WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 2)

The Arrow and the Song. I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in his flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterwards, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

The Birds and the Pheasant. I shot a partridge in the air, It fell in turnips, “Don,” knew where; For just as it dropped, with my right I stopped another in its flight. I killed a pheasant in the copse, It fell amongst the fir-tree tops; For though a pheasant’s flight is strong, A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long. Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie, I found the birds in jelly lie; And the pheasant, at a fortnight’s end, I found again in the carte of a friend. Punch, October 12, 1867.

Ballad. The Ex-Premier. (Mr. Gladstone). I wrote a pamphlet t’other day; It fell still-born in the usual way; For the public knew ’twas the old, old tale, And they thought it just a wee bit stale. I wrote an article in a “mag,” And it made its circulation flag; For the readers knew ’twas my only work To speak about th’ unspeakable Turk! Not long after my spirits sunk, For I found the pamphlet lining a trunk; And the article (degradation utter) Was round a pat of the best salt butter. Truth. Christmas Number, 1877.

The Arrow and the Hound. At Shanklin, in the Isle of Wight, I shot an arrow such a height, It fell to earth, I know not where, And, sooth to say, I do not care. A poem to a mag. I sent, Receiving no acknowledgment; The subject was, I know not what— If e’er I knew I have forgot. A traveller the arrow found Half-buried in his faithful hound, And what he said in his distress I do not know—I dare not guess. And soon, when reading in the train, I found my poem once again; But on the fire that in it burned, A comic hydrant had been turned. What verse with arrow had to do I know not now—I never knew! But that such things should hap no more I called upon the editor. I aimed an arrow with such care, It hit I scarce remember where; A tear stood in his bright blue eye, He turned, and called me with a sigh— But what, to tell you were not right; Besides, I have forgotten quite; But arrow, editor, and hound, Are famed to earth’s remotest bound. Excelsior Junior. The Topical Times, June 14, 1884.

The Soirée. (After “The Arsenal at Springfield.”) This is the Soirée: from grate to entrance, Like milliners’ figures, stand the lovely girls; But from their silent lips no merry sentence Disturbs the smoothness of their shining curls. Ah! what will rise, how will they rally, When shall arrive the “gentlemen of ease!” What brilliant repartee, what witty sally, Will mingle with their pleasant symphonies! I hear even now the infinite sweet chorus, The laugh of ecstacy, the merry tone, That through the evenings that have gone before us In long reverberations reach our own. From round-faced Germans come the guttural voices, Through curling moustache steals the Italian clang, And, loud amidst their universal noises, From distant corners sounds the Yankee twang. I hear the Editor, who from his office Sends out his paper, filled with praise and puff, And holy priests, who, when they warn the scoffers, Beat the fine pulpit, lined with velvet stuff. The tumult of each saqued, and charming maiden, The idle talk that sense and reason drowns, The ancient dames with jewelry o’erladen, And trains depending from the brocade gowns— The pleasant tone, whose sweetness makes us wonder, The laugh of gentlemen, and ladies, too, And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of some lady blue,— Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, With pastimes so ridiculous as these, Thou drownest Nature’s sweet and kindly voices, And jarrest the celestial harmonies? Were half the wealth that fills the world with ladies, Were half the time bestowed on caps and lace, Given to the home, the husbands, and the babies, There were no time to visit such a place. Poems and Parodies. By Phœbe Carey (Ticknor, Reed, and Fields). Boston, United States, 1854.

DOLLARINE; A TALE OF CALIFORNIA. A Fragment in Hexameters. By Professor W. H. Longandshortfellow, Of Cambridge, Connecticut. In St. Francisco located was Nathan Jehoiakim Bowie; Down by the wharf on the harbour he traded in liquors and dry goods, Darned hard knot at a deal, at Meetin’ a powerful elder. There at his store, in the shade, they met, onbraced and enlightened Traders and trappers and captings, and lawyers and editors also. Freely they liquored and chewed, indulgin’ in expectoration, Rockin’ with heels over heads, and whittling’, laborious, the counter. Like dough-nut at a frolic, or yellow-pine stump in a clearin’, Sharp as a backwoodsman’s axe, and cute as a bachelor beaver, Glimmer’d, through clouds of Virginny, the cypherin’ mug of Nathaniel. Sweeter nor candy of maple, a’most too genteel to be raal, Straight as a hickory sapling and clean as a Nar’ganset pacer Tall she moved through the bar, a-sarvin’ of juleps and cock-tails, Sweetenin’ the cobblers with smiles, and firin’ Havannahs with glances, Nathan J. Bowie’s fair darter, splendiferous Miss Dollarina! Tall she moved thro’ the bar, collectin’ the joes and the cents in: Not that she needed to did it, but ’cause nigger helps there’s no trustin’, And she was too tender-hearted to get the black varmint cow-hided. —There in pastoral peace, since first the location was ceded, Dwelt the old man and his child, beneath their own vine and their fig-tree, Doin’ a good stroke of business, for cash or beaver-skins only. On Nat’s. roof of split shingle, illustrious Governor Tarbox Hoisted the Stars and the Stripes, representative there of the Mighty, The Free, and the Fearless of airth, the Go-a-head ’Merican people; Boarded there the great Tarbox, and took his horn like a mere man, Paying four dollars per diem for grub, grog, shake-down, and washin’. Then came down, like iled lightning, on St. Francisco a rumour— Fame her brazen trump turned best mint metal to puff it— How that the root of all evil was found growin’ wild up the country, How gold stuck to folk’s fingers that washed in the St. Sacramento! Nat. chawed two plugs extra to hear it; the editor swore he Wished to be darned, if it wasn’t a caution how folks could be gammoned. “My!” sighed sweet Dollarina, and paused as she squoze a half lemon; But the magnanimous Tarbox, he reckoned ’tmight be kinder likely, Seein’ the States whipt the airth for men, and why not for metals? Came from the diggins a straanger, with two carpet-bags full of goold dust; Nathan diskivered the fact, as he traded a pinch for a gin-sling; And as that straanger loafed, thro’ the bar, from parlor to bedroom, Streams of the glorious sand oozed out through a hole in his trousers. —Gathered the rumour and grew, and soon rose a sudden demand for Calabash, can, keg, and kettle; and Nathan’s prime lot of tin fixin’s, Crockery, also, went off at figgers that beat to eternal Smash all prices he’d thought, in dreams e’en, of e’er realisin’. Soon the traders upped hook, and the editor talked edifyin’ All about lucre and dross; and the lawyer convened it was awful; Till one mornin’ trampoused the lawyer and editor with him. Off were the trappers for beaver, they said, but “it warn’t noways likely,” 15 Nathan remarked, “they would strike beaver-trail in them there locations.” Then the captings went too, they said, to bring back their sailors; And as it stands to natur’, their customers followed the captings. Next the Meetin’s they thinned—that’s a fact—till, down to the elders, Dropped, like leaves in the fall, congregations of e’en the awakened. Ontil the deacon was forced to look arter the flock of backsliders, Minister mizzlin’ himself, before long, to look arter the deacon. Why should Nathan hold on, with his bar of its customers empty, Strawers unsucked in the cobblers, and mint unplucked in the garding, Swopped his prime tin doin’s, or sold to the uttermost pipkin? So he went—but before him the helps, black and Irish, had vanished. Lone in the shanty she lingered, the fair and forlorn Dollarina— Lone like a flower, in the face of great natur’, and Governor Tarbox! Blushin’ she bowed to the governor’s snigger, when first to his bed-room, Bearin’ his boots and his breakfast, she came like a minist’rin’ angel— Blushin’ she raised her bright face—and the Governor swore catawampus, “Burn my old bree—that is, boots—gals like you didn’t ought for to do it.” —Soft was the heart of Great Tarbox, and most horrid hansum the maiden, Loftily spoke he of goold, and the tarnal low hitch of the humans, Leavin’ such gals all alone, to go the whole hog at the washin’s. Sweetly she’d set there beside him, the while with his governor’s hands he Washed his own dicky or fried his simple repast of pork fixins; Sweetly she sot there beside him, and Tarbox a-slavin’ was happy! Still now and then that bright eye from its tail would glance up to the mountains, And a faint sigh be the echo of Tarboxes glowin’ soft sawder; Oft in her pail of ablution he’d catch her a rinsin’ the water; And once she ventured to murmur, “I wonder what nateral goold’s like.” —Down came the moment at last—set Tarbox a-mendin’ his shoe-sole, Breathin’ his love in a Sonnet, and chawin’ a plug of tobaccer— Entered the maiden so stately—and bowin’ her beauty before him, Smilingly, sobbingly uttered, “Adoo—I am off for the diggins!” * * * * * Burst the full heart of Great Tarbox—— (Here the MSS., becomes illegible, apparently from tears). Punch, January 20, 1849.

The Lost Tails of Miletus. High on the Thracian hills, half hid in the billows of clover, Thyme, and the asphodel blooms, and lulled by Pactolian streamlet, She of Miletus lay, and beside her an aged satyr Scratched his ear with his hoof, and playfully mumbled his chestnuts. Vainly the Mænid and the Bassarid gambolled about her, The free-eyed Bacchante sang, and Pan—the renowned, the accomplished— Executed his difficult solo. In vain were their gambols and dances! High o’er the Thracian hills rose the voice of the shepherdess, wailing— “Ai! for the fleecy flocks,—the meek-nosed, the passionless faces; Ai! for the tallow-scented, the straight-tailed, the high-stepping; Ai! for the timid glance, which is that which the rustic, sagacious, Applies to him who loves but may not declare his passion!” Her then Zeus answered slow: “O daughter of song and sorrow,— Hapless tender of sheep,—arise from thy long lamentation! Since thou canst not trust fate, nor behave as becomes a Greek maiden, Look and behold thy sheep.”—And lo! they returned to her tailless! Bret Harte.

“Should you ask me whence the Stories? Whence the legends and traditions’ That have furnished forth our Artists With the most attractive subjects For the present exhibition?” “I should answer, I should tell you, They have drawn them from the Poets, From the Book-of-books have drawn them, From the best Historic sources, From the Mountains, Lakes, and Rivers, From the Hills, the Lanes, the Meadows, From the Highland and the Lowland, And the mighty surging Ocean; And the Portraits, large and little, And the Portraits of all sizes, With their frequent repetitions, Pillars, table cloths and curtains, From the Court, the Camp, the Senate, And plain Gentlemen and Ladies.” * * * * *

The Song of Progress. Should you ask me, “Why this hubbub? Why this coming strife of parties? Why the Hyde Park Demonstration? Why the mighty northern meeting? Why Conservatives take counsel With their own selected members, Each admitted with a ticket?” I should answer you in this wise, “Harken to the Song of Progress, Listen to the din of warfare— Listen for the coming triumph Of the People o’er the Peerage.” By the dark and murky waters, Foul and dank with filth and sewage, Waters which are not pellucid, Of the noble river Isis, Stands a large and stately Palace, Where th’ elected of the people Meet for work of legislation. One a Party firm, united, Loved and trusted by the People. They the Party are of Progress— Ever have been, ever must be; They the champions who do battle ’Gainst hereditary privilege. Their opponents are a Party Smaller far and disunited. Dwarfed in mind, with doings crooked, Quick to “execute a sharp curve,” With no Policy whatever, Save to stop the work of Progress, They the Party are of Privilege, Who oppose, and ever have done, Social progress of the masses. Should you ask me why the Peerage Rule responsible to no one, What their deeds of wondrous valour, What their wisdom unsurpassed, What their nobleness of nature, What their learning, power, or goodness, That they thus should reign supreme there, I should answer you, “I know not.” This I know, that tho’ their country Scarcely knows the names of any, On the racecourse every welcher, Every gambling scoundrel, blackleg, Knows them there by tens and dozens. I should answer ’tis a relic Of the ignorant Middle Ages, When the king held all the country, Shared it with his greater barons, And the toilers were in bondage. One by one the links of thraldom Have been rent and burst asunder; Few the fetters that are left us Of the hateful Feudal system; But this one stands trembling, tottering, Till the breath of further Freedom, Strengthened by the voice of Gladstone, Bright, and Chamberlain, and Picton, Broadhurst, Illingworth, and Lawson, Shall abolish it for ever. Funny Folks, August 16, 1884.

The shades of night were falling fast, When, through the House of Commons, passed A youth, with curls not over nice, Who bore as motto and device— Excelsior! His brow was dark, his eye beneath Flashed from its eyelid’s dusky sheath, And, with a nasal music, rung The accents of his Hebrew tongue— Excelsior! “Thou offshoot of a withered branch! Beware the scornful avalanche, Which shall o’erwhelm thy speech to-night!” A voice replied, in shame and spite, Excelsior! “Stay,” said the maiden Muse, “and rest Thy weary head upon this breast;” He either wept or winked his eye, And said with simulated sigh, Excelsior! Now in life’s twilight, old and grey, He seems to hear his rival say, From his high place, serene and far, “Ha, Lucifer! thou fallen star,” Excelsior! Gossamer.

The Workhouse. The shades of night were falling fast As through a London alley passed A woman, wan, with hands of ice, The workhouse sought, from cold and vice— Moritura! In happy homes she saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright; Above, the planets glittering shone, From her pale lips escaped a groan— Moritura! “Try not to pass,” the porter said; Dark lowers his visage overhead— “No order; rules I must abide;” And weak that weary voice replied, Moritura! “O stay,” a sister said, “and rest Thy weary head upon my breast.” A tear stood in her dull grey eye, And still she answered with a sigh, Moritura! There, in the daybreak, cold and gray, Lifeless, on workhouse steps she lay; And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, Est Mortua! Bob.

The Griffin. The tawny folds of London fog Fell round the lamp-lit Court of Gog. Clarions and toasts were loud within; A weird cry mingled with the din— “One blunder more!” Forth from that glorified Guildhall A griffin reeled with easy sprawl; Through mire and midnight, floundering west He hooted, like a brute possessed— “One blunder more!” “Halt!” cried the watchmen of St. Bride, As hastily they edged aside. “Try Scotland Yard!” a small boy said; The answer came, from far ahead— “One blunder more!” A pilgrim, under Street’s new clock, Beheld him climb the Temple block, A chuckle through the darkness passed— “This blessed night we’ve crowned at last “One blunder more!” And when the morn broke, soft and fair, Lifeless he stood, erect in air; A stark and startling beast of brass, Completing, in the Fleet-street pass One blunder more! Glen June.

The Country Fair. Night was fast falling o’er the scene, As through the crowd on village green, There passed a youth, who once or twice Said, as he stopped to eat an ice, Excelsior! “Climb not the pole,” an old man said, “The grease will spoil your trousers, Ned;” With upward glance the youth replied, “The mutton at the top is tied.” Excelsior! “O stay,” a maiden said, and sighed, “And take me for a donkey ride;” He grasped the pole, and in reply, He softly murmured with a sigh, Excelsior 18 “Beware!” a withered crone cried out, “Take care, take care what you’re about:” Far up the pole they heard him pant, As though his breath was rather scant, Excelsior! Just as he neared the prize he stopped, Then quick as falling star he dropped, He laid upon the ground and groaned, Yet still in feeble accents moaned, Excelsior! Minnie Mum.

The shades of night were falling fast, As thro’ a local village pass’d A youth, who rode a Rudge, once bright, He cried, as onward sped his flight, “What roads!” His brow was sad, the road beneath Resembled much dull Hounslow Heath, And in a voice, just tinged with ire, Cried as he still rode through the mire, “What roads!” In happy “pubs.” he saw the light Of Argand burners very bright, Said he, “I’ll stop and try a drink.” Mine host replied with knowing wink, “What roads!” “Try on the path,” the landlord said, “Our Robert’s ‘off,’ e’en gone to bed.” “A good idea,” the youth replied, “And one that shall be quickly tried, “What roads!” “Oh! stay,” the barmaid said, “and rest.” The wheelman answered, “Pray don’t jest!” I’ll TRY the path, it can’t be worse, Which brings us to another verse. What roads! “Beware the stones that lie in heaps “Beware the dog the farmer keeps.” The wheelist mounted, sped away, And hailed the light of breaking day. What roads! Just then, X 20, on his track, Stopp’d short the youth’s career, alack! In vain he pleads, “This isn’t fair!” X 20 takes him you know where. What roads! There in the Court with face quite ruddy He urges that, “The roads were muddy.” Vain hope! The Chairman with a sob, Murmur’d serenely, “Fined Five Bob!” “What roads!” W. F. Field.

Sloper. The shades of night were falling fast, As o’er a station platform passed A youth, who bore, with step precise, A paper with the strange device Of Sloper. His coat was torn, his hair unkempt, His face from water long exempt, But quick his action, sharp his eye As loud he shouted, “Who will buy A Sloper.” “Stay!” said an old man, “stay, my boy, Who ought to be your mother’s joy, Linger a while, and give to me (For I would wish amused to be) A Sloper.” “Here!” said a maiden, sad yet “swell,” In accents like a silver bell, “Come here, my youth, and I will try To drown my sorrow; I will buy A Sloper.” And soon from every side there came The accents of that well-known name, Until the little urchin stands, And there’s not in his dirty hands A Sloper. There in the gas-light, clearly seen, The little boy stood “all serene;” A smile lit up his bright blue eye, He whistled loud, and ceased his cry Of Sloper.

The War Blacksmith. Under its sulphurous canopy Old Vulcan’s smithy stands, And Vulcan, grown a man-of-war, Has so much on his hands, That stocks run low, and files but show War-orders and demands. His Cyclops when he needed most, Off every Cyclops ran; For why should not a Cyclop do As another working-man, And take the time when trade is brisk To insist on all he can? So every day, and all day long Poor Vulcan’s sweat must flow, Toiling for Europe’s sovereigns, And still the orders grow For breech-loaders, and armour-plates, Steel-shot and chilled also. With Chassepots for the Emperor (O’er Dreyses they’ve the pull); With Remingtons for Austria, And Sniders for John Bull, Balls, Cochranes, Mountstorms, Henries, His hands may well be full. Meanwhile the Emperor writes to us, And bids us be good boys: It does one good to hear him preach, And see how he enjoys The shift of weights that trim the Powers For Europe’s equipoise. 19 How glad he is that Prussia comes So strong out of the row, That Italy Venetia gains— Viâ France, as all allow: Proving “whatever is, is best”— At all events, just now. And when France sulks that East and South Her neighbours’ power increases, He hints, ’tis not from every smash She can “pick up the pieces,” While Peace is Peace, although it brings No Savoys, and no Nices. Some say ’tis like the voice that once Wiled Eve in Paradise: But it preaches so delightfully, And gives such good advice, Bidding France arm, because she’s sure Of peace at any price. So Vulcan all his toil and stock Must on War’s task bestow, And iron, good for spade and share For sword and gun must go: For before this the Emperor’s word Has been a word and blow. Then let us thank the Emperor For the lesson he has taught, That it is in the forge of War The arms of Peace are wrought, And if we haven’t breech-loaders, Breech-loaders must be bought. Punch, September 29, 1866.

The Lord Chancellor. (Loq.) “Were it once known that only right could win, No villain then an action would begin; Did rogues not know how equal was their chance With honest men’s, false claims they’d not advance; In short, were only simple justice done, The special pleader’s course were well-nigh run.”

Song: The Lord Chancellor. Tune: “The Village Blacksmith.” Under a stunted black elm tree The Q.C.’s chambers are; Q.C., a leading silk is he, With name known near and far; And the practice he’s contrived to make Is famous at the bar. His wig is crisp, and soiled, and black— That’s where the ink once ran— His eye is bright, and apt to roll, ’Tis his most favourite plan; And he looks a jury in the face As very few men can. Week in, week out, from ten till four, You can hear his language flow; You can see him hitch his gown and swing His arm with motion slow, Like a ranter beating the Holy Book With a downright thumping blow! And country people up in town Look in at the Law-court’s door; For they like to see the great Q.C., And hear his voice’s roar; And ’tis thought a bit of luck to catch Him standing on the floor. He sits on Sundays in his rooms, And “tots” up his week’s fees; He thinks on those he hasn’t earned, And had no right to seize: And much it makes his heart rejoice As he turns over these. He thinks of verdicts he has won, By torture and by lies; Of verdicts lost through his default Thoughts will unbidden rise: Through one a widow lost her all, He seems to hear her sighs. Toiling—speechmaking—circuiting, Onward through life he goes; Each evening sees some briefs begun, How many? goodness knows! Something attempted, some one “done,” He’s earned a night’s repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my legal friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! That fortune quickly comes to one Who does what he “didn’t ought;” And that taking fees for work not done Is a very “happy thought.” Finis (Beeton’s Christmas Annual, 1877.)

The Village Pet. Around their panting captain The village clubmen stand; A presentation “pot” he bears In his large and sinewy hand; For he just has won the mile “cham,” To the music of the band! His hair is gingery, coarse, and long; His muscles none can span, His brow is wet with honest sweat— He’s “put in” all he can; He ain’t much to look at in the face, But he’ll ride ’gainst any man! (In the village!) Week after week, morn, noon, and night, You could see him rushing round The cricket-field the club had hired For an impromptu training-ground; You could hear his back wheel clump and clatter, Although with wire bound! The loafers and cadgers of the place: Crowd round the open gate: They love to watch him wheeling round Like some pursuing Fate; To count each gasp, to cheer each spurt, And fill with pride his pate! He goes on Sunday to the church; And sits among his pals: Receiving homage from each youth, And winking at the gals! Makes weak attempts to “mash” ’em, and Criticises their “fal-lals!” He sleeps—dreams—hears his trainer’s voice Telling him when to “stick it on!” Remembers that he’ll ride no more When the cold earth lays his chest upon! Waking, he checks a deep, loud snore, And finds his “mashes” homeward gone! Training—perspiring—grinding: Onward through life he goes— Each evening sees a mile begun, 2m. 50s. sees it close! Something attempted, something done, Has gained a broken nose! Experience by thee, my friend: Thy chums, they have been taught, Hadst thou been doomèd nées to ride As reckless fellows ought Then had thy Roman nose escaped Much evil thou hast wrought! R. C. Blow. The Wheeling Annual for 1885.

Mabel, The Made-up. This is the Forest of St. John. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss and with lichens, have nothing to do with this Forest. Here ’stead of pines there are lamp-posts; and ’stead of the hemlocks, post-pillars; And as for the moss and the lichens, there’s dust and there’s slush in their places. This is the Forest of St. John—but here are no beasts save cab-horses; Birds, though—soiled doves as some call them—roost pretty thick in its villas. Sooth ’tis a forest, say some, where one may find lots of “dears-talking.” Certainly is it a tract for growing wild oats very famous! Ye who believe in fair beauty, in beauty skin deep and enduring, Ye who believe in the truth and the genuine charms of a woman, List to my mournful experience gained not long since in the Forest; List to the tale of Miss Mabel, a belle of that north-western quarter. In the Ranunculus Road, near to the underground station; In a small villa, detached, bounded on all sides by garden; Lived on a competence easy, Mabel, the belle I have mentioned. Fair as to face and so slim; flawless, in sooth, was this damsel; Rounded her bust in a manner approved of by painters and sculptors; Golden her hair as the sunshine that, careless, got tangled amongst it; Blue though her eyes as the ocean, jet black her brows and her lashes; Soft was the bloom on her cheeks as the delicate blush upon peaches; Seeing her smile, teeth and lips seemed like pearls set in pinkest of coral; Snow in her bosom had melted, despairing to rival its whiteness; Taper and lithe were her fingers, each with its pink pearl-shell helmet; Lightly had Time run the wheels of his chariot over her forehead, Never a rut had they made, for the road was like white alabaster, All this I saw and still more, though I am not a little short-sighted, When at a morning performance by chance I happened to meet her. 22 Known to the friend I was with, he in the entr’acte introduced me; And from that moment her box became the shrine of a goddess. Little I saw of the play, now even its name I’ve forgotten; Little I thought of my friend, but sheltered behind a box curtain, Kept I my lorgnette on Mabel, watching her moods and her glances. Perfect was each of her poses as that of a painter’s lithe model; E’en when she talked to her friends the shape of her lips seemed like poetry; Smiles rippled over her face like sunshine upon broken water. * * * * *

NATIONAL ANTHEM By H. W. L——, of Cambridge. Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch Over the sea-ribbed land of the fleet-footed Norsemen, Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens— Ursa, the noblest of all the Vikings and horsemen. Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon, Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner, Wildly he started—for there in the heavens before him Fluttered and flew the original Star-Spangled Banner.

NATIONAL ANTHEM By the Hon. Edward E——, of Boston. Ponderous projectiles, hurled by heavy hands, Fell on our Liberty’s poor infant head, Ere she a stadium had well advanced On the great path that to her greatness led; Her temple’s propylon was shattered; Yet thanks to saving Grace and Washington, Her incubus was from her bosom hurled; And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun, She took the oil, with which her hair was curled, To grease the “Hub” round which revolves the world.

NATIONAL ANTHEM By John Greenleaf W——. My native land, thy Puritanic stock Still finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock, And all thy sons unite in one grand wish— To keep the virtues of Preserv-ed Fish. Preserv-ed Fish, the Deacon stern and true, Told our New England what her sons should do, And should they swerve from loyalty and right, Then the whole land were lost indeed in night.

NATIONAL ANTHEM By Dr. Oliver Wendell H——. A diagnosis of our hist’ry proves Our native land a land its native loves; Its birth a deed obstetric without peer, Its growth a source of wonder far and near. To love it more behold how foreign shores Sink into nothingness beside its stores; Hyde Park at best—though counted ultra-grand— The “Boston Common” of Victoria’s land—

NATIONAL ANTHEM By Ralph Waldo E——. Source immaterial of material naught, Focus of light infinitesimal, Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought, Of which abnormal man is decimal. Refract, in prism immortal, from thy stars To the stars blent incipient on our flag, The beam translucent, neutrifying death; And raise to immortality the rag.

NATIONAL ANTHEM By William Cullen B——. The sun sinks softly to his evening post, The sun swells grandly to his morning crown; Yet not a star our flag of Heav’n has lost, And not a sunset stripe with him goes down. So thrones may fall; and from the dust of those, New thrones may rise, to totter like the last; But still our country’s nobler planet glows While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.

NATIONAL ANTHEM By Gen. George P. M——. In the days that tried our fathers Many years ago, Our fair land achieved her freedom, Blood-bought, you know. Shall we not defend her ever As we’d defend That fair maiden, kind and tender, Calling us friend? Yes! Let all the echoes answer, From hill and vale; Yes! Let other nations, hearing, Joy in the tale. Our Columbia is a lady, High-born and fair; We have sworn allegiance to her— Touch her who dare.

NATIONAL ANTHEM By N. P. W——. One hue of our flag is taken From the cheeks of my blushing Pet, And its stars beat time and sparkle Like the studs on her chemisette. Its blue is the ocean shadow That hides in her dreamy eyes; It conquers all men, like her, And still for a Union flies.

NATIONAL ANTHEM By Thomas Bailey A——. The little brown squirrel hops in the corn, The cricket quaintly sings; The emerald pigeon nods his head, And the shad in the river springs, The dainty sunflower hangs its head On the shore of the summer sea; And better far that I were dead, If Maud did not love me. I love the squirrel that hops in the corn, And the cricket that quaintly sings; And the emerald pigeon that nods his head, And the shad that gaily springs. I love the dainty sunflower too, And Maud with her snowy breast; I love them all;—but I love—I love— I love my country best.

NATIONAL ANTHEM By R. H. Stod—— Behold the flag! Is it not a flag? Deny it, man, if you dare; And midway spread, ’twixt earth and sky, It hangs like a written prayer. Would impious hand of foe disturb Its memories’ holy spell, And blight it with a dew of blood? Ha, tr-r-aitor!! * * * It is well.

“And from its station in the hall An ancient timepiece says to all,— ‘For ever—never! Never—for ever!’ 24 “Half-way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands From its case of massive oak, Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs alas! With sorrowful voice to all who pass,— ‘For ever—never! Never—for ever!’”

“Horloge! dieu sinistre, effrayant, impassible, Dont le doight nous menace, et nous dit: Souviens-toi! Les vibrantes Douleurs dans ton cœur, plein d’effroi, Se planteront bientôt comme dans une cible. * * * * * “Trois mille six cents fois par heure, la seconde Chuchote “Souviens-toi!”—Rapide avec sa voix D’insecte, maintenant dit: Je suis autrefois, Et j’ai pompé ta vie avec ma trompe immonde!”

Le Guignon. Pour soulever un poids si lourd, Sisyphe, il faudrait ton courage! Bien qu’on ait du cœur à l’ouvrage, L’Art est long, et le Temps est court. Loin des sépultures célèbres, Vers un cimetière isolé, Mon cœur, comme un tambour voilé, Va battant des marches funèbres. —Maint joyau dort enseveli Dans les ténèbres et l’oubli, Bien loin des pioches et des sondes; —Maint fleur épanche à regret Son parfum doux comme un secret Dans les solitudes profondes.[1]

“Or Gitche Manito, le Maître de la Vie, Le Puissant, descendit dans la verte prairie, Dans l’immense prairie aux coteaux montueux; Et là, sur les rochers de la Rouge Carrière, Dominant tout l’espace et baigné de lumière, Il se tenait debout, vaste et majestueux.”

“Prophet,” said I, “thing of evil! prophet still if bird or devil! By that heaven that bends above us—by the God we both adore, Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” Quoth the raven, “Nevermore,”

The Raven. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door,— Only this, and nothing more.” Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow,—sorrow for the lost Lenore,— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,— Nameless here for evermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; This it is, and nothing more.” Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer: “Sir,” said I, “or, madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you,”—here I opened wide the door; Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!” This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!” Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before. “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore,— Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;— ’Tis the wind, and nothing more.” Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door,— Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door,— Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly shore. Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night’s Plutonian shore!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,— Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,— With such name as “Nevermore.” But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered; Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before; On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.” Then the bird said, “Nevermore.” Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, “Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast, and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,— Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of ‘Never—nevermore.’” But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking “Nevermore.” 28 This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er She shall press, ah! nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. “Wretch!” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore, Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil! By that heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore?” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting, “Get thee back into the tempest and the night’s Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor: And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Then with step sedate and stately, as if thrones had borne him lately, Came a bold and daring warrior up the distant echoing floor; As he passed the Courier’s Colonel, then I saw The Broadway Journal, In a character supernal, on his gallant front he bore, And with stately step and solemn marched he proudly through the door, As if he pondered, evermore. With his keen sardonic smiling, every other care beguiling, Right and left he bravely wielded a double-edged and broad claymore, And with gallant presence dashing, ’mid his confreres stoutly clashing, He unpityingly went slashing, as he keenly scanned them o’er, And with eye and mien undaunted, such a gallant presence bore, As might awe them, evermore. Neither rank nor station heeding, with his foes around him bleeding, Sternly, singly and alone, his course he kept upon that floor; While the countless foes attacking, neither strength nor valor lacking, On his goodly armor hacking, wrought no change his visage o’er, As with high and honest aim, he still his falchion proudly bore, Resisting error, evermore.

The Gazelle. (After the manner of Poe’s “Raven.”) Far from friends and kindred wandering, in my sick and sad soul pondering, Of the changing chimes that float, from Old Time’s ever-swinging bell, 29 While I lingered on the mountain, while I knelt me by the fountain, By the clear and crystal fountain, trickling through the quiet dell; Suddenly I heard a whisper, but from whence I could not tell, Merely whispering, “Fare thee well.” From my grassy seat uprising, dimly in my soul surmising, Whence that voice so gently murmuring, like a faintly sounded knell, Nought I saw while gazing round me, while that voice so spell-like bound me, While that voice so spell-like bound me—searching in that tranquil dell, Like hushed hymn of holy hermit, heard from his dimly-lighted cell, Merely whispering, “Fare thee well!” Then I stooped once more, and drinking, heard once more the silvery tinkling, Of that dim mysterious utterance, like some fairy harp of shell— Struck by hand of woodland fairy, from her shadowy home and airy, In the purple clouds and airy, floating o’er that mystic dell, And from my sick soul its music seemed all evil to expel, Merely whispering, “Fare thee well!” Then my book at once down flinging, from my reverie up springing, Searched I through the forest, striving my vain terror to dispel, All things to my search subjecting, not a bush or tree neglecting, When behind a rock projecting, saw I there a white gazelle, And that soft and silvery murmur, in my ear so slowly fell, Merely whispering, “Fare thee well!” From its eye so mildly beaming, down its cheek a tear was streaming, As though in its gentle bosom dwelt some grief it could not quell, Still those words articulating, still that sentence ever prating, And my bosom agitating as upon my ear it fell, That most strange, unearthly murmur, acting as a potent spell, Merely uttering, “Fare thee well!” Then I turned, about departing, when she from her covert starting, Stood before me while her bosom seemed with agony to swell, And her eye so mildly beaming, to my aching spirit seeming, To my wildered spirit seeming, like the eye of Isabel. But, oh! that which followed after—listen while the tale I tell— Of that snow-white, sweet gazelle. With her dark eye backward turning, as if some mysterious yearning In her soul to me was moving, which she could not thence expel, Through the tangled thicket flying, while I followed panting, sighing, All my soul within me dying, faintly on my hearing fell, Echoing mid the rocks and mountains rising round that fairy dell, Fare thee, fare thee, fare thee well! Now at length she paused and laid her, underneath an ancient cedar, When the shadowy shades of silence, from the day departing fell, And I saw that she was lying, trembling, fainting, weeping, dying, And I could not keep from sighing, nor from my sick soul expel The memory that those dark eyes raised—of my long lost Isabel. Why, I could not, could not tell. Then I heard that silvery singing, still upon my ear ’tis ringing, And where once beneath that cedar, knelt my soft-eyed sweet gazelle, Saw I there a seraph glowing, with her golden tresses flowing, On the perfumed zephyrs blowing, from Eolus’ mystic cell Saw I in that seraph’s beauty, semblance of my Isabel, Gently whispering, ‘Fare thee well!’” “Glorious one,” I cried, upspringing, “art thou joyful tidings bringing, From the land of shadowy visions, spirit of my Isabel? Shall thy coming leave no token? Shall there no sweet word be spoken? Shall thy silence be unbroken, in this ever blessed dell? Whilst thou nothing, nothing utter, but that fatal, ‘Fare thee well!’” Still it answered, ‘Fare thee well!’” “Speak! oh, speak to me bright being! I am blest thy form in seeing, But shall no sweet whisper tell, me,—tell me that thou lovest still? Shall I pass from earth to heaven, without sign or token given, With no whispered token given—that thou still dost love me well? Give it, give it now, I pray thee—here within this blessed dell, Still that hated ‘Fare thee well.’” Not another word expressing, but her lip in silence pressing, With the vermeil-tinted finger seeming silence to compel, And while yet in anguish gazing, and my weeping eyes upraising, To the shadowy, silent seraph, semblance of my Isabel, Slow she faded, till there stood there, once again the white gazelle, Faintly whispering, “Fare thee well!” C. Evening Mirror, New York, April 29, 1845.

The Whippoorwill. * * * * * In the wilderness benighted, lo! at last my guide alighted On a lowly little cedar that o’erspread a running rill; Still his cry of grief he uttered, and around me wildly fluttered, Whilst unconsciously I muttered, filled with boundless wonder still; “Wherefore dost thou so implore me, piteously implore me still? Tell me, tell me, Whippoorwill! Soon beneath him, as he hover’d, by the starlight I discovered That his gentle mate was lying on the dead leaves, dead and still:— 30 “Then,” said I, “he did implore me, in my chamber flitting o’er me, Flitting to and fro before me, to avert some fearful ill;— With prophetic instinct surely, he entreated human skill To save the dying Whippoorwill.” * * * * * O’er the lifeless bird then kneeling, all his grief within me feeling, And my soul within me moving all its longing to fulfil, On her velvet wing I laid her, in a grave my hands had made her, Underneath the little cedar, and beside the running rill:— Odorous leaves her shroud and pillow, and her dirge the running rill— Buried I the Whippoorwill. * * * * * Evening Mirror, New York, May 30, 1845.

Once upon a midnight chilling, as I held my feet unwilling O’er a tub of scalding water, at a heat of ninety-four; Nervously a toe in dipping, dripping, slipping, then out-skipping, Suddenly there came a ripping, whipping, at my chambers door. “’Tis the second floor,” I mutter’d, “flipping at my chambers door— Wants a light—and nothing more!” Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the chill November, And each cuticle and member was with influenza sore; Falt’ringly I stirr’d the gruel, steaming, creaming o’er the fuel, And anon removed the jewel that each frosted nostril bore, Wiped away the trembling jewel that each redden’d nostril bore— Nameless here for evermore! And I recollect a certain draught that fann’d the window curtain Chill’d me, fill’d me with the horror of two steps across the floor, And, besides, I’d got my feet in, and a most refreshing heat in, To myself I sat repeating—“If I answer to the door— Rise to let the ruffian in who seems to want to burst the door, I’ll be ——” that and something more. Presently the row grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Really, Mister Johnson, blow it!—your forgiveness I implore, Such an observation letting slip, but when a man’s just getting Into bed, you come upsetting nerves and posts of chambers door, Making such a row, forgetting”—Spoke a voice beyond the door: “’Tisn’t Johnson”—nothing more! Quick a perspiration clammy bathed me, and I uttered “Dammy!” (Observation wrested from me, like the one I made before) Back upon the cushions sinking, hopelessly my eyes, like winking, On some stout for private drinking, ranged in rows upon the floor, Fix’d—and on an oyster barrel (full) beside them on the floor, Look’d and groan’d, and nothing more. Open then was flung the portal, and in stepp’d a hated mortal, By the moderns call’d a Vulture (known as Sponge in days of yore), Well I knew his reputation! cause of all my agitation— Scarce a nod of salutation changed, he pounced upon the floor; Coolly lifted up the oysters and some stout from off the floor, Help’d himself, and took some more! Then this hungry beast untiring fix’d his gaze with fond admiring On a piece of cold boil’d beef, I meant to last a week or more, Quick he set to work devouring—plates, in quick succession, scouring— Stout with every mouthful show’ring—made me ask, to see it pour, If he quite enjoy’d his supper, as I watch’d the liquid pour; Said the Vulture “Never more.” Much disgusted at the spacious vacuum by this brute voracious Excavated in the beef—(he’d eaten quite enough for four)— Still, I felt relief surprising when at length I saw him rising, That he meant to go surmising, said I, glancing at the door— “Going? well, I won’t detain you—mind the stairs and shut the door——” “Leave you, Tomkins!—never more.” Startled by an answer dropping hints that he intended stopping All his life—I knew him equal to it if he liked, or more— Half in dismal earnest, half in joke, with an attempt at laughing, 31 I remarked that he was chaffing, and demanded of the bore, Ask’d what this disgusting, nasty, greedy, vile, intrusive bore Meant in croaking “Never more?” But the Vulture not replying, took my bunch of keys, and trying Sev’ral, found at length the one to fit my private cupboard door; Took the gin out, fill’d the kettle; and with a sang froid to nettle Any saint, began to settle calmly down the grate before, Really as he meant departing at the date I named before, Of never, never more! Then I sat engaged in guessing what this circumstance distressing Would be likely to result in, for I knew that long before Once (it served me right for drinking) I had told him that if sinking In the world, my fortunes linking to his own, he’d find my door Always open to receive him, and it struck me now that door He would pass, p’raps never more! Suddenly the air was clouded, all the furniture enshrouded With the smoke of vile tobacco—this was worse than all before; “Smith!” I cried (in not offensive tones, it might have been expensive, For he knew the art defensive, and could costermongers floor); “Recollect it’s after midnight, are you going?—mind the floor.” Quoth the Vulture, “Never more!” “Smith!” I cried (the gin was going, down his throat in rivers flowing), “If you want a bed, you know there’s quite a nice hotel next door, Very cheap. I’m ill—and, joking set apart, your horrid smoking Irritates my cough to choking. Having mentioned it before, Really, you should not compel one—Will you mizzle—as before?” Quoth the Vulture, “Never more!” “Smith!” I cried, “that joke repeating merits little better treating For you than a condemnation as a nuisance and a bore. Drop it, pray, it isn’t funny; I’ve to mix some rum and honey— If you want a little money, take some and be off next door; Run a bill up for me if you like, but do be off next door.” Quoth the Vulture, “Never more!” “Smith!” I shriek’d—the accent humbler dropping, as another tumbler I beheld him mix, “be off! you drive me mad—it’s striking four. Leave the house and something in it; if you go on at the gin, it Wont hold out another minute. Leave the house and shut the door— Take your beak from out my gin, and take your body through the door!” Quoth the Vulture, “Never more!” And the Vulture never flitting—still is sitting, still is sitting, Gulping down my stout by gallons, and my oysters by the score; And the beast, with no more breeding than a heathen savage feeding, The new carpet’s tints unheeding, throws his shells upon the floor. And his smoke from out my curtains, and his stains from out my floor, Shall be sifted never more!

The Tankard. Sitting in my lonely chamber, in this dreary, dark December, Gazing on the whitening ashes of my fastly-fading fire, Pond’ring o’er my misspent chances with that grief which time enhances— Misdirected application, wanting aims and objects higher,— Aims to which I should aspire. As I sat thus wond’ring, thinking, fancy unto fancy linking, In the half-expiring embers many a scene and form I traced— Many a by-gone scene of gladness, yielding now but care and sadness,— Many a form once fondly cherished, now by misery’s hand effaced,— Forms which Venus’ self had graced. Suddenly, my system shocking, at my door there came a knocking, Loud and furious,—such a rat-tat never had I heard before; Through the keyhole I stood peeping, heart into my mouth upleaping, Till at length, my teeth unclenching, faintly said I “What a bore!” Gently, calmly, teeth unclenching, faintly said I, “What a bore!” Said the echo, “Pay your score!” At this solemn warning trembling, some short time I stood dissembling, Till again the iron knocker beat its summons ’gainst the door, Then, the oak wide open throwing, stood I on the threshold bowing— Bows such as, save motley tumbler, mortal never bowed before, Bows which even Mr. Flexmore never yet had tried before. Said the echo, “Pay your score!” Grasping then the light, upstanding, looked I round the dreary landing, Looked at every wall, the ceiling, looked upon the very floor; Nought I saw there but a Tankard, from the which that night I’d drank hard,— Drank as drank our good forefathers in the merry days of yore. In the corner stood the Tankard, where it oft had stood before, Stood and muttered, “Pay your score!” Much I marvelled at this pewter, surely ne’er in past or future Has been, will be, such a wonder, such a Tankard learned in lore? Gazing at it more intensely, stared I more and more immensely When it added, “Come old boy, you’ve many a promise made before, False they were as John O’Connell’s who would ‘die upon the floor.’ Now for once—come, pay your score!” 32 From my placid temper starting, and upon the Tankard darting With one furious hurl I flung it down before the porter’s door; But as I my oak was locking, heard I then the self-same knocking, And on looking out I saw the Tankard sitting as before,— Sitting, squatting in the self-same corner as it sat before,— Sitting, crying, “Pay your score!” And the Tankard, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting In the very self-same corner where it sat in days of yore: And its pewter still is shining, and it bears the frothy lining, Which the night when first I drained its cooling beverage it bore, But my mouth that frothy lining never, never tasted more, Since it muttered, “Pay your score!” Edmund H. Yates. Mirth and Metre, 1855.

The Parrot. By Edgardo Pooh. Once, as through the streets I wandered, and o’er many a fancy pondered, Many a fancy quaint and curious, which had filled my mind of yore,— Suddenly my footsteps stumbled, and against a man I tumbled, Who, beneath a sailor’s jacket, something large and heavy bore. “Beg your pardon, sir!” I muttered, as I rose up, hurt and sore; But the sailor only swore. Vexed at this, my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer, “Sir,” said I, “now really, truly, your forgiveness I implore! But, in fact, my sense was napping——” then the sailor answered, rapping Out his dreadful oaths and awful imprecations by the score,— Answered he, “Come, hold your jaw! “May my timbers now be shivered—” oh, at this my poor heart quivered,— “If you don’t beat any parson that I ever met before! You’ve not hurt me; stow your prosing”—then his huge peacoat unclosing, Straight he showed the heavy parcel, which beneath his arm he bore,— Showed a cage which held a parrot, such as Crusoe had of yore, Which at once drew corks and swore. Much I marvelled at this parrot, green as grass and red as carrot, Which, with fluency and ease, was uttering sentences a score; And it pleased me so immensely, and I liked it so intensely, That I bid for it at once; and when I showed of gold my store, Instantly the sailor sold it; mine it was, and his no more; Mine it was for evermore. Prouder was I of this bargain, e’en than patriotic Dargan, When his Sovereign, Queen Victoria, crossed the threshold of his door;— Surely I had gone demented—surely I had sore repented, Had I known the dreadful misery which for me Fate had in store,— Known the fearful, awful misery which for me Fate had in store, Then, and now, and evermore! Scarcely to my friends I’d shown it, when (my mother’s dreadful groan!—it Haunts me even now!) the parrot from his perch began to pour Forth the most tremendous speeches, such as Mr. Ainsworth teaches— Us were uttered by highway men and rapparees of yore!— By the wicked, furious, tearing, riding rapparees of yore; But which now are heard no more. And my father, straight uprising, spake his mind—It was surprising, That this favourite son, who’d never, never so transgressed before, Should have brought a horrid, screaming—nay, e’en worse than that—blaspheming Bird within that pure home circle—bird well learned in wicked lore! While he spake, the parrot, doubtless thinking it a horrid bore, Cried out “Cuckoo!” barked, and swore. And since then what it has cost me,—all the wealth and friends it’s lost me, All the trouble, care, and sorrow, cankering my bosom’s core, Can’t be mentioned in these verses; till, at length, my heartfelt curses Gave I to this cruel parrot, who quite coolly scanned me o’er— Wicked, wretched, cruel parrot, who quite coolly scanned me o’er, Laughed, drew several corks, and swore. “Parrot!” said I, “bird of evil! parrot still, or bird or devil! By the piper who the Israelitish leader played before, I will stand this chaff no longer! We will see now which is stronger. Come, now,—off! Thy cage is open—free thou art, and there’s the door! Off at once, and I’ll forgive thee;—take the hint, and leave my door.” But the parrot only swore. And the parrot never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the very self-same perch where first he sat in days of yore; And his only occupations seem acquiring imprecations Of the last and freshest fashion, which he picks up by the score; Picks them up, and, with the greatest gusto, bawls them by the score, And will swear for evermore. Our Miscellany (which ought to have come out, but didn’t), by E. H. Yates and R. B. Brough, 1856.