ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL. 31 They were a free and jovial race, but The little Captain stood and stirred the honest, brave, and true, That dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new. posset with his sword, And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board. A Spanish galleon brought the bar; so He poured the fiery Hollands in, runs the ancient tale; "T was hammered by an Antwerp smith, And now and then between the strokes, man that never feared, He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard; And one by one the musketeers the "T was purchased by an English squire That night, affrighted from his nest, the to please his loving dame, screaming eagle flew, Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, longing for the same; the soldier's wild halloo; And oft as on the ancient stock another And there the sachem learned the rule And then, of course, you know what's next, it left the Dutchman's shore With those that in the Mayflower came, - a hundred souls and more, Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes, he taught to kith and kin, "Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin!" A A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows, thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose, When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy, 'T was mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy. Drink, John, she said, 't will do you good, poor child, you'll never bear This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air; And if God bless me! - you were hurt, 't would keep away the chill; To judge by what is still on hand, at So John did drink, and well he least a hundred loads. wrought that night at Bunker's Hill! in good old English cheer; I was on a dreary winter's eve, the I tell you, there was generous warmth night was closing dim, When brave Miles Standish took the I tell you, 't was a pleasant thought to bowl, and filled it to the brim; bring its symbol here; 'Tis but the fool that loves excess; | But soon they knocked the wigwams hast thou a drunken soul? Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl! down, And pine-tree trunk and limb Began to sprout among the leaves In shape of steeples slim ; I love the memory of the past, its And out the little wharves were stretched Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear But when the Greek and Hebrew words it straight to me; Came tumbling from their jaws, The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er The copper-colored children all The crows came cawing through the air God bless the ancient Puritans ! To pluck the pilgrims' corn, Their lot was hard enough; The bears came snuffing round the door But honest hearts make iron arms, Whene'er a babe was born, The rattlesnakes were bigger round Than the but of the old ram's horn The deacon blew at meeting time On every "Sabbath" morn. And tender maids are tough; So love and faith have formed and fed Our true-born Yankee stuff, And keep the kernel in the shell The British found so rough! THE ISLAND HUNTING-SONG. · THE ISLAND HUNTING-SONG. So, ere the waning seasons claim Our leafless groves awhile, Once more the merry voices sound And long and loud the baying hounds - THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 33 DEPARTED DAYS. YES, dear departed, cherished days, But, like a child in ocean's arms, And through the woods, and o'er the hill, Each moment fainter wave the fields, THEY bid me strike the idle strings, As if it were not time To lift my gauntlet and to spurn The lists of boyish rhyme; Some weakness in my heart The thoughts grown tame with toil, That wastes the midnight oil. Alas! with every year I feel Some roses leave my brow; Yet, while the dewy breath of spring And spreads and fans each emerald wing Had I one look like thine, To meet me when the morning beam Unseals these lids of mine! That bids my heart run wild How oft beyond the dashing seas, Amidst those royal bowers, Where danced the lilacs in the breeze, And swung the chestnut-flowers, I wandered like a wearied slave Whose morning task is done, To watch the little hands that gave Their whiteness to the sun; To revel in the bright young eyes, Whose lustre sparkled through The sable fringe of Southern skies Or gleamed in Saxon blue ! How oft I heard another's name Called in some truant's tone; Sweet accents! which I longed to claim, To learn and lisp my own! Too soon the gentle hands, that pressed Where first he breathed and smiled; Too oft the clinging arms untwine, The melting lips forget, And darkness veils the bridal shrine Where wreaths and torches met; If Heaven but leaves a single thread Of Hope's dissolving chain, Even when her parting plumes are spread, It bids them fold again; The cradle rocks beside the tomb; The cheek now changed and chill Smiles on us in the morning bloom Of one that loves us still. Sweet image! I have done thee wrong Must bear my tears away. Yet, in thy memory shouldst thou keep This else forgotten strain, Till years have taught thine eyes to weep, And flattery's voice is vain; O then, thou fledgling of the nest, Like the long-wandering dove, Thy weary heart may faint for rest, As mine, on changeless love; And while these sculptured lines retrace The hours now dancing by, This vision of thy girlish grace May cost thee, too, a sigh. SONG WRITTEN FOR THE DINNER GIVEN TO CHARLES DICKENS, BY THE YOUNG MEN OF BOSTON, FEB. 1, 1842. THE stars their early vigils keep, -- The silent hours are near, When drooping eyes forget to weep, Yet still we linger here; And what-the passing churl may ask Can claim such wondrous power, That Toil forgets his wonted task, And Love his promised hour? The Irish harp no longer thrills, Or breathes a fainter tone; The clarion blast from Scotland's hills, Alas! no more is blown ; And Passion's burning lip bewails Her Harold's wasted fire, Still lingering o'er the dust that veils The Lord of England's lyre. But grieve not o'er its broken strings, Nor think its soul hath died, While yet the lark at heaven's gate sings, Ye healers of men, for a moment decline line; While you shut up your turnpike, your neighbors can go, The old roundabout road, to the regions below. You clerk, on whose ears are a couple of pens, And whose head is an ant-hill of units and tens; Though Plato denies you, we welcome you still As a featherless biped, in spite of your quill. Poor drudge of the city! how happy he feels, With the burs on his legs, and the grass at his heels! No dodger behind, his bandannas to share, No constable grumbling, "You must n't walk there!" In yonder green meadow, to memory dear, He slaps a mosquito and brushes a tear; The dew-drops hang round him on blossoms and shoots, He breathes but one sigh for his youth and his boots. Take a whiff from our fields, and your There stands the old school-house, hard excellent wives by the old church; Will declare it's all nonsense insuring That tree at its side had the flavor of your lives. Come you of the law, who can talk, if you please, Till the man in the moon will allow it's a cheese, birch; And leave "the old lady, that never tells By the side of yon river he weeps and lies," he slumps, To sleep with her handkerchief over her The boots fill with water, as if they were pumps, eyes. |