THE STEAMBOAT. SEE how you flaming herald treads She rends the clinging sea, The morning spray, ers, And many a foresail, scooped and strained, Shall break from yard and stay, Before this smoky wreath has stained The rising mist of day. Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud, I see yon quivering mast; The black throat of the hunted cloud like sea-born flow- An hour, and, whirled like winnowing With heaped and glistening bells, Falls round her fast, in ringing show ers, With every wave that swells; And, burning o'er the midnight deep, The living gems of ocean sweep With clashing wheel, and lifting keel, And smoking torch on high, chaff, The giant surge shall fling White as the sea-bird's wing! Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep; With floods of living fire; Sleep on, and, when the morning light Streams o'er the shining bay, When winds are loud, and billows reel, O think of those for whom the night She thunders foaming by; When seas are silent and serene, With even beam she glides, The sunshine glimmering through the green That skirts her gleaming sides. Now, like a wild nymph, far apart Still sounding through the storm; The reddening surges o'er, The Pharos of the shore. To-night yon pilot shall not sleep, Who trims his narrowed sail; Shall never wake in day! LEXINGTON. SLOWLY the mist o'er the meadow was creeping, Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun, When from his couch, while his children were sleeping, Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun. Waving her golden veil Over the silent dale, Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire; Hushed was his parting sigh, While from his noble eye Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire. Many a belted breast On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springing Calmly the first-born of glory have Ere the dark hunters the herd have From their far hamlets the yeomanry Girded for battle, from mountain to high; main. Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying! Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest, While o'er their ashes the starry fold flying Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest. Borne on her Northern pine, Long o'er the foaming brine Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun; Heaven keep her ever free, Wide as o'er land and sea Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won! ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL. THIS ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times, Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and merry Christmas chimes; 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,—the runs the ancient tale; "T was hammered by an Antwerp smith, And now and then between the strokes, man that never feared, 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, 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. Drink, John, she said, 't will do you 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! "I was on a dreary winter's eve, the I tell you, there was generous warmth night was closing dim, in good old English cheer; 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; down, '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 And pine-tree trunk and limb In shape of steeples slim ; - its And out the little wharves were stretched Along the ocean's rim, The moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy on its towers; And up the little school-house shot To keep the boys in trim. And, when at length the College rose, The sachem cocked his eye At every tutor's meagre ribs Whose coat-tails whistled by: 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 "Sabbath morn. On every And tender maids are tough; So love and faith have formed and fed The British found so rough! And through the woods, and o'er the hill, Each moment fainter wave the fields, And far along the bay, The driver's horn is sounding shrill, Up, sportsmen, and away! No bars of steel, or walls of stone, Our little empire bound, But, circling with his azure zone, The sea runs foaming round; The whitening wave, the purpled skies, The blue and lifted shore, Braid with their dim and blending dyes Our wide horizon o'er. And who will leave the grave debate That shakes the smoky town, To rule amid our island-state, And wear our oak-leaf crown? And who will be awhile content To hunt our woodland game, And leave the vulgar pack that scent The reeking track of fame? Ah, who that shares in toils like these Ye outlaws of the wood, 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, To cheat this lone and pallid ray, That wastes the midnight oil. Alas! with every year I feel Some roses leave my brow; Too young for wisdom's tardy seal, Too old for garlands now ; |