Launch'd from the weather-railing,
Swift as the eye can mark,
The ghastly, shotted hammock
Plunges, away from the shark,
Down, a thousand fathoms,
Down into the dark!
A thousand summers and winters
The stormy Gulf shall roll
High o'er his canvas coffin,-
But, silence to doubt and dole!
There's a quiet harbour somewhere
For the poor a-weary soul.
Free the fetter'd engine!
Speed the tireless shaft!
Loose to gallant and topsail!—
The breeze is fair abaft.
Blue sea all around us,
Blue sky bright o'erhead,—
Every man to his duty!
We have buried our dead.
NOT a sob, not a tear be spent
For those who fell at his side,
But a moan and a long lament
For him-who might have died !
Who might have lain, as Harold lay,
A King, and in state enow,-
Or slept with his peers, like Roland
In the Straits of Roncesvaux.
Born near Cincinnati, Ohio, 1820-died 1871.
THE LITTLE HOUSE ON THE HILL.
O MEMORY! be sweet to me,—
Take, take all else at will,
So thou but leave me safe and sound,
Without a token my heart to wound,
The little house on the hill!
Take all of best from east to west,
So thou but leave me still
The chamber, where in the starry light
I used to lie awake at night
And list to the whip-poor-will.
Take violet-bed, and rose-tree red,
And the purple flags by the mill,
The meadow gay, and the garden-ground;
But leave, O leave me safe and sound
The little house on the hill!
The daisy-lane, and the dove's low plain,
And the cuckoo's tender bill,—
Take one and all, but leave the dreams
That turn'd the rafters to golden beams,
In the little house on the hill!
The gables brown, they have tumbled down,
And dry is the brook by the mill;
The sheets I used with care to keep
Have wrapt my dead for the last long sleep
In the valley, low and still.
But, Memory! be sweet to me,
And build the walls, at will,
Of the chamber where I used to mark,
So softly rippling over the dark,
The song of the whip-poor-will!
Ah, Memory! be sweet to me:
All other fountains chill;
But leave that song so weird and wild,
Dear as its life to the heart of the child,
In the little house on the hill!
THE hills are bright with maples yet;
But down the level land
The beech leaves rustle in the wind
As dry and brown as sand.
The clouds in bars of rusty red
Along the hill-tops glow,
And in the still sharp air the frost
Is like a dream of snow.
The berries of the briar-rose
Have lost their rounded pride;
The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums
Are drooping heavy-eyed;
The cricket grows more friendly now,
The dormouse sly and wise,
Hiding away in the disgrace
Of nature, from men's eyes;
The pigeons in black wavering lines
Are swinging tow'rd the sun;
And all the wide and wither'd fields
Proclaim the summer done.
His store of nuts and acorns now
The squirrel hastes to gain,
And sets his house in order for
The winter's dreary reign.
"Tis time to light the evening fire,
To read good books, to sing
The low and lovely songs that breathe Of the eternal Spring.
Born near Cincinnati, Ohio, 1824-died 1871.
LAUGH out, O stream! from your
Where you lie in the sun's embrace;
And talk to the reeds that o'er you lean
To touch your dimpled face.
But let your talk be sweet as it will,
And your laughter be as gay,
You cannot laugh as I laugh in my heart,-
For my lover will come to-day!
Sing sweet, little bird! sing out to your mate
That hides in the leafy grove;
Sing clear and tell him for him you wait,
And tell him of all your love.
But though you sing till you shake the buds
And the tender leaves of May,
My spirit thrills with a sweeter song,-
For my lover must come to-day!
Come up, O winds! come up from the south With eager hurrying feet,
And kiss your red rose on her mouth
In the bower where she blushes sweet.
But you cannot kiss your darling flower,
Though you clasp her as you may,
As I kiss in my thought the lover dear
I shall hold in my arms to-day!
SINCE, if you stood by my side to-day,
Only our hands could meet,
What matter if half the weary world
Lies out between our feet?
That I am here by the lonesome sea,
You by the pleasant Rhine?
Our hearts were just as far apart,
If I held your hand in mine!
Therefore, with never a backward glance,
I leave the past behind;
And standing here by the sea alone,
I give it to the wind.
I give it all to the cruel wind,
And I have no word to say:
Yet, alas! to be as we have been,
And to be as we are to-day!
Go on, my friend! speak freely, pray;
Don't stop till you have said your say;
But, after you are tired to death,
And pause to take a little breath,
I'll name a dish I think is one
To which no justice can be done!
It isn't pastry, old and rich,
Nor onions, garlic, chives, and sich,
Not cheese that moves with lively pace,
It isn't even Sweitzer Kase:
It isn't ham that's old and strong,
Nor sausage kept a month too long;
It isn't beefsteak fried in lard,
Nor boil'd potatoes when they're hard,
(All food unfit for Goth or Celt);
It isn't fit even when they're smelt;
It ain't what Chinamen call nice,
Although they dote on rats and mice,
For, speaking honestly and truly,
I wouldn't give it to a Coolie !
I wouldn't vally even a pup,
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