of Miss Kitty, may catch me!"
Disgrace thus will follow on vice,
Although for a while it be hidden;
When children, or kittens, or mice,
Will do what they know is forbidden.
I knew a little heedless boy,
A child that seldom cared,
If he could get his cake and toy,
How other matters fared.
He always bore upon his foot
A signal of the thing,
For which, on him his playmates put
The name of Jemmy String.
No malice in his heart was there;
He had no fault beside,
So great as that of wanting care.
To keep his shoe-strings tied.
You'd often see him on the run,
To chase the geese about,
While both his shoe-ties were undone,
With one end slipping out.
He'd tread on one, then down he'd go,
And all around would ring
With bitter cries, and sounds of woe,
That came from Jemmy String.
And oft, by such a sad mishap,
Would Jemmy catch a hurt;
The muddy pool would catch his cap,
His clothes would catch the dirt!
Then home he'd hasten through the street,
To tell about his fall;
While, on his little sloven feet,
The cause was plain to all.
For while he shook his aching hand,
Complaining of the bruise,
The strings were trailing through the sand
From both his loosened shoes.
One day, his father thought a ride
Would do his children good;
But Jemmy's shoe-strings were untied,
And on the stairs he stood.
In hastening down to take his place
Upon the carriage seat,
Poor Jemmy lost his joyous face;
Nor could he keep his feet.
The dragging string had made him trip,
And bump! bump! went his head;--
The teeth had struck and cut his lip,
And tears and blood were shed.
His aching wounds he meekly bore;
But with a swelling heart
He heard the carriage from the door,
With all but him, depart.
This grievous lesson taught him care,
And gave his mind a spring;
For he resolved no more to bear
The name of JEMMY STRING!
"Don't kill me!" Caterpillar said,
As Charles had raised his heel
Upon the humble worm to tread,
As though it could not feel.
"Don't kill me! and I'll crawl away
To hide awhile, and try
To come and look, another day,
More pleasing to your eye.
"I know I'm now among the things
Uncomely to your sight;
But by and by on splendid wings
You'll see me high and light!
"And then, perhaps, you may be glad
To watch me on the flower;
And that you spared the worm you had
To-day within your power!"
Then Caterpillar went and hid
In some secreted place,
Where none could look on what he did
To change his form and face.
And by and by, when Charles had quite
Forgotten what I've told,
A Butterfly appeared in sight,
Most beauteous to behold.
His shining wings were trimmed with gold,
And many a brilliant dye
Was laid upon their velvet fold,
To charm the gazing eye!
Then, near as prudence would allow,
To Charles's ear he drew
And said, "You may not know me, now
My form and name are new!
"But I'm the worm that once you raised
Your ready foot to kill!
For sparing me, I long have praised,
And love and praise you still.
"The lowest reptile at your feet,
When power is not abused,
May prove the fruit of mercy sweet,
By being kindly used!"
=The Mocking Bird=
A Mocking Bird was he,
In a bushy, blooming tree,
Imbosomed by the foliage and flower.
And there he sat and sang,
Till all around him rang,
With sounds, from out the merry mimic's bower.
The little satirist
Piped, chattered, shrieked, and hissed;
He then would moan, and whistle, quack, and caw;
Then, carol, drawl, and croak,
As if he'd pass a joke
On every other winged one he saw.
Together he would catch
A gay and plaintive snatch,
And mingle notes of half the feathered throng.
For well the mocker knew,
Of every thing that flew,
To imitate the manner and the song.
The other birds drew near,
And paused awhile to hear
How well he gave their voices and their airs.
And some became amused;
While some, disturbed, refused
To own the sounds that others said were theirs.
The sensitive were shocked,
To find their honors mocked
By one so pert and voluble as he;
They knew not if 't was done
In earnest or in fun;
And fluttered off in silence from the tree.
The silliest grew vain,
To think a song or strain
Of theirs, however weak, or loud, or hoarse,
Was worthy to be heard
Repeated by the bird;
For of his wit they could not feel the force.
The charitable said,
"Poor fellow! if his head
Is turned, or cracked, or has no talent left;
But feels the want of powers,
And plumes itself from ours,
Why, we shall not be losers by the theft."
The haughty said, "He thus.
It seems, would mimic us,
And steal our songs, to pass them for his own!
But if he only quotes
In honor of our notes,
We then were quite as honored, let alone."
The wisest said, "If foe
Or friend, we still may know
By him, wherein our greatest failing lies.
So, let us not be moved,
Since first to be improved
By every thing, becomes the truly wise."
=The Silk-Worm's Will=
On a plain rush-hurdle a silk-worm lay,
When a proud young princess came that way.
The haughty child of a human king
Threw a sidelong glance at the humble thing,
That received with a silent gratitude
From the mulberry-leaf her simple food;
And shrunk, half scorn, and half disgust,
Away from her sister child of the dust;
Declaring she never yet could see
Why a reptile form like this should be;--
And that she was not made with nerves so firm,
As calmly to stand by a _crawling worm_!
With mute forbearance the silk-worm took
The taunting words and the spurning look.
Alike a stranger to self and pride,
She'd no disquiet from aught beside;
And lived of a meekness and peace possest
Which these debar from the human breast.
She only wished, for the harsh abuse,
To find some way to become of use
To the haughty daughter of lordly man;
And thus did she lay her noble plan
To teach her wisdom, and make it plain
That the humble worm was not made in vain;--
A plan so generous, deep and high,
That to carry it out, she must even die!
"No more," said she, "will I drink or eat!
I'll spin and weave me a winding-sheet,
To wrap me up from the sun's clear light,
And hide my form from her wounded sight.
In secret then, till my end draws nigh,
I will toil for her; and when I die,
I'll leave behind, as a farewell boon
To the proud young princess, my whole cocoon,
To be reeled, and wove to a shining lace,
And hung in a veil o'er her scornful face!
And when she can calmly draw her breath
Through the very threads that have caused my death;
When she finds at length, she has nerves so firm,
As to wear the shroud of a _crawling worm_,
May she bear in mind that she walks with pride
In the winding-sheet where the silk-worm died!"
Dame Biddy abode in a coop,
Because it so chanced that dame Biddy
Had round her a family group
Of chicks, young, and helpless, and giddy.
And when she had freedom to roam,
She fancied the life of a ranger;
And led off her brood, far from home,
To fall into mischief or danger.
She'd trail through the grass to be mown,
And call all her children to follow;
And scratch up the seeds that were sown,
Then, lie in their places and wallow.
She'd go where the corn in the hill,
Its first little blade had been shooting,
And try, by the strength of her bill,
To learn if the kernel was rooting.
And when she went out on a walk
Of pleasure, through thicket and brambles,
The covetous eye of a Hawk
Delighted in marking her rambles.
"I spy," to himself he would say,
"A prize of which I'll be the winner!"
So down would he pounce on his prey,
And bear off a chicken for dinner.
The poor frighted matron, that heard
The cry of her youngling in dying,
Would scream at the merciless bird,
That high with his booty was flying.
But shrieks could not ease her distress,
Nor grief her lost darling recover.
She now had a chicken the less,
For acting the part of a rover.
And there lay the feathers, all torn.
And flying one way and another,
That still her dear child might have worn,
Had she been more wise as a mother.
Her owner then thought he must teach
Dame Biddy a little subjection;
And cooped her up, out of the reach
Of hawking, with time for reflection.
And, throwing a net o'er a pile
Of brush-wood that near her was lying,
He hoped to its meshes to wile
The fowler, that o'er her was flying.
For Hawk, not forgetting his fare,
And having a taste to renew it,
Sailed round near the coop, high in air,
With cruel intention, to view it.
The owner then said, "Master Hawk,
If you love my chickens so dearly,
Come down to my yard for a walk,
That you may address them more nearly."
But, "No," thought the sharp-taloned foe
Of Biddy, "my circuit is higher!
If I to his premises go.
'Twill be when I see he's not nigh her."
The Farmer strewd barley, and toled
The chickens the brush to run under,
And left them, while Hawk growing bold,
Thus tempted, came near for his plunder.
As closer and closer he drew,
With appetite stronger and stronger,
He found he'd but one thing to do,
And plunged, to defer it no longer.
But now he had come to a pause,
At once in the net-work entangled,
While through it his head and his claws
In hopeless vacuity dangled.
The chicks saw him hang overhead,
Where they for their barley had huddled;
And all in a flutter they fled,
And soon through the coop holes had scuddled.
The Farmer came out to his snare,
He saw the bold captive was in it;
And said, "If this play be unfair,
Remember, I did not begin it!"
He then put a cork on his beak,
The airy assassin disarming,
Unspurred him, and rendered him weak,
By blunting each talent for harming.
And into the coop he was thrown:
The chickens hid under their mother,
For he, by his feathers was known
As he, who had murdered their brother
Dame Biddy, beholding his plight,
Determined to show him no quarter,
In action gave vent to her spite;
As motherly tenderness taught her.
She shouted, and blustered; and then
Attacked the poor captive unfriended;
And you, (who have witnessed a hen
In anger,) may guess how it ended.
She made him a touching address,
If pecking and scratching could do it;
Till sinking in silent distress,
He perished before she got through it.
We would not, however, convey
A thought like approving the fury,
That gave, in this summary way,
Punition without judge or jury.
Whenever 'tis given, it tends
To lessen the angry bestower.
The _fowl_ that inflicts it descends--
But the _featherless biped_, still lower.
=Kit With the Rose=
A Rose-tree stood in the parlor,
When Kit came frolicking by;
So, up went her feet on the window-seat,
To a rose that had caught her eye.
She gave it a cuff, and it trembled
Beneath her ominous paw;
And while it shook, with a threatening look,
She coveted what she saw.
Thought she, "What a beautiful toss-ball!
If I could but give it a snap,
Now all are out, nor thinking about
Their rose, or the least mishap!"
She twisted the stem, and she twirled it;
And seizing the flower it bore,
With the timely aid of her teeth, she made
A leap to the parlor-floor.
Then over the carpet she tossed it,
All fresh in its morning bloom,
Till, shattered and rent, its leaves were sent
To every side of the room.
At length, with her sport grown weary,
She laid herself down to sun,
Inclining to doze, forgetting the rose,
And the mischief she'd slily done.
By and by her young mistress entered,
And uttered a piteous cry,
When she saw the fate of what had so late
Delighted her watchful eye.
But, where was the one who had spoiled it
Concealing his guilty face?
She had not a clue, whereby to pursue
The rogue to his lurking-place!
Thought Kit, "I'll keep still till it's over;
And none will suspect it was I."
For the puss awoke, when her mistress spoke;
And she well understood the cry.
But, mewing at length for her dinner,
Kit's mouth confessed the whole truth:
It opened so wide that her mistress espied
A rose-leaf pierced by her tooth!
Then, banished was Kit from the parlor,
All covered with shame! And those
Inclined, like her, in secret to err,
Should remember Kit with the Rose.
=The Captive Butterfly=
Good morning, pretty Butterfly!
How have you passed the night?
I hope you're gay and glad as I
To see the morning light.
But, little silent one, methinks
You're in a sober mood.
I wonder if you'd like to drink,
And what you take for food.
I shut you in my crystal cup,
To let your winglets rest.
And now I want to hold you up,
To see your velvet vest.
I want to count your tiny toes.
To find your breathing-place,
And touch the downy horn that grows
Each side your pretty face.
I'd like to see just how you're made,
With streaks and spots and rings;
And wish you'd show me how you played
Your shining, rainbow wings.
"'T was not," the little prisoner said,
"For want of food or drink,
That, while you slumbered on your bed,
I could not sleep a wink.
"My wings are pained for want of flight,
My lungs, for want of air.
In bitterness I've passed the night,
And meet the morning's glare.
"When looking through my prison wall,
So close, and yet so clear,
I see there's freedom there for all,
While I'm a captive here.
"I've stood upon my feeble feet
Until they're full of pain.
I know that liberty is sweet,
Which I cannot regain.
"Do I deserve a fate like this,
Who've ever acted well,
Since first I left the chrysalis,
And fluttered from my shell?
"I've never injured fruit, or flower,
Or man, or bird, or beast;
And such a one should have the power
Of going free, at least.
"And now, if you will let me quit
My prison-house, the cup,
I'll show you how I sport and flit,
And make my wings go up!"
The lid was raised; the prisoner said,
"Behold my airy play!"
Then quickly on the wing he fled
Away, away, away!
From flower to flower he gayly flew,
To cool his aching feet,
And slake his thirst with morning dew,
Where liberty was sweet!
=The Dissatisfied Angler Boy=
I'm sorry they let me go down to the brook;
I'm sorry they gave me the line and the hook;
And wish I had staid at home with my book!
I'm sure 'twas no pleasure to see
That poor little harmless, suffering thing
Silently writhe at the end of the string,
Or to hold the pole, while I felt him swing
In torture,--and all for me!
'Twas a beautiful speckled and glossy trout;
And when from the water I drew him out,
On the grassy bank as he floundered about,
It made me shivering cold,
To think I had caused so much needless pain;
And I tried to relieve him, but all in vain:
O never, as long as I live, again
May I such a sight behold!
But, what would I give, once more to see
The brisk little swimmer alive and free,
And darting about as he used to be,
Unhurt, in his native brook!
'Tis strange that people can love to play,
By taking innocent lives away!
I wish I had stayed at home to-day
With sister, and read my book.
=The Stove and the Grate-Setter=
Old Winter is coming, to play off his tricks--
To make your ears tingle--your fingers to numb!
So I, with my trowel, new mortar and bricks,
To guard you against him, already am come.
An ounce of prevention in time, I have found,
Is worth pounds of remedy taken too late!
And proof that the sense of my maxim is sound,
Will shine where I fasten stove, furnace or grate.
The Summer leaves now whirling fast from the trees,
By Autumn's chill blast are tossed yellow and sere;
And soon, with the breath of his nostrils to freeze
Each thing he can puff at, will Winter be here!
But hardly he'll dare to steal in at the door,
Your elbows to bite with his keen cutting air,
And give you an ague, where I've been before,
To set the defence I to-day can prepare.
And when he comes blustering on from the north,
To give you blue faces, and shakes by the chin,
You'll find what the craft of the mason was worth,
As you from abroad to your parlor step in!
For all will around be so pleasant and warm,--
Your hearth bright and cheering--your coal in a glow;
You'll not heed the winds whistling up the rough storm
To sift o'er your dwellings its clouds full of snow!
You'll then think of me;--how I handled to-day
The cold stone and iron--the brick and the lime:
And all, but the surer foundation to lay
For comfort to give in the drear winter time.
I lay you, against this old Winter, a charm.
To make him, at least, keep himself out of doors!
'Twould melt--should he enter--his hard hand and arm.
When loud for admission he threatens and roars.
If gratitude then should come, warming your _heart_,
As peaceful you sit by your warm _fireside_;
Perhaps it may teach you some good to impart
To those, where the gifts you enjoy are denied.
For He in whose favor all blessedness is;
And out of whose kingdom no treasure is sure,
Was poor when on earth;--and the poor still are his:
His charge to his friends is "_Remember the poor_."
Nor would his disciple be higher than He,
Who once on the dwellings of men, for his bread,
In lowliness wrought! but contentedly, we
Will work by the light that our Master has shed.
=Song of the Bees=
We watch for the light of the morn to break,
And color the eastern sky
With its blended hues of saffron and lake;
Then say to each other, "Awake! awake!
For our winter's honey is all to make,
And our bread for a long supply!"
Then off we hie to the hill and the dell--
To the field, the meadow, and bower:
In the columbine's horn we love to dwell,--
To dip in the lily with snow-white bell,--
To search the balm in its odorous cell,
The mint, and rosemary flower.
We suck the bloom of the eglantine,--
Of the pointed thistle and brier;
And follow the track of the wandering vine,
Whether it trail on the earth, supine,
Or round the aspiring tree-top twine,
And reach for a state still higher.
As each, on the good of the others bent,
Is busy, and cares for all,
We hope for an evening with hearts content,--
That Winter may find us without lament
For a Summer that's gone, with its hours misspent,
And a harvest that's past recall!
=The Summer is Come=
CHILDHOOD'S RURAL SONG.
The Summer is come
With the insect's hum,
And the birds that merrily sing.
And sweet are the hours,
And the fruits and flowers,
That Summer has come to bring.
All nature is glad,
And the earth is clad
In her brightest and best array:
So, we with delight
Will our songs unite,
Our tribute of joy to pay.
The swallow is out,
And she sails about
In air, for the careless fly:
Then she takes a sip
With her horny lip
As she skims where the waters lie.
And the lamb bounds light
In his fleece of white,
But he doesn't know what to think,
In the streamlet clear,
Where he sees appear
His face as he stoops to drink.
For, never before
Has he gambolled o'er
The summer-dressed, flowery earth;
And he skips in play,
As he fain would say
"'Tis a season of feast and mirth."
And we have to-day
Been rambling away
To gather the flowers most fair,
Which we sat beneath
An old oak to wreath
While fanned by the balmy air.
Now the sun goes down
Like a golden crown
That's sliding behind a hill;
So we dance the while
To his farewell smile;
And well dance as the dews distil.
Then, we'll dance to-night
While the fire-fly's light
Is sparkling among the grass;
And we'll step our tune
To the silver moon,
As over the green we pass.
O, Summer is sweet!
But her joys are fleet;
We catch them but on the wing:
Yet never the less
Would our hearts confess
The blessings she comes to bring.
Come here and sit thee down by me!
I've read a tale, I'll tell to thee;
And precious will the moral be,
Though simple is the story.
It is about a brilliant flower,
With beauty scarce possessed of power
Its opening to survive an hour--
An airy Morning-Glory.
'Tis common parlance names it thus;
But 'twas a gay convolvulus:
Yet we'll not stop to here discuss
Its species or its genus.
We'll just suppose a blooming vine
With many leaf and bud to shine,
And curling tendrils thrown to twine
And form a bower, between us.
And we'll suppose a happy boy,
With face lit up by hope and joy,
Who thinks that nothing shall destroy
His vine, his pride and pleasure,
Is standing near, with kindling eye,
As if its very look would pry
The cup apart, therein to spy
The growing floral treasure.
And now the petal, twisted tight,
Above the calyx peers to sight
With apex tipped with purple, bright
As if the rainbow dyed it.
While on the air it vacillates,
Its owner's bosom palpitates
To see it open, as he waits
Impatient close beside it.
Another rising sun has thrown
Its beams upon the vine, and shown
The splendid Morning-Glory blown,
As if some little fairy,
When early from his couch he went,
On some ethereal journey bent,
Had there inverted left his tent
Of purple, high and airy.
And many a fair and shining flower
As bright as this adorned the bower,
Displayed like jewels in an hour,
Where'er the vine was clinging.
As each corolla lost its twist,
The zephyr fanned, the sunbeam kissed
The little vase of amethyst;
And round it birds were singing.
And now the little boy comes out
To see his vine. He gives a shout,
And sings and laughs, and jumps about
Like one two-thirds demented.
His little playmates, one, two, three,
Come round the beauteous vine to see,
And each cries, "Give a flower to me,
And I'll go off contented."
But "No," the selfish owner cried,
And pushed his comrades all aside,
While walking round his bower with pride,
"Not one of you shall sever
A floweret from the stem so gay;
I own them, not to give away!
I'll come to see them every day;
And keep them mine for ever!"
So, when at noon from school he came,
To see his vine was first his aim:
But oh! his feelings who can name,
As mute he stood and eyed it?
For not a flower could he behold,
While each corolla, inward rolled,
Appeared as shrivelled, dead, and old
As if a fire had dried it.
"Alas!" the selfish owner said,
"My Glories----oh! they all are dead!
And all my little friends have fled
Aggrieved! for I've abused them.
They'll keep away, and but deride
My sorrow, when they hear my pride
Is gone;--that quick the pleasures died
Which rudely I refused them!"
=The Old Cotter and his Cow=
My good old Cow,
I scarce know how
Again we've wintered over;
With my scant fare,
And thine so spare--
No dainty dish, nor clover!
We both were old,
And keen the cold;
While poorly housed we found us;
And by the blast
That, whistling, passed,
The snows were sifted round us.
While, many a day.
Few locks of hay
Were most thy crib presented,
A patient Cow,
And kind wast thou,
And with thy mite contented.
But though the storms
Have chilled our forms,
And we've been pinched together,
The dark, blue day
Is passed away;
We've reached the warm spring weather!
The bounteous earth
Is shooting forth
Her grass and flowers so gayly;
Thou now canst feed
Along the mead,
While food is growing daily.
The soft, sweet breeze
Through budding trees
Now fans my brow so hoary:
And these old eyes
Find new supplies
Of light from nature's glory.
Though poor my cot,
And low my lot,
With thee, my richest treasure,
I take my cup,
And looking up,
Bless Him who gives my measure.
=The Speckled One=
Poor speckled one! none else will deign
To waft thy name around;
So, let me take it on my strain,
To give it air and sound.
Yes--air and sound, low child of earth!
For these are oft the things
That give a name its greatest worth,
Its gorgeous plumes and wings.
But do not shun me thus, and hop
Affrighted from my way!
Dismiss thy terrors--turn and stop;
And hear what I may say.
Meek, harmless thing, afraid of man?
This truly should not be.
Then calmly pause, and let me scan
My Maker's work in thee.
For both of us to Him belong;
We're fellow-creatures here;
And power should not be armed with wrong,
Nor weakness filled with fear.
I know it is thy humble lot
To burrow in a hole--
To have a form I envy not,
And that without a soul.
In motion, attitude and limb
I see thee void of grace;
And that a look supremely grim,
Reigns o'er thy solemn face.
But thou for this art not to blame;
Nor should it make us load
With obloquy, and scorn, and shame
The honest name of TOAD.
For, though so low on nature's scale--
In presence so uncouth,
Thou ne'er hast told an evil tale,
Of falsehood, or of truth.
Thy thoughts are ne'er on malice bent--
Nor hands to mischief prone;
Nor yet thy heart to discontent;
Though spurned, and poor and lone.
No coveting nor envy burns
In thy bright golden eye,
That calm and innocently turns
On all below the sky.
Thy cautious tongue and sober lip
No words of folly pass,
Nor, are they found to taste and sip
The madness of the glass.
Thy frugal meal is often drawn
From earth, and wood, and stone;
And when thy means by these are gone,
Thou seem'st to live on none.
I hear that in an earthen jar
Sealed close, shut up alive,
From food, drink, air, sun, moon and star,
Thou'lt live and even thrive:--
And that no moan, or murmuring sound
Will issue from the lid
Of thy dark dwelling under ground,
When it is deeply hid.
Thou hast, as 'twere, a secret shelf,
Whereon is a supply
Of nourishment, within thyself,
Concealed from mortal eye.
Methinks this self-sustaining art
'Twere well for us to know,
To keep us up in flesh and heart,
When outer means grow low.
Could we contain our riches thus,
On such mysterious shelves,
Why, none could rob or beggar us;
Unless we lost ourselves!
But ah! my Toadie, there's the rub,
With every human breast--
To live as in the cynic's tub,
And yet be self-possessed!
For, how to let no boast get round
Beyond our tub, to show
That we in head and heart are sound,
Is one great thing to know.
And yet, the prison-staves and hoop
To let no murmur through,
However hard we find the coop,
Is greater still to do.
Then go, thou sage, resigned and calm,
Amid thy low estate;
And to thy burrow bear the palm
For victory over fate.
We conquer, when we meekly bear
The lot we cannot shape;
And hug to death the ills and care
From which there's no escape.
=The Blind Musician=
"Ah! who comes here?" old Raymond cried,
As lone he sat by the highway-side,
Where Frisk jumped up at his knee in play;
And his white locks went to the air astray;--
While his worn-out hat lay on the ground,
And his light violin gave forth no sound--
"Ah! who comes here with voice so kind
To the ear of a poor old man who's blind?"
'Twas a gladsome troop of bright young boys,
With hearts all full of their play-day joys,
As their baskets were of nuts and cake,
And fruits, a pic-nic treat to make.
For they were out for the fields and flowers--
For the grassy lane, and the woodland bowers;
And the course they took first led them by
Where the lone one sat with a sightless eye.
They saw he'd a worn and hungry look;
And each from his basket promptly took
A part of its precious pic-nic store,
And tried the others to get before,
As on with their ready gifts they ran,
To reach them forth to the poor old man;
And said, "Good Sir, take this and eat
While resting thus on your mossy seat."
"Heaven bless you, little children dear!"
Old Raymond cried, with a starting tear,
As they took their cup to the fountain's brink,
And brought him back some clear, cool drink.
And Frisk looked up with a grateful eye,
As to him they dropped some crust of pie:
For he, good dog, was his master's guide,
By a cord to the ring of his collar tied.
"And now, would you like to hear me play,"
Said the traveller, "ere you go your way?
O, I did not think that aught so soon
Could have put my poor old heart in tune.
But you have touched it at the spring,
And it seems as if it could dance and sing.
Your kindness makes my spirit light,
Till I hardly feel that I've lost my sight!"
He took up his violin and bow,
And made his voice to their music flow;
And the children, listening sat around
As if by a spell to the circle bound.
While thus they were fastened to the spot,
And their first pursuit almost forgot,
They felt they could ask no pleasure more,
And their picnic frolic at once gave o'er.
And there they staid till the sun went down,
When they led the old Raymond safe to town;
While Frisk went sporting all the way,
To speak his thanks by his joyous play.
They found him a room with a table spread,
And a pillow to rest his hoary head.
Then feeling their time and pence well-spent,
They all went back to their homes content.
=The Lame House=
O, I cannot bring to mind
When I've had a look so kind,
Gentle lady, as thine eye
Gives me, while I'm limping by!
Then, thy little boy appears
To regard me but with tears.
Think'st thou he would like to know
What has brought my state so low?
When not half so old as he,
I was bounding, light and free,
By my happy mother's side,
Ere my mouth the bit had tried,
Or my head had felt the rein
Drawn, my spirits to restrain.
But I'm now so worn and old,
Half my sorrows can't be told.
When my services began,
How I loved my master, man!
I was pampered and caressed,--
Housed, and fed upon the best.
Many looked with hearts elate
At my graceful form and gait,--
At my smooth and glossy hair
Combed and brushed with daily care.
Studded trappings then I wore,
And with pride my master bore,--
Glad his kindness to repay
In my free, but silent way.
Then was found no nimble steed
That could equal me in speed,
So untiring, and so fleet
Were these now, old, aching feet.
But my troubles soon drew nigh:
Less of kindness marked his eye,
When my strength began to fail;
And he put me off at sale.
Constant changes were my fate,
Far too grievous to relate.
Yet I've been, to say the least,
Through them all a patient beast.
Older--weaker--still I grew:
Kind attentions all withdrew!
Little food, and less repose;
Harder burdens--heavier blows,--
These became my hapless lot,
Till I sunk upon the spot!
This maimed limb beneath me bent
With the pain it underwent.
Now I'm useless, old, and poor,
They have made my sentence sure;
And to-morrow is the day,
Set for me to limp away,
To some far, sequestered place,
There at once to end my race.
I stood by, and heard their plot--
Soon my woes shall be forgot!
Gentle lady, when I'm dead
By the blow upon my head,
Proving thus, the truest friend,
Him who brings me to my end;
Wilt thou bid them dig a grave
For their faithful, patient slave;
Then, my mournful story trace,
Asking mercy for my race?
=Humility; or, The Mushroom's Soliloquy.=
O, what, and whence am I, 'mid damps and dust,
And darkness, into sudden being thrust?
What was I yesterday? and what will be,
Perchance, to-morrow, seen or heard of me?
To bear the new, full glory of the morn,--
Beneath the garden wall I stand aside,
With all before me beauty, show, and pride.
Ah! why did Nature shoot me thus to light,
A thing unfit for use--unfit for sight;
Less like her work than like a piece of Art,
Whirled out and trimmed--exact in every part?
Unlike the graceful shrub, and flexible vine,
No fruit--no branch--nor leaf, nor bud, is mine.
No singing bird, nor butterfly, nor bee
Will come to cheer, caress, or flatter me.
No beauteous flower adorns my humble head,
No spicy odors on the air I shed;
But here I'm stationed, in my sombre suit,
With only top and stem--I've scarce a root!
Untaught of my beginning or my end,
I know not whence I sprung, or where I tend:
Yet I will wait, and trust; nor dare presume
To question Justice--I, a frail Mushroom!
=The Lost Nestlings.=
"Have you seen my darling nestlings?"
A mother-robin cried,
"I cannot, cannot find them,
Though I've sought them far and wide.
"I left them well this morning,
When I went to seek their food;
But I found, upon returning,
I'd a nest without a brood.
"O have you nought to tell me,
That will ease my aching breast,
About my tender offspring
That I left within the nest?
"I have called them in the bushes,
And the rolling stream beside;
Yet they come not at my bidding;--
I'm afraid they all have died!"
"I can tell you all about them;"
Said a little wanton boy
"For 'twas I that had the pleasure
Your nestlings to destroy.
"But I didn't think their mother
Her little ones would miss;
Or ever come to hail me
With a wailing sound, like this.
"I didn't know your bosom
Was formed to suffer woe,
And to mourn your murdered children,
Or I had not grieved you so.
"I am sorry that I've taken
The lives I can't restore;
And this regret shall teach me
To do the like no more.
"I ever shall remember
The wailing sound I've heard!
No more I'll kill a nestling,
To pain a mother-bird!"
=The Bat's Flight By Daylight An Allegory=.
A Bat one morn from his covert flew,
To show the world what a Bat could do,
By soaring off on a lofty flight,
In the open day, by the sun's clear light!
He quite forgot that he had for wings
But a pair of monstrous, plumeless things;
That, more than half like a fish's fin,
With a warp of bone, and a woof of skin,
Were only fit in the dark to fly,
In view of a bat's or an owlet's eye.
He sallied forth from his hidden hole,
And passed the door of his neighbor, Mole,
Who shrugged, and said, "Of the two so blind
The wisest, surely, stays behind!"
But he could not cope with the glare of day:
He lost his sight, and he missed his way;--
He wheeled on his flapping wings, till, "bump!"
His head went, hard on the farm-yard pump.
Then, stunned and posed, as he met the ground,
A stir and a shout in the yard went round;
For its tenants thought they had one come there,
That seemed not of water, earth, or air.
The Hen, "Cut, cut, cut-dah-cut!" cried,
For all to cut at the thing she spied;
While the taunting Duck said, "Quack, quack, quack!"
As her muddy mouth to the pool went back,
For something denser than sound, to show
Her sage disgust, at the quack to throw.
The old Turk strutted, and gobbled aloud,
Till he gathered around him a babbling crowd;
When each proud neck in the whole doomed group
Was poked with a condescending stoop,
And a pointed beak, at the prostrate Bat,
Which they eyed askance, as to ask, "What's _that_?"
But none could tell; and the poults moved off,
In their _select circle_ to leer and scoff.
The Goslings skulked; but their wise mamma,
She hissed, and screamed, till the Lambs cried, "Ba-a!"
When up from his straw sprang the gaping Calf,
With a gawky leap and a clammy laugh.
He stared--retreated--and off he went,
The wondrous news in his voice to vent,--
That he had discovered a _monster_ there--
A _bird four-footed, and clothed with hair_!
And had dashed his heel at the sight so odd,
It looked, he thought, like a _heathen god_!
The scuddling Chicks cried, "Peep, peep, peep!
For Boss looks high, but not very deep!
It is not a fowl! 'tis the worst of things,--
low, mean beast, with the use of wings,
So noiseless round on the air to skim,
You know not when you are safe from him."
There stood by, some of the bristly tribe,
Who felt so touched by the peeper's gibe,
Their backs were up; for they thought, at least,
It aimed at them the _low, mean beast:_
And they challenged Chick to her tiny face,
In their sharp, high notes, and their awful base.
Then old Chanticleer to his mount withdrew,
And gave from his rostrum a loud halloo.
He blew his clarion strong and shrill,
Till he turned all eyes to his height, the hill;
When he noised it round with his loudest crow,
That 't was none of the _plumed_ ones brought so low.
And, "Bow-wow-wow!" went the sentry Cur;
But he soon strolled off in a grave demur,
When he saw on the wonder, _hair_, like his,
_Two ears_, and a kind of _doubtful phiz;_
And he deemed it prudent to pause, and hark
In silence, for fear that the sight might _bark_!
At last came Puss, with a cautious pat
To feel the pulse of the quivering Bat,
That had not, under her tender paw,
A limb to move, nor a breath to draw!
Then she called her kit for a mother's gift,
And stilled its mew with the racy lift.
When Mole of the awful death was told,
"Alas!" cried she, "he had grown too bold--
Too vain and proud! Had he only kept,
Like the _prudent Mole_, in his nest, and slept.
Or worked underground, where none could see,
He might have still been alive, like me!"
While thus, so early the poor Bat died,
A cry, that it was but the fall of pride,
And signs of mirth, or of scorn, were all
He had from those who beheld his fall.
They each could triumph, and each condemn;
But no kind pity was shown by them.
And now, should we, as a mirror, place
This story out for the world to face,
How many, think you, would there perceive
Likeness to children of Adam and Eve?
See mischievous and idle Jack!
How fast he flies, nor dares look back!
He seized Horatio's pretty cart,
And broke and threw it part from part;
The body here, and there the wheels;
And now, by taking to his heels,
He makes the Scripture proverb true,--
_The wicked flee when none pursue._.
Oh! Jack's a worthless, wicked boy,
Who seems but evil to enjoy.
He often racks his naughty brain
Inventing ways of giving pain.
He loves to torture butterflies--
To dust the kitten's tender eyes--
To break the cricket's slender limb;
And pain to them is sport to him.
He sometimes to your garden comes,
To crush the flowers and steal the plums--
The melons tries with thievish gripe,
To find the one that's nearest ripe--
His pocket fills with grapes or pears,
No matter how their owner fares;
When, by its lawless, robber track,
You trace the foot of idle Jack.
Whenever Jack is sent to school,
He, playing truant, plays the fool:
Or else he goes, with sloven looks
And hands unclean, to spoil the books--
To spill the ink, or make a noise,
Disturbing good and studious boys;
Till all who find what Jack's about
Within the school, must wish him out.
If ever Jack at church appears,
He knows not, cares not, what he hears.
While others to the word attend,
He has a pencil-point to mend--
An apple, or his nails to pare,
Or cracks a nut in time of prayer,
Till many wish that Jack would come,
A better boy, or stay at home.
In short, he shows, beyond a doubt,
That, if he does not turn about,
And mend his morals and his ways,
He yet must come to evil days;
And of a life of wasted time--
Of idleness, and vice, and crime,
To meet, perhaps, a felon's end,
With neither man, nor God his friend.
=David and Goliath=.
Young David was a ruddy lad
With silken, sunny locks,
The youngest son that Jesse had:
He kept his father's flocks.
Goliath was a Philistine,
A giant, huge and high;
He lifted, like a towering pine,
His head towards the sky.
He was the foe of Israel's race.
A mighty warrior, too;
And on he strode from place to place,
And many a man he slew.
So Saul, the king of Israel then,
Proclaimed it to and fro,
That most he'd favor of his men
The one, who'd kill the foe.
Yet all, who saw this foe draw near,
Would feel their courage fail;
For not an arrow, sword, or spear,
Could pierce the giant's mail.
But Jesse's son conceived a way,
That would deliverance bring;
Whereby he might Goliath slay,
And thus relieve the king.
Then quick he laid his shepherd's crook
Upon a grassy bank;
And off he waded in the brook
From which the lambkins drank.
He culled and fitted to his sling
Five pebbles, smooth and round;
And one of these he meant should bring
The giant to the ground.
"I've killed a lion and a bear,"
Said he, "and now I'll slay
The Philistine, and by the hair
I'll bring his head away!"
Then onward to the battle-field
The youthful hero sped;
He knew Goliath by his shield,
And by his towering head.
But when, with only sling and staff,
The giant saw him come,
In triumph he began to laugh;
Yet David struck him dumb.
He fell! 'twas David's puny hand
That caused his overthrow!
Though long the terror of the land,
A pebble laid him low.
The blood from out his forehead gushed.
He rolled, and writhed, and roared:
The little hero on him rushed,
And drew his ponderous sword.
Before its owner's dying eye
He held the gleaming point
Upon his throbbing neck to try;
Then severed cord and joint.
He took the head, and carried it
And laid it down by Saul;
And showed him where the pebble hit
That caused the giant's fall.
The lad, who had Goliath slain
With pebbles and a sling,
Was raised in after years to reign
As Israel's second king!
'Twas not the courage, skill, or might
Which David had, alone,
That helped him Israel's foe to fight
And conquer, with a stone.
But, when the shepherd stripling went
The giant thus to kill,
God used him as an instrument
His purpose to fulfil!
=Escape of the Doves=.
Come back, pretty Doves! O, come back from the tree.
You bright little fugitive things!
We could not have thought you so ready and free
In using your beautiful wings.
We didn't suppose, when we lifted the lid,
To see if you knew how to fly,
You'd all flutter off in a moment, and bid
The basket for ever good-by!
Come down, and we'll feast you on insects and seeds;--
You sha'nt have occasion to roam--
We'll give you all things that a bird ever needs,
To make it contented at home.
Then come, pretty Doves! O, return for our sakes,
And don't keep away from us thus;
Or, when your old slumbering master awakes,
'Twill be a sad moment for us!
"We can't!" said the birds, "and the basket may stand
A long time in waiting; for now
You find out too late, that a bird in the hand
Is worth, at least, two on the bough.
"And we, from our height, looking down on you there,
By experience taught to be sage,--
Find, one pair of wings that are free in the air
Are worth two or three in the cage!
"But when our old master awakes, and shall find
The work you have just been about,
We hope, by the freedom we love, he'll be kind,
And spare you for letting us out.
"We thank you for all the fine stories you tell,
And all the good things you would give;
But think, since we're out, we shall do very well
Where nature designed us to live.
"Whene'er you may think of the swift little wings
On which from your reach we have flown,
No doubt, you'll beware, and not meddle with things,
In future, that are not your own."
=Edward and Charles=.
The brothers went out with the father to ride,
Where they looked for the flowers, that, along the way-side,
So lately were blooming and fair;
But their delicate heads by the frost had been nipped;
Their stalks by the blast were all twisted and stripped;
And nothing but ruin was there.
"Oh! how the rude autumn has spoiled the green hills!"
Exclaimed little Charles, "and has choked the bright rills
With leaves that are faded and dead!
The few on the trees are fast losing their hold.
And leaving the branches so naked and cold.
That the beautiful birds have all fled."
"I know," replied Edward, "the country has lost
A great many charms by the touch of the frost,
Which used to appear to the eye;
But then, it has opened the chestnut-burr too,
The walnut released from the case where it grew;
And now our _Thanksgiving_ is nigh!
"Oh! what do you think we shall do on that day?"
"I guess," answered Charles, "we shall all go away
To Grandpa's; and there find enough
Of turkeys, plum-puddings, and pies by the dozens,
For Grandpa' and Grandma', aunts, uncles and cousins;
And at night we'll all play blind-man's-buff.
"Perhaps we'll get Grandpa' to tell us some stories
About the old times, with their _Whigs_ and their _Tories_;
And what sort of men they could be;
When some spread their tables without any cloth,
With basins and spoons, and the fuming bean-broth,
Which they took for their coffee and tea.
"They'd queer kind of sights, I have heard Grandma' say,
About in their streets; for, if not every day,
At least it was nothing uncommon,
To see them pile on the poor back of one horse
A saddle and _pillion_; and what was still worse,
Up mounted a man and a woman!
"The lady held on by the driver; and so,
Away about town at full trot would they go;
Or perhaps to a great country marriage,--
To Thanksgiving-supper--to husking, or ball;
Or quilting; for thus did they take nearly all
Their rides, on an _animal_ carriage!
"I know not what _huskings_ and _quiltings_ maybe;
But Grandma' will tell; and perhaps let us see
Some things she has long laid away:--
That stiff damask gown, with its sharp-pointed waist,
The hoop, the craped, cushion, and buckles of paste,
Which they wore in her grandparent's day.
"She says they had buttons as large as our dollars,
To wear on their coats with their square, standing collars;
And then, there's a droll sort of hat,
Which Mary once fixed me one like, out of paper,
And said she believed 'twas called _three-cornered scraper_;
Perhaps, too, she'll let us see that.
"Oh! a glorious time we shall have! If they knew
At the south, what it is, I guess they'd have one too;
But I have heard somebody say,
That, there, they call all the New England folks _Bumpkins,_
Because we eat puddings, and pies made of pumpkins,
And have our good Thanksgiving-day."
"I think, brother Charles," returned Edward "at least,
That they might go to church, if they don't like the feast;
For to me it is much the best part,
To hear the sweet anthems of praise, that we give
To Him, on whose bounty we constantly live:--
It is feasting the ear and the heart.
"From Him, who has brought us another year round,
Who gives every blessing, wherewith we are crowned,
Their gratitude who can withhold?
And now how I wish I could know all the poor
Their Thanksgiving-stores had already secure,
Their fuel, and clothes for the cold!"
"I'm glad," said their father, "to hear such a wish;
But wishes alone, can fill nobody's dish,
Or clothe them, or build them a fire.
And now I will give you the money, my sons,
Which I promised, you know, for your drum and your guns,
To spend in the way you desire."
The brothers went home, thinking o'er by the way,
For how many comforts this money might pay,
In something for clothing or food:
At length they resolved, if their mother would spend it,
For what she thought best, they would get her to send it
Where she thought it would do the most good.
=The Mountain Minstrel=.
On our mountain of Savoy,
In the shadow of a rock,
Once I sat, a shepherd-boy,
Watching o'er my father's flock.
We'd a happy cottage-home,
Peaceful as the sparrow's nest,
Where, at evening, we could come
From our roamings to our rest.
I'd a minstrel's voice and ear:
I could whistle, pipe and sing,
While I roving, seemed to hear
Music stir in every thing.
But misfortune, like a blast.
Swift upon my father rushed;
From our dwelling we were cast--
At a stroke our peace was crushed.
All we had was seized for debt:
In the sudden overthrow,
Even my fond, fleecy pet,
My white cosset, too, must go.
Then I wandered, sad and lone,
Where I'd once a flock to feed;
All the treasure now my own
Was my simple pipe of reed.
But a noble, pitying friend,
Who had seen me sadly stray,
Made me to his lute attend;
And he taught me how to play.
Then his lute to me he gave;
And abroad he bade me roam,
Till the earnings I could save
Would redeem our cottage-home.
Glad, his counsel straight I took--
I received his gift with joy;
All my former ways forsook,
And became a minstrel-boy.
With my mountain airs to sing,
Forward then I roamed afar,
Sweeping still the tuneful string--
Having hope my leading star.
In the hamlets where I've gone,
Groups would gather--music-bound:
In the cities I have drawn
List'ners till my hopes were crowned.
Ever saving as I earned,
I of one dear object dreamed;
To my mountain then returned,
And our cottage-home redeemed.
Time has wiped away our tears;
Here we dwell together blest;
All our sorrows, doubts and fears
I have played and sung to rest.
Here my aged parents live
Free from want, and toil, and cares;
All the bliss that earth can give
Deem they in this home of theirs.
Life's night-shades fast o'er them creep;
All their wrongs have been forgiven--
They have but to fall asleep
In their cot, to wake in heaven.
Gentle friend, dost thou inquire
What's the lineage whence I came?
Jesse is my shepherd sire--
David-Jesse is my name!
=The Veteran and the Child=.
"Come, grandfather, show how you carried your gun
To the field, where America's freedom was won,
Or bore your old sword, which you say was new then,
When you rose to command, and led forward your men;
And tell how you felt with the balls whizzing by,
Where the wounded fell round you, to bleed and to die!"
The prattler had stirred, in the veteran's breast,
The embers of fire that had long been at rest.
The blood of his youth rushed anew through his veins;
The soldier returned to his weary campaigns;
His perilous battles at once fighting o'er,
While the soul of nineteen lit the eye of four-score.
"I carried my musket, as one that must be
But loosed from the hold of the dead, or the free!
And fearless I lifted my good, trusty sword,
In the hand of a mortal, the strength of the Lord!
In battle, my vital flame freely I felt
Should go, but the chains of my country to melt!
"I sprinkled my blood upon Lexington's sod,
And Charlestown's green height to the war-drum I trod.
From the fort, on the Hudson, our guns I depressed,
The proud coming sail of the foe to arrest.
I stood at Stillwater, the Lakes and White Plains,
And offered for freedom to empty my veins!
"Dost now ask me, child, since thou hear'st here I've been,
Why my brow is so furrowed, my locks white and thin--
Why this faded eye cannot go by the line,
Trace out little beauties, and sparkle like thine;
Or why so unstable this tremulous knee,
Who bore 'sixty years since,' such perils for thee?
"What! sobbing so quick? are the tears going to start?
Come! lean thy young head on thy grandfather's heart!
It has not much longer to glow with the joy
I feel thus to clasp thee, so noble a boy!
But when in earth's bosom it long has been cold,
A man, thou'lt recall, what, a babe, thou art told."
There's many a one who oft has heard
The name of Robert Kidd,
Who cannot tell, perhaps, a word
Of him, or what he did.
So, though I never saw the man,
And lived not in his day;
I'll tell you how his guilt began--
To what it paved the way.
'Twas in New York Kidd had his home;
And there he left his wife
And children, when he went to roam,
And lead a seaman's life.
Now Robert had as firm a hand,
A heart as stern and brave,
As ever met in one on land,
Or on the briny wave.
'Twas in the third king William's time,
When many a pirate bold
Committed on the seas the crime
Of shedding blood for gold.
So Captain Kidd was singled out
As one devoid of fears,
To take a ship and cruise about
Against the Bucaniers.
The ship was armed with many a gun,
And manned with many a man,
Across the southern seas to run
To foil the pirate's plan.
But when she long, from isle to isle,
Without success had sailed,
And made no capture all the while,
Her master's patience failed.
The prizes he so oft had sought,
He found he sought in vain;
And soon a wicked, bloody thought,
Came into Robert's brain!
His mind he opened to his men;
And found his guilty crew
Agreed with him, that they, from then,
Would all turn pirates too!
He threw his Bible in the deep,
Defied its Author's will;
And, with his conscience put to sleep,
Began to rob and kill.
And now the desperado reigned,
A tyrant on the waves;
While they whose blood his hands had stained,
Went down to watery graves.
No merchant ship could near him go,
Which he would not annoy;
For Kidd was passing to and fro,
And seeking to destroy.
He seized the vessel, plunged the knife
Within the seamen's breast:
And by a cruel waste of life,
His evil gains possessed.
He then would make the nearest isle.
And go at night by stealth,
To hide within the earth awhile
His last ill-gotten wealth.
Thus, many a shining wedge of gold
This modern Achan hid;
And many a frightful tale was told
About the pirate, Kidd.
But Justice does not slumber long;
If slow, she's ever sure.
There's none too artful, quick, or strong
For her to make secure!
To Boston, with a brazen face,
The pirate boldly went,
Where he was seized; and in disgrace
And chains, to England sent.
The captain and his crew were there,
A solemn, fearful sight;
Resigning life high up in air,
E'en at the gibbet's height!
For many a year their bodies hung
Along the river side;
As beacons, showing old and young
How they had lived and died.
The wealth they hid was never found.
Though often sought of men.
'Tis where they placed it in the ground,
Till they should come again!
The earth has seemed by Heaven constrained.
The treasures to withhold
That price of blood has none obtained,
Or used the pirate's gold!
=The Dying Storm=.
I am feeble, pale and weary,
And my wings are nearly furled.
I have caused a scene so dreary,
I am glad to quit the world.
While with bitterness I'm thinking
On the evil I have done,
To my caverns deep I'm sinking
From the coming of the sun.
Oh! the heart of man will sicken