The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all! Yes, we're boys,—always playing with tongue or with pen, — Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE, OR THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY" A LOGICAL STORY Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, itah, but stay, I'll tell you what happened without delay, Frightening people out of their wits, — Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. It was on the terrible Earthquake-day Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, Above or below, or within or without, That a chaise breaks down, but does n't wear out. But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, It should be so built that it could n' break daown : Is only jest T' make that place uz strong uz the rest.” So the Deacon inquired of the village folk The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum," - And the wedges flew from between their lips, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; That was the way he "put her through." Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less! Children and grandchildren where were they? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay EIGHTEEN HUNDRED; it came and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came; - And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE. Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year (This is a moral that runs at large; Take it. You 're welcome. - No extra charge.) FIRST of NOVEMBER, - the Earthquake-day, There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavor of mild decay, But nothing local, as one may say. There could n't be, for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there was n't a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, First of November, 'Fifty-five! This morning the parson takes a drive. Then something decidedly like a spill, End of the wonderful one-hoss shay THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main, — The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed, Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born. Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! While on my ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings: Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! |