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 in 2007 with funding from 
 
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 http://www.archive.org/details/discoveryofsirjoOOturnrich 
 
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 / THE DISCOVER^ Q 
 
 SIR JOHN FRAMLIN, / 
 
 O T II E R P OEMS 
 
 » • « 
 « » » » » , 
 
 ' ^"S » » J 9 » ■ J • » .», i. * » , 
 
 BY 
 
 J. A. TURNER. 
 
 MOBILE AND NEW YORK: 
 PUBLISHED BY S. H. GOETZEL & CO., 
 
 AND WILLIAM N. WHITE, ATHENS, GA. 
 
 1858. 
 
>\ » » % 
 
 •^X 'P; ^ 
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, by 
 
 J. A. TURNER, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office- of-tho* District Gou?t;of tb^ ^ni'<ed States, for the Northern 
 Dist»ios'of Gtebrgis,* 
 
 y\ ; !*" i/'x «-•' ."::.*: *' * v . •' 
 
 FR£NCHb.& WHEAT, 
 
 Book and Job Printers, 
 
 18 Ann St., N. Y. 
 
NOTE. 
 
 I HAVE but a line by way of preface : and that is to say, that the following 
 Poems, with few exceptions, are arranged in the order in which they were 
 written. This will account for the juxtaposition of Poems entirely diverse in 
 their nature and spirit. 
 
 J. A. TURNER* 
 
 TuRNWOLD, Putnam Co., Ga., 
 May 1st, 1857. 
 
 iyi7l834 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Discovery of Sir John Franklin, 9 
 
 A Universal Ode, for the Inauguration of James Buchanan, 15 
 
 "Cutting a Swell," 19 
 
 Carpe Diem, 21 
 
 The Ramy Sunday, 23 
 
 All Things Speak of God, 25 
 
 Another Case, not Reported in the Books, 26 
 
 Lines Composed on Murder Creek, October 1st, 1848, 30 
 
 Song of the Swiss Home-Sick, 34 
 
 A Life in the Woods for Me, 37 
 
 ToPyrrha, 39 
 
 The Huntsman, 41 
 
 Life is a Struggle, 43 
 
 Cut off in Beauty-s Bloom, 44 
 
 Sweet is the Note that the Wild-Bird Sings, 45 
 
 Oh ! Ask me not to Sing Again, 46 
 
 'Twas by Oconee's Dimpling Wave, 47 
 
 By Moon-light Weeping, 49 
 
 Song of the American Revolutionist, 50 
 
 Lines in Memory of John C. Calhoun, 51 
 
 " Ever Upward, Ever Onward," 53 
 
VIU CONTENTS, 
 
 Page 
 
 The Old MUl-Wheel, 55 
 
 Domestic Bliss, 67 
 
 Lines written in a Friend's Album, 58 
 
 Job Joneson, 62 
 
 Preparing for a Storm, 64 
 
 Batcher, spare that Hog, 65 
 
 My Life is like the Wee Tadpole, 67 
 
 Little George, 68 
 
 The Haps and Mishaps of John Smith, 69 
 
 " Where the Danube Pours its Waters," : . . ; : 72 
 
 Lines in Memory of Mrs. H. R. D., 75 
 
 Our Neighbor's Cat,. 76 
 
 To Savannah, 78 
 
 Intercepted Letter from Mrs. Susan Simple to her Husband, 79 
 
 December 11th, 1854, 80 
 
 Hymn of Reverence, 82 
 
 Doghenlinden, , 83 
 
 Autumn, 84 
 
 Little Jane's Wish 86 
 
 TheDead, 87 
 
 Give Us Bread, 89 
 
 Married Man's Lament, • 90 
 
 Burial of " Sam," 91 
 
 On the Late English Naval Review at Spithead , 93 
 
 A Christmas Song, 93 
 
 Time, 95 
 
DISCOVEEY OF SIR JOHN FEANKLIN, 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
 gbmtog 0f Sir loljrt Jfranklitt. 
 
 " The rumored death of Dr. Kane, which came by the last steamer, proves too true. 
 The adventurous navigator has embarked upon his last voyage, He has found Sir 
 John JFVanAWn."— Newspaper. 
 
 All over the North, 'mid the icebergs, 
 E-oamed my hero in search of Sir John — 
 
 'Mid the icebergs he steered his bark well, 
 To find where the lost one was gone. 
 
 He steered to the isles where the white bear 
 Growls over the prey for her young : 
 
 He went to the place where the seal swims, 
 And men use a barbarous tongue. 
 
41* 3 * 
 
 10 POEMS. 
 
 He went to the home of the North Light, 
 
 And he borrowed a taper to look 
 For the braye Sir John near the North Pole — 
 
 "I'wa^'^ jiajzardous journey he took. 
 
 '^*^r t5ieT(^f hear the Pole, did he glide well, 
 And he asked of his steeds, as he rode, 
 
 ' Can you tell me some news of the brave man ?" 
 But the dog team in silence on strode. 
 
 And he called to the seal as he passed him, 
 
 " Have you seen in the caves of the sea 
 The hero for whom I do seek well ?" — 
 
 4 
 
 But to tell him, no seal would agree.* 
 
 And he said to the fur-clad Northman, 
 " Is the hero I'm looking for, dead ?'' — 
 
 But no tidings did come from the Esquimaux, 
 Where his sail the lost rover last spread. 
 
 In despair did he call to the white bear, 
 
 " Can you tell me the fate of Sir John ?'' — 
 
 But he got from the white bear no answer : — 
 Then swiftly he hurried him on. 
 
 And he called to the sky above him, 
 And he called to the polar breeze, 
 
 And he called to the floating icebergs, 
 
 And he called to the depths of the seas : — 
 
% 
 
 DISCOVERY OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. 11 
 
 " Can you tell me the fate of the brave man 
 Who came to this sea years ago ? 
 Can you show me the place by the North Light, 
 Where his sailor-boys bravely still row ?'' 
 
 Up sprang in his pathway a monste?*, 
 
 With countenance grizzly and grim, 
 And facing the brave gallant mariner, 
 
 Thus spake out the monster to him : — 
 
 "I'll show you the way to the hero 
 For whom you so anxiously seek : 
 If Sir John you're wishing to look on. 
 To say you will go. with me, speak. 
 
 " I'm King of the ice-cold country : — 
 Come, go and behold my domain. 
 As Sir John has seen it before you ; 
 Come, look at the land where I reign. 
 
 " Come, enter my bark that is waiting. 
 And I'll take you to look on Sir John : 
 I'll row you the waters o'er lightly — 
 Come, enter and let us begone. 
 
 " Right over the ocean before us. 
 
 Your brave man went on with his sail, 
 And he cruised all the waters around us, 
 Regardless of iceberg or gale." 
 
12 POEMS. 
 
 Then answered my hero unflinching, 
 " G-rim-visaged indeed you appear, 
 
 And to look on your face is quite fearful, — 
 Quite fearful it is to be near. 
 
 " But swear to me now that I'll find him 
 Whom I seek, when I enter your bark : 
 Then lead to the place where the brave man 
 To the voice of the tempest doth hark." 
 
 Then the monster did swear to my hero, 
 And they entered the bark, and away 
 
 O'er the sea did they glide in a tempest, 
 Which swept in their faces the spray. 
 
 Then they anchored their bark in a harbor, 
 By a city so long and so broad, 
 
 That compared with its area, London 
 Is as dust to the planets of God. 
 
 But this city was dim and silent, 
 As its countless bands passed by : 
 
 Like an army of vacant shadows, 
 They seemed to the mariner's eye. 
 
 In a shroud of ice was the brave man 
 Beheld by the big-hearted Kane, 
 
 Who rejoiced that he'd carry back tidings 
 From the land of the icy domain. 
 
DISCOVERY OP SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. 13 
 
 And he call'd for a bark to go back, 
 
 The tidings triumphant to bear, 
 But the monster did give for an answer, 
 
 " Aye, my subject, bold sailor, you are ! 
 
 " Who enters the ports of this city, 
 Never goes to his people again ; 
 Never bears to the foreigner tidings 
 
 That he has traversed my domain. , 
 
 " But my brave man's faithfulest lady 
 Doth weep for the news I have found ; 
 Let me go and convey it unto her. 
 Then back to this port I'll be bound. 
 
 "I've scoff 'd at the cries of the infant, ^ 
 
 As he's wept for his mother's fair breast ; 
 I've laugh'd at the tears of the mother. 
 And have made her entreaties a jest. 
 
 "Ne'er moved have I been by entreaty 
 To suffer one being to sail 
 From the ports of this shadowy city ; 
 There ne'er was an out-blowing gale." 
 
 With a shroud of ice did the monster 
 
 Apparel the big-hearted Kane, 
 Who ask'd for a bark to go back, 
 
 But he'll go back never again. 
 
14 POEMS. 
 
 For the bark that my hero got in 
 Was the mystical bark of Death, 
 
 And Death's was the silent city, 
 And he sway'd it all with a breath. 
 
 TUBNWOLD, Putnam Co., Ga., July 9, 1857. 
 
For the Inauguration of James Buchanan. 
 
 Raise the sound of many voices, 
 Peal the booming cannon loud, 
 
 While our favor'd land rejoices 
 'Mid the breaking of the cloud 
 
 Which has long been lowering o'er us — 
 
 Millions ! join the happy chorus. 
 
 Ho ! ye sons of every nation. 
 
 Loosed from tyrants' galling chains, 
 
 Raise to Heaven one grand oblation. 
 On the mountains, from the plains : 
 
 Now released from thraldom's sorrow. 
 
 View one long and bright to-morrow. 
 
 Children of immortal fathers, * 
 In our veins what glory runs ! 
 
 Bands of gratitude enswathe us — 
 We are Heaven's most favor'd sons : 
 
 Let no jealousy divide us, 
 
 Evil sore would then betide us. 
 
16 POEMS. 
 
 Northern sons of climate frigid, 
 Southern sons of genial clime, 
 
 Heart to heart no longer rigid, 
 'Mid the universal chime, 
 
 Each to each once more be brother, 
 
 Let resentment memory smother. 
 
 By. the blood of martyr Warren, 
 Shed for you on Bunker's Hill, 
 
 When the venal cohorts foreign 
 Came your patriot sires to kill. 
 
 Cease your striving, be entreated. 
 
 Cease your striving, be repeated. 
 
 By the blood which York Town cover 'd, 
 'Mid the dense and deathly fight, 
 
 While the wing of vict'ry hover'd, 
 Doubting, doubting where to light, 
 
 Calm the voice of angry passion. 
 
 Join as one this grand ovation. 
 
 By the bones of Southern heroes. 
 Bleaching on the Northern plains. 
 
 By the blows of British Neros, 
 Forging for us triple chains. 
 
 Stricken by our Northern brothers. 
 
 For our sires, and for our mothers : 
 
A UNIVERSAL ODE. 17 
 
 \ 
 
 By these hallow'd memories thrilling, 
 
 By the future's glowing light, 
 By our present glory filling 
 
 Earth with its effulgence bright, 
 Join the paean, swell the chorus. 
 Peace and harmony before us. 
 
 Massachusetts, Carolina, 
 
 Sisters in the war for right. 
 Let no petty difference minor 
 
 All the fruits of vict'ry blight. 
 Join once more your hands long parted. 
 In the Union both one-hearted. 
 
 From New Hampshire's granite mountains. 
 
 From the Hudson's fertile plains. 
 To the land where Southern fountains 
 
 Gurgle from the mountain chains. 
 Lift to Heaven one loud Hosannah, 
 Buoying up your country's banner. 
 
 All forgetting party feeling, 
 
 Let there be one loud acclaim. 
 Every bosom proudly swelling 
 
 To do honor to the name 
 That shall make each man a brother, 
 That shall all contention smother. 
 
18 POEMS. 
 
 In his glorious country's service, 
 In her service grown so gray, 
 
 Let his patriot bosom nerve us 
 To pursue the better way : 
 
 Raise the shout, and boom the cannon. 
 
 At the name of James Buchanan. 
 
 And rejoice, all climes and nations. 
 That so pure a patriot guides, 
 
 'Mid the storms and agitations, 
 
 Where the ship of State now rides : 
 
 He will bring it to its moorings, 
 
 'Mid our grateful hearts' outpourings. 
 
 Millions' weal depends upon it. 
 Millions living and unborn. 
 
 Statesman's glory, poet's sonnet. 
 Beaming through millennial morn : 
 
 Every tongue and every nation. 
 
 Bear a part in this ovation. 
 
 / 
 
"€niimQ a ^MI." 
 
 A YOUTH who'd just from college come, 
 About whose name I must be dumb, 
 A license bore to give his pills, 
 And cure the flesh of all its ills. 
 
 '' Well, Sonny,'' said his doting sire. 
 While pride lit in his eye its fire, 
 
 " That you succeed in practice well. 
 Begin right off to — cut a swell. 
 
 " Throughout the world, 'mong high and low, 
 It takes the people's eye, you know : 
 To farm, to physic, or to sell. 
 There's nothing like it — cut a swell,'*^ 
 
 The youthful Galen posted off. 
 And took his pony from the trough. 
 Then on his back the saddle laid, • 
 And quickly strode the willing jade. 
 
20 POEMS. 
 
 With lancet keen as keen could be, 
 He trotted off right merrily, 
 O'er ditch, and fence, and hill, and dell, 
 To seek a chance to — cut a swell. 
 
 He spurred his pony in the flanks, 
 To make him cut up caperish pranks : 
 Thus over all the country round, " 
 They went it with a loping bound. 
 
 At last a boy did Galen spy. 
 
 Who sighed, and groaned, and rubbed his thigh : 
 
 Dismounting from his horse, he ran, 
 
 And said, " I'll ease him if I can : 
 
 " A lucky hit ! see what a boil ! 
 I'm well rewarded for my toil." 
 He drew his lancet in a trice. 
 And cut a deep incision nice. 
 
 Again he mounted on his steed. 
 And left the urchin there to bleed ; — 
 Success would crowg^is efforts well. 
 For he, indeed, had — cut a swell I 
 
 \ 
 
ut^t gum. 
 
 " Dum loguiraur, fugerit invida 
 
 iEtas. Oabpe dibm, quam rainimum credula postero." 
 
 HoR., B. I., 0. 11. 
 
 Carpb diem, while you may, 
 Carpe, or 'twill fly away ; 
 Seize the present moment soon, 
 Take it as thy blissful boon. 
 
 Carpe diem, look not back. 
 Time is on his rail-way track — 
 Think not now of former pain, 
 With it burden not your brain. 
 
 Carpe diem, for to-morrow 
 May be usher'd in by sorrow ; 
 You may learn when 'tis too late, 
 Present is the blissful state. 
 
22 POEMS. 
 
 Carpe diem, gladly seize 
 Every moment as it flees ; 
 Carpe diem, and be wise, 
 Envious time with fury flies. 
 
t §lamg Sunirag^* 
 
 The churchibell, with >its iron tongue. 
 Its voice has o'er the village swung, 
 
 To call us all to preaching : 
 But patter y patter , goes the rain, 
 And bids us all at home remain, 
 
 In spite of our beseeching. 
 
 There's Jenny standing at the door, 
 And wishing that 'twould rain no more :- 
 
 •She wants to see her beau : 
 But patter, patter, goes the sound 
 Of rain upon the muddy ground : — 
 
 To church she cannot go. 
 
 There's Johnny with his new moustache. 
 And Polly with her scarlet sash. 
 
 Bought just to wear to-day : — 
 But patter, patter, kills their hope. 
 And they in moody silence mope. 
 
 Since they at home must stay. 
 
24 POEMS. 
 
 There's Sally with her finery on, 
 Who wishes that the shower were gone, 
 
 To show her handsome bonnet : — 
 But patter^ patter^ still she hears, 
 And if she goes to church, she fears 
 
 That it will rain upon it. 
 
 The parson knows not what to do. 
 For he feels sad and lonely too. 
 
 But hopes 'twill soon stop raining :- 
 He's studied closely all the week. 
 That he on Sunday well might speak : 
 
 He's now — almost ! — complaining. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis a gloomy time to-day ! 
 It seems 'twill never pass away. 
 
 In spite of sleep and reading : — 
 Old Time has hitch'd a lazy horse. 
 To draw his chariot o'er the course : — 
 
 He's hardly worth his feeding. 
 
%ll clings Sp^h of #0ir. 
 
 The flower that blushes on its stem 
 Bespeaks its Maker's name, 
 
 As caskets that conceal their gem, 
 Tell of the hidden flame. 
 
 The babbling brooklets, as they stream 
 
 Their pebbly beds along, 
 Leap up to kiss the Heaven-sent beam, 
 
 And speak of God in song. 
 
 The zephyr that unfurls its wing, 
 
 To fan the ev'niDg dew. 
 And coolness o'er the desert fling, 
 
 Bespeaks its Maker too. 
 
 The bird that warbles on the tree, 
 
 And carols lightsome lays, 
 Gives out its tuneful melody 
 
 To its Creator's praise. 
 
Not Reported in the Books. 
 
 You're all aware of many kinds 
 Of extracts, and my memory finds 
 
 It rather hard 
 To hold them all, especially when 
 Extractions are included : — then, 
 
 IVe never cared 
 In such affairs to be much versed : — 
 Extraction of a tooth's the worst 
 
 I've ever dared. 
 
 My tooth had ached for several days, 
 And pain, like an electric blaze, 
 
 Ran thro' my gums : 
 To have it drawn I was not willing, 
 For really this seemed like killing. 
 
 And all the sums 
 Of pain, I thought that I could stand, 
 Before I'd bear the doctor's hand. 
 
 Fingers and thumbs. 
 
ANOTHER CASH. 27 
 
 But Wednesday night I got so ailing, 
 I found this last conclusion failing, 
 
 And I, forsooth, 
 Concluded that I, in the morning. 
 Would go and give the doctor warning. 
 
 To draw my tooth ; 
 But at the very thought I shivered. 
 And prayed that I might be delivered. 
 
 Unhappy youth ! 
 
 Tooth-ache was deaf to all my prayer, 
 And so I mounted William's mare, 
 
 A little nag, 
 To Dr. Johnson's went off jogging. 
 Just like an urchin to a flogging. 
 
 From some old hag : 
 My heart with very fear was throbbiDg, 
 While in my tooth Old Pain was jobbing 
 
 His roughest scrag. 
 
 Within a mile I reg^ched the house 
 Of doctor, who, like pickled souse. 
 
 Is always ready : 
 He sat in his piazza, reading 
 Some work on blisteriDg or bleeding. 
 
 His nerves all steady, 
 While mine were in a perfect tremble. 
 Though courage I tried to dissemble. 
 
 E'en tho' 'twere seedy. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 I told the doctor what was needed, 
 And quickly he with pleasure heeded 
 
 What I requested : 
 He went and got that ugly thing, "^ 
 
 Which pain and pleasure both doth bring, 
 
 As I suggested; 
 And when I saw it, I'd a notion 
 To cut and run clean into Goshen, 
 
 Before I rested. 
 
 At last I thought I would not run, 
 Though I could better face a gun, 
 
 Than those tooth-drawers.- 
 The doctor took his little knife. 
 And cut my gums as if for life. 
 
 Like tom-cat clawers : — 
 The instrument in cloth was wrapped. 
 And then upon my tooth was clapped. 
 
 Like swinish gnawers. 
 
 The doctor shut his eyes to pull — 
 I would have hallooed, but so full 
 
 Was my poor mouth, 
 I scarce could breathe, much less bawl out ; 
 But if I could, I have no doubt, 
 
 From North to South, 
 I had been heard ; but 'twas denied me. 
 The luxury — Oh ! how it tried me !^ — 
 
 Of groans uncouth. 
 
ANOTHER CASE. 29 
 
 The doctor pulled with all his might, 
 And made me see Egyptian night : — 
 
 Lord, how I hallooed, 
 When things had got so that I could ! 
 Then on my feet I jumped and stood. 
 
 Next laid and wallowed, 
 Upon the bench, on which I'd sat, 
 And many a bloody mouthful spat, 
 
 And several swallowed. 
 
 The doctor's wife then thought I'd faint. 
 And gave me aid, kind-hearted saint, 
 
 I on the bench : 
 She bathed my temples with cologne, 
 I uttering many a grunt and groan,. 
 
 From doctor's wrench. — 
 When I got up, and homeward started, 
 A nigger snickered, as I parted. 
 
 The saucy wench ! 
 
Composed on Murder Creek, October 1st, 1848. 
 
 How beautiful the scenery round ! 
 
 How gleefully my blood-drops bound 
 Through my warm heart, and life-containing veins ! 
 Here spirit solitude divinely reigns, 
 
 And with a royal edict binds 
 
 My spirit to the sighing winds, 
 The turbid stream, and nature's woody fanes. 
 
 All these have spirits which converse 
 
 With mine, and to its ear rehearse 
 Soul-strains, which inattentive wights hear not : — 
 All-blessed is the man whose happy lot 
 
 It is to listen, with a mind 
 
 Attentive, to the words refined 
 Which Nature whispers, not to be forgot. 
 
 Beneath me flows a stream, whose breast 
 Bears on its current of unrest 
 
LINES. 31 
 
 Frail leaves, which hare been by the parent tree 
 Cast off : fit emblems are these leaves of me, 
 
 And of my fellow-men : we live 
 
 An hour, and then our bodies give 
 Unto Death's stream, to bear them to its Sea. 
 
 Above my head the muscadine 
 Twines round the oak, and the grape-vine 
 Its purple clusters draperies with leaves, 
 Now growing yellow as the golden sheaves. 
 The willow and the scaly-bark 
 For autumn's darts have been the mark. 
 And through yon pine the moaning zephyr grieves. 
 
 Birds come upon the grapes to feed. 
 Which, pierced, with crimson fluid bleed ; — 
 Wood-Ackers chatter as they eat ; — the jay 
 Squalls with a grating harshness, — while delay 
 On yon dead pine the coy and shy 
 Gold-winged wood-peckers, that will fly, 
 To get their shares, when jays have flown away. 
 
 The log-cock, with his scarlet plume. 
 Taps yon old beech : he means a room 
 To make, wherein his mate may sit next spring. 
 And, brooding o'er the eggs with warming wing, 
 
32 POEMS. 
 
 Hatch him a nest of gentle' young : — 
 And ever seeks his barbed tongue 
 The worm's recess, food for his crop to bring. 
 
 Fantastic in gyrations play 
 
 The blue-bird's wings : — but hark, away ! 
 The woods and hills re-echo with the sound 
 Of the deep-baying mouth of many a hound ! 
 
 And list ! amid their din I hear 
 
 The chatter, grateful to the ear, 
 Of the gray-squirrel, which the dogs have found. 
 
 He now and then in mischief drops 
 A hickory-nut from out his chops. 
 Among the clamoring hounds which bay beneath. 
 All eager for the gun to speak his death ! 
 My rifle's at the house : — I'm glad : 
 For if the fire-arm here I had, 
 I might be tempted much to steal his breath. 
 
 Up stream, with brush-wood nearly hid, 
 The otter sports her young amid, 
 While down below, swimming in grand estate, 
 The keen-eyed mallard chuckles to his mate. 
 Whether I look above the bridge,- ■ " 
 Or down below, or to the ridge 
 Back from the stream, with joy I'm still elate. 
 
 
LINES. 33 
 
 Almost forgotten is my cork, 
 
 That dances on the- water : — work 
 Hard 'tis to watch its motions 'mid the sights 
 That fill my ravished heart with such delights : 
 
 Under the water now it pops — 
 
 A jerk ! and from my hook there drops 
 A sucker, floundering on the banky heights. 
 
BmQ 0f % ^km P0m^"SkL 
 
 I DIB to see my native land, 
 
 Its mountains and its streams ; 
 I die to see that happy band, 
 
 The loved of childhood's dreams. 
 Oh ! where my father winds his horn, 
 
 That echoes o'er the plain, 
 Haste, haste on wings the joyful morn, 
 
 That takes me there again. 
 
 Oh ! take me back to Switzerland, 
 Across the envious foam ; 
 
 I die to see that happy land. 
 My native mountain home. 
 
 My brothers with my father go. 
 
 To tend our fleecy flocks. 
 Where sparkling waters gurgling flow, 
 
 And brawl adown the rocks : 
 
SONG OF THE SWISS HOME-SICK. 35 
 
 Bear mother in our straw-thatched cot 
 
 Prays for her absent child — 
 Oh ! take me to the sacred spot, 
 
 Where roars the torrent wild. 
 
 Oh ! take me back to Switzerland, 
 
 Across the envious foam ; 
 I die to see that happy land, 
 
 My native mountain home. 
 
 My sisters milk the lowing cows, 
 
 Beneath the shady oak, 
 And as the snow-white fluid flows, 
 
 They pass the merry joke. 
 That dear one, too, who sadly wept, 
 
 When I bid her adieu, 
 Long vigils o'er our troth has kept — 
 
 Oh ! take me to her, too. 
 
 Oh ! take me back to Switzerland, 
 Across the envious foam ; 
 
 I die to see that happy land, 
 My native mountain home. 
 
 Oh ! for the steep, the mountain crag, 
 The chamois, and the goat, 
 
 The Alpine sheep, the bounding stag, 
 The wild-bird's warbling note ! 
 
•:^6 POEMS. 
 
 When shall I see them all again, 
 
 And be at home once more — 
 My dear old home within the glen, 
 
 Upon my native shore ? ..^ 
 
 Oh ! take me back to Switzerland, 
 Across the envious foam ; 
 
 I die to see that happy land, 
 My native mountain home. 
 
% fife itt % moatiu for Pe. 
 
 A LIFE in the woods for me, 
 
 And a home where the eagle's plume 
 Now scatters the dew from the tree, 
 
 Now flaps o'er the lowliest bloom. 
 Let me shoulder my rifle and go. 
 
 On my steed, to the lair of the stag, 
 Where the silvery rivulets flow, 
 
 And the cataract leaps from the crag. 
 
 What sound is that borne on the blast ? 
 
 'Tis the yell of my fleet-footed hounds — 
 Right onward they thunder so fast. 
 
 No distance can measure them bounds. 
 The stag hears the sound, and away. 
 
 Over mountain and stream, does he fly : — 
 One moment, my charger, we stay. 
 
 For 'tis here that the quarry shall die. 
 
38 POEMS. 
 
 With his antlers crouched close to his back, 
 
 The stag, with impetuous speed, 
 Bounds onward, but, threading his track, 
 
 My beagles still follow his lead. 
 He comes, and my rifle mid air, 
 
 Is swung for a moment — the lead 
 Drives down to his heart for a lair, 
 
 And the pride of the forest lies dead. 
 
Co IpDxrlja. 
 
 " Quis raulta gracilis te puer, in rosa 
 Perfusus liquidis, urget odoribus 
 Grato, Pyrrha, sub autro ?" 
 
 HoR., 0. v., Lib. 1. 
 
 Oh ! Pyrrha, in some grotto hid, 
 Both lying on a couch of roses, 
 
 Who sports thy wanton charms amid, 
 What amorous youth with thee reposes ? 
 
 What poor fellow, steeped in wine, 
 Mid thy golden curls doth twine 
 Wreaths of flowers, with dainty fingers, 
 While his lip mid nectar lingers ? 
 
 Why so deceive him, heartless one, 
 
 Inconstant as the fickle sea. 
 Whose charms a thousand beaux have won,- 
 
 Why make him thus confide in thee ? 
 
40 POEMS. 
 
 Wretched they who know thee not, 
 Theirs a most unhappy lot — 
 Wo to him who first hath met 
 Thee, the heartless, and coquette ! 
 
Ever in the woods alone is he, 
 
 The huntsman bold, and the huntsman free, 
 
 Where the cataract leaps 
 
 From the mountain steeps, 
 
 And the congar drinks 
 
 On the slippery brinks. 
 And the eagle wheels in his lofty flight, 
 And the partridge flees from the chasing kite. 
 
 Alone in the field, on his fiery steed, 
 He skims along o'er the sedgy mead, 
 
 And his beagles yell 
 
 Like the hounds of hell ; 
 
 And the huntsman's voice 
 
 Makes the hills rejoice. 
 And the charger bounds over rocks and plants, 
 And the sweat rolls ofi" as he deeply pants. 
 
 Hurrah for the huntsman bold and free ! — 
 His life is wild, but he would not be 
 
42 POEMS. 
 
 Or a sceptred king, 
 
 Or a mitred thing : 
 
 For his eye is bright, 
 
 And his nerves strung tight ; 
 And his heart is right, and his bosom true, 
 And his pleasure much, and his sorrows few. 
 
pfe IB a BixuQQU. 
 
 Life is a struggle : — when we draw 
 The first lung-ful of vital air, 
 
 E'en then begins the iron law, 
 That we a panoply must wear, — 
 
 A panoply of virtue's steel, 
 
 To ward off ill, secure our weal.. 
 
 Life is a struggle : — happy one ^ 
 
 Who bears with courage all the fight, 
 
 And never, till the war be done. 
 
 Lays down his burnished armor bright- 
 
 Who sinks not on the battle-field, 
 
 Nor to the foe gives up his shield. 
 
 Life is a struggle — but the prize 
 Is nobly worth the toil we bear : 
 
 The laurel grows beyond the skies : 
 Not earthly, it is spirit-fair : 
 
 Angelic 'tis, and 'tis eternal, 
 
 God-essent in a world supernal. 
 
€nt 0ff m ^mnt^*B §l00m. 
 
 Cut off in beauty's bloom, she sleeps 
 
 Beneath the lowly sod, 
 And mid-night many a jewel weeps, 
 
 Where rose-buds sadly nod. 
 
 The wild-bird warbles winsome lays. 
 
 Above her lonely bed ; 
 The rabbit near her gleeful plays — 
 
 They'll not disturb the dead. 
 
 Now weep her broken-hearted friends, 
 When twilight shades appear. 
 
 And with the dust above her, blends 
 The stricken mother's tear. 
 
 Raise not the marble o'er her tomb, 
 
 The soulless monument — 
 God writes the memory of her bloom 
 
 On hearts, in sorrow bent. 
 
mtd is % Mak t^at % Wlb-iirtt Sings. 
 
 Sweet is the note that the wild-bird sings, 
 
 As she warbles near the rose, 
 But sweeter far is the voice that brings 
 
 To the love-smit heart repose. 
 
 Sweet is the flower that the wild-bee sips, 
 
 And sweet is his honey too, 
 But sweeter far are the nectared lips 
 
 That belong to love and you. 
 
 The light of the gem is pure and bright, 
 
 And bright are the stars above, 
 But brighter far than the gems of night, 
 
 Are the eyes that sparkle love. 
 
 White is the couch where the snow-flakes'rest, 
 
 And white is the lily's flower, 
 But whiter far is the maiden's breast 
 
 Than the fallen, fleecy shower. 
 
I %nk mt not to Sing %Qmn. 
 
 Oh ! ask me not to sing again, 
 
 As once I sung in glee ; 
 My aching heart's in love with pain, 
 
 Or I would sing to thee. 
 
 Fair lady, see my broken lute. 
 Its chords are severed now ; 
 
 The soul that filled it once, is mute. 
 And gloom is on my brow. 
 
 Since Dora in the tomb was laid. 
 My heart is like my lute — 
 
 Its hope-flowers in the charnel fade. 
 Its chords are still and mute. 
 
 Then ask me not to sing again. 
 
 As once I sung in glee ; 
 My aching heart's in love with pain, 
 
 Or I would sing to thee. 
 
'Cfoas bg §tonnn §m^lmQ Wi^iit. 
 
 'TwAS by Oconee's dimpling wave 
 
 The maid of beauty dwelt ; 
 'Twas by a deep, enchanted cave, 
 
 First love the maiden felt. 
 
 There Walter clasped her to his breast, 
 
 And whispered to her love, 
 While, overhead, beside his nest, 
 
 She heard the cooing dove. 
 
 She could not know the youth embraced. 
 
 Her eyes were cast above, 
 And on the nestling doves were placed, 
 
 Which reveled in their love. 
 
 She then forgot, and thought that she 
 
 Herself was but a dove ; 
 That Walter should another be, 
 
 And so she kissed her love. 
 
48 POEMS. 
 
 Recovering from her revery, 
 The maiden deeply blushed, 
 
 And stammering her apology, 
 With Walter's kiss was hushed. 
 
 " You thought you kissed a dove," said he, 
 
 Then, pausing for a kiss, 
 *' Each other's dove we'll ever be. 
 
 So kissing's not amiss." 
 
^2 P00n4i:g^l MnpxtQ. 
 
 By moon-light weeping, 
 Soft vigils keeping, 
 
 She waits for him : 
 Comes in the morrow, 
 But still with sorrow, 
 
 Her eyes are dim. 
 
 Hopes vainly hover, 
 His life is over. 
 
 Again she weeps : 
 Where drooping willows 
 Bend o'er the billows, 
 
 He calmly sleeps. 
 
Bring me the war-steed and the sword, 
 I've sung of lore for many a day, 
 
 But war and blood are now tlie word — 
 Tear, tear lovers tender string away. 
 
 .,,;■■: ^ i r; -• ' ■ ' ■ 
 
 Strung be my harp to sing of war, 
 
 Strung be my hand to deeds of blood ; 
 
 They'll rue the dawning of the star 
 
 That brought thej^ Ipgions Cj'er the flood. 
 
 Unsheath yoiri" dli^g^r,' ^laiit it where 
 Their lif6-bl'obd finds a venal home. 
 
 And let the wolf and v'ulturei share 
 Their carcass with the greedy loam. 
 
 Strike, strike, my boys, the day is ours, 
 And England in the fight shall fail — 
 
 Rouse, rouse for freedom all your powers, 
 The Briton's heart begins to quail. 
 
In Memory of John G. Calhoun. 
 
 Weep for the fallen : — lo 1 he sleeps, and from 
 His toil he rests. God called — the patriot went. 
 No more his eye with eagle gleam shall flash : 
 No more his heart with proud pulsation beat. 
 The light of that once royal eye is quenched— 
 Quenched in the long dark night of death. Alas ! 
 'Tis darkness now. His lips are pallid too, 
 And in the grave the statesman's voice is hushed. 
 No more shall eloquence in torrents burst 
 From the stiff tongue, in icy death's embrace. 
 
 God of our country ! deign once more to look 
 Upon a people stricken in their grief ! 
 Thou boldest in thy hands the nation's fate : 
 Thou seest the ship of State, like bubbles rocked 
 Upon an ocean swayed by angry storms : 
 Thou seest that from the helm a pilot's gone ! 
 Be thou the vessel's guide, and mid the foam 
 That surges o'er the breakers' beetling breast, 
 In safety steer the good old ship of State. 
 
52 POEMS. 
 
 The brightest star that beamed upon our sky 
 Has sunk beneath the dark horizon's brow. 
 Clouds gather round the nation as it sinks, 
 And tempests laugh that in his hand no more 
 He holds the leash that bound them in their wrath. 
 
 The granite pillar which upheld the dome 
 Of that proud temple which was reared by hands 
 Of patriot sages, and of warriors true. 
 Has tottered to its fall, and is no more : 
 God ! with thy potent hand for good, uphold 
 The temple which our fathers builded thee. 
 
'' ©to Epfoartr, €trer #ntoarir." 
 
 '• Ever upward, ever onward," 
 Be the motto of thy mind ; 
 Never cast thy vision downward, 
 Upward thy reward thou'lt find. 
 
 Fate may frown upon thy pathway, 
 O'er thee cast a transient cloud ; 
 " Onward" still must be thy motto, 
 Soaring on a pinion proud. 
 
 What though sadness be around thee. 
 For a moment clog the way ? 
 
 Raze the wall that starts before thee, 
 Bright will be the morrow's day. 
 
 If the present be but darkness, 
 Darkness cannot always last : 
 
 Light must follow when it fleeth, 
 Onward makes it vanish fast. 
 
54 POEMS. 
 
 Fortune may not smile upon thee, 
 
 Foes may press, while friends forsake : 
 
 Love but Truth, and Truth will guard thee, 
 Towers of strength for thee will make. 
 
 Ever upward. Truth the summit. 
 Where thy pinions thou shalt fold, 
 
 Let not labor turn thee from it. 
 Tarry not for fame nor gold. 
 
 Courage, then, poor fainting spirit. 
 Keep thine eye upon the goal ; 
 
 Labor yet a little longer. 
 Rest remaineth for thy soul. 
 
^t #to pai-w^^ji. 
 
 Round and round, through the live-long-day, 
 Goes the old mill-wheel, with his huge arms spread, 
 To hold its cups where the waters shed 
 
 Their crystal stream on its silvery way. 
 
 The moss has grown on the old mill-wheel, 
 And rusty now are its bands of steel : 
 But I love it still, for in childhood's hours 
 It bathed my head with its cooling showers. 
 As round it went, through the live-long day, 
 Enwrapt in a sheet of snow-white spray. 
 
 How oft I stood upon the bank 
 
 Of the old mill-stream, and from it drank, 
 
 In days of boyhood past ; 
 Or watched the halcyon try to light 
 Upon the wheel, or poise his flight 
 Over the stream, that seemed so bright, 
 
 As on 'twas flowing fast. 
 
56 POEMS. 
 
 And that same old wheel is going still, 
 And flashing bright is the rippling rill 
 That drives it round in its constant flight, 
 And the bank with flowers is still bedight ; 
 But the days of boyhood now are flown, 
 And they Ve left my bosom sad and lone. 
 
 Yet often now, from the crowd I steal, 
 And sit me down by the old mill-wheel. 
 And list to the sound of its merry clank, 
 'Mid the flowers that bloom on the mossy bank ; 
 And the past comes back, as I fondly muse, 
 While the red-bird sings, and the turtle coos. 
 And I live once more 'mid the scenes of youth. 
 And the false dream seems like a thing of truth. 
 
 Then who can blame me when I feel 
 
 A reverence for the old mill-wheel, 
 
 That brings back scenes which long have past, 
 
 Upon time's stream, that flows so fast ? 
 
^amtntu §Iiss* 
 
 Through yonder curtain slyly peeps 
 The rising sun to see my bliss; 
 
 The blazing fire mom's vigil keeps, 
 While I Louisa's forehead kiss. 
 
 She softly clumbers on my breast, 
 Our baby in the cradle sleeps, 
 
 While holy angels guard her rest, 
 And bliss her little bosom keeps. 
 
 Why wish for other wealth to find, 
 Why seek for gold beyond the seas — 
 
 Why covet all the wealth of Ind, 
 
 When I have treasures such as these ? 
 
Written in a Friend's Album. 
 
 Not in the house alone whose gilded spire 
 Its head rests on the bosom of the cloud — 
 Not round the altar raised by finite hands — 
 Not there alone, may'st thou pour out thy heart 
 In thankfulness to God. 
 
 Not where the eye 
 Of man is resting on thee, and-tjold form 
 Extorts from thy unwilling lips a prayer, 
 Which is lip-service, and is nothing worth, 
 Can'st thou best worship Him, the God who loves 
 An humble and a contrite heart. But in 
 The house of God made by Eternal Hands, 
 Whose roof is the blue sky — whose light the sun — 
 Whose curtains are the green and shady boughs — 
 Whose pews the granite, cushioned by the moss — 
 Whose carpet is the flowery, fragrant turf — 
 There in the forest shade, away from men, 
 May'st thou pour out thy heart in prayer. 
 Thou worshipp'st there, not ^Ho be seen of men," 
 
LINES. 59 
 
 But of thy God, who sees in secret, as in open light, 
 And will reward thee openly. 
 
 Pray not 
 As some proud Pharisee, who prays and thanks 
 His Grod that he is not as other men — 
 Pray not that thou, in being " seen of men," 
 May'st have their praise, and reap their vain reward : 
 But as thy Lord hath told thee, " When thou pray'st. 
 Enter thy closet, and in secret pray." 
 
 The Jew, self-righteous in his varied rites, 
 And multifarious creeds, and forms, did think 
 That in Jerusalem alone could man 
 His Maker bow before acceptably. 
 He scorned the poor Samaritan, whose heart 
 Poured out its thanks upon Gerizim's top. 
 But when the Saviour came, and at the well 
 Told to the woman of Samaria 
 Those truths which are so God-like — so divine — 
 " Not in Jerusalem," he said, " or on Gerizim's top, 
 May'st thou alone thy Maker praise : for God 
 A Spirit is, and they that worship Him, 
 Must worship Him in spirit, and in truth." 
 
 Now times there be when from the willing heart, 
 As freely a^ the waters from their founts. 
 Praise gushes forth in worship of great God. 
 'Tis then the heart is melted down, and from 
 
60 POEMS. 
 
 The moistened eye, wells up the sacred tear, 
 Which is a pearl of veneration worth 
 More in the sight of Him who rules in heaven. 
 Than all the sounding words of mitred priest, 
 Or cowled monk. 
 
 Stand by the grave of those 
 With whom sweet converse while in life we held. 
 And the lone heart turns unto GrOd, who gave, 
 And who did take the loving ones away. 
 The humble heart is more acceptable to Grod, 
 Than sacrifice of rams, or blood of goats. 
 Aye, 'tis more worth to Him than long-drawn prayers. 
 Said in the synagogue, or in the church. 
 
 Did'st ever watch thy sleeping child, who lives, 
 t'^>^' Dear Little SoHf or Little Greorge, now gone, 
 But gone on angels' wings to heaven — 
 Did'st ever watch them while they softly slept, 
 And Seraphs seemed to wreathe their faces in 
 Sweet smiles, by whispering pleasant things into 
 Their little ears ? And then did not thy heart. 
 Although thy lips moved not, thank God that He 
 Had lent these jewels to thee, and had sent 
 His angels to watch o'er them ? And did'st thou 
 Not ask Him in thy heart still to watch o'er 
 Their tender years, and guard them from all harm ? 
 Did'st thou not feel that this was prayer as much 
 
LINES. 61 
 
 As though thy lips had moved, and uttered words ? 
 I know 'tis so, for thou a mother's heart 
 Within thy bosom bear'st, and never yet 
 Did mother's heart forget to breathe a prayer 
 For the dear babe with whom is all her life. 
 I know 'tis so ! And thou did'st worship then 
 " In spirit, and in truth ;" and He who heard 
 The very breathings of thy melted heart. 
 Spake peace, and thou did'st know thy prayer was heard, 
 And all was well. 
 
 Did'st ever look at night 
 On the clear sky, whose azure robe was gemmed 
 With twinkling stars, like diamonds glittering bright, 
 While like a brilliant large upon her breast 
 Sat the full moon, and every thing on earth 
 Was still, and seemed with admiration then 
 To gaze upon the lovely scene ? And did 
 Thy heart not wander from the scene to God, 
 The Architect of all thou look'd'st upon ? 
 Did not pure reverence waken in thy breast, 
 And veneration fill thy beating heart ? 
 Ah ! this was worship true — ^not of the lips, 
 But of the heart, and God did smile upon 
 The offering made, and all was lovelier still. 
 So may thy heart and thoughts,, and mine, and all 
 The hearts of all on earth, be turned to God, 
 " In spirit and in truth ;" and when we hear 
 The summons hence, God's will, not ours, be done. 
 
Of honest heart, and noble mind, 
 Job Joneson was extremely good, 
 
 And was so piously inclined, 
 
 He swallowed all the pies he could. 
 
 He was religious-minded too, 
 Talked of the patriarchs of old, 
 
 And in their ways took more delight 
 Than in aught else, except his gold. 
 
 With every body, far and nigh. 
 
 His standing was confessed of all — 
 
 Aye, Joneson stood extremely high. 
 For he was fully seven feet tall. 
 
 At home, abroad, and every where, 
 'Mid banking, money, stocks, or pelf. 
 
 In all his dealings he was fair. 
 When fairness benefited self. 
 
 In this vain world of death and sin. 
 His charities he did disburse. 
 
 Obedient to the voice within. 
 That is, the jingling in his purse. 
 
JOB JONESON. 63 
 
 Job Joneson was so Godly-given, 
 
 On grace did have so strong a hold, 
 He never thought of aught but heaven, 
 
 Whose very streets were paved with gold. 
 
 Who giveth money to the poor, 
 
 A lender to the Lord is he ; 
 But Job to loan ne'er felt secure, 
 
 Without approved security. 
 
 That he was honest 'twas agreed, 
 
 And followed principle all through ; 
 Aye, principal he loved indeed, 
 
 And even loved the interest too. 
 
 Now Joneson was so Godly-given, 
 
 He often knelt him down to pray, 
 And while his thoughts would stray to^heaven, 
 
 His fingers in your purse would stray. 
 
 Well, even if he took your gold, 
 
 His fingers in your purse did stray, 
 You should be satisfied when told, 
 
 He did it in a pious way. 
 
 But after all that has been said, 
 
 His character in short is told. 
 And in one line it may be read : — 
 
 His talk was God, his god was gold. 
 
Tim Bodkin had a scolding wife, 
 Who had annoyed him half his life, 
 
 By scolding, fretting, fuming : 
 One night he staid out rather late, 
 And when he'd reach his home, from Kate 
 
 A storm he was presuming. 
 
 There's strength in wit, did Bodkin think. 
 And as he stood on danger's brink, 
 
 And pondered o'er (poor fellow !) 
 Some good excuse for staying out. 
 His mind harassed with many a doubt, 
 
 He borrowed an umbrella. 
 
 He went to bed, and madam's tongue 
 A shower of words around him flung, 
 
 In very rich profusion : 
 She said this thing, and mentioned that. 
 And called him good-for-nothing brat, 
 
 With many a sinister allusion. 
 
 Tim raised himself up in the bed. 
 And quickly hoisted o'er his head 
 
 His parapluie, or umbrella : 
 Kate sees the act, but can't surmise 
 What it can mean, but with surprise 
 
 Asks, What can ail thee, fellow ? 
 
BUTCHER, SPARE THAT HOG. 65 
 
 Tim answered *twas a dreadful storm, 
 And he, to screen him from its harm, 
 
 His parapluie had hoisted : 
 Kate shut her mouth, and dropped to sleep, 
 And 'twixt that time, and morning-peep. 
 
 No words on Tim were foisted. 
 
 Butcher, spare that hog, 
 
 Touch not a single hair ; 
 In youth he loved the bog. 
 
 And I played with him there. 
 'Twas my forefather's hand 
 
 That reared him near his cot ; 
 Then, butcher, let him stand, 
 
 Thy knife shall harm him not. 
 
 That old, familiar hog. 
 
 Whose glory and renown 
 Went over all the bog — 
 
 And would'st thou shoot him down ? 
 Butcher, just leave that shote. 
 
 Cut not his earth-bound ties ; 
 Oh ! spare his aged throat, 
 And go to other styes. 
 
66 POEMS. 
 
 When but an idle boy, 
 
 I loved this grateful pig, 
 Who, grunting forth his joy. 
 
 Has grown to be quite big. 
 I used to scratch his ear. 
 
 He licked my boyish hand ; 
 Forgive this foolish tear, 
 
 But let the old pig stand. 
 
 My heart-strings for thee feel 
 
 Close as thy hide, old friend; 
 For ages may'st thou squeal, 
 
 And have a tail to bend. 
 Old hog, the storm still brave. 
 
 And, butcher, leave the spot ; 
 While IVe a hand to save. 
 
 Thy knife shall harm him not. 
 
Pg fife is lib % mu €n^ak: 
 
 My life is like the wee tadpole, 
 
 That skims along the waters bright — 
 That fish will catch him, by my soul ! — 
 
 Why don't he run ? — the fellow's tight. 
 Yet if that fish does catch him, then 
 The brook will weep, as ye may ken, 
 As if 'twere death the thing to see, 
 But none will shed a tear for me. 
 
 My. life is like a little pig — 
 
 That puppy bites him by the ear — 
 It's just because the pig's not big — 
 He'll kill the infant swine, I fear. 
 But round that pig the herd will grunt. 
 And grumble for the little runt. 
 Just as thy folks would weep for thee. 
 But none will blubber loud for me. 
 
 My life is like Miss Nancy's track, 
 Made on a little piece of sand : — 
 When is my sweet-heart coming back, 
 To take her true-love by the hand ? 
 But when the rain has come and washed 
 Her foot-print out, and memory quashed, 
 It looks like tears, you'll all agree, — 
 But none, alas ! will cry for me. 
 
pttl^ SwXQt 
 
 The following passage is from the N. 0. True Delta's account of the burning of the 
 steam-ship Georgia ;— " A father, who had rescued his wife and six children, went back 
 for a seventh, and was lost." 
 
 The flames ran high — the waters hissed, 
 As burning fragments strewed the wave, 
 
 And fathers prayed, and mothers kissed 
 Their infants o'er a burning grave. 
 
 The fire-fiend leaped up to the sky, 
 As men upon the wharfage rushed — 
 
 Unearthly shrieks told death was nigh, 
 
 Then in the grave those shrieks were hushed. 
 
 " Are they all here ?" — a father said. 
 As panting on the shore he stood : 
 Six children by their mother led, 
 Saved by his arm from fire and flood. 
 
 " Where's Little Greorge ?" — ^the echo rang 
 Around the weeping, trembling group : — 
 
 " Where's Little George ?" — the father sprang 
 Where marshaled Death his fiery troop. 
 
 Back rushed he to the spreading flame — 
 The mother cried, " Oh ! save my child !" 
 
 The children sobbed their brother's name, 
 As flame on flame was madly piled. 
 
HAPS AND MISHAPS OF JOHN SMITH. 69 
 
 He's gone — ^the mother's heart in prayer 
 
 Beseeches death to stay the rod — 
 He's lost amid the blazing air — 
 
 " Protect my child and husband, God !" 
 
 " Ha, ha ! — ^he comes — ^he bears my child " — 
 And Little George stretched out his hand 
 To meet his mother as she smiled. 
 To think he'd join the happy band. 
 
 A crash — a burst of flame — ^he falls ! — 
 Sweeps o'er them both a sea of fire — 
 
 The father prays — ^the infant calls 
 His mother from his funeral pyre. 
 
 t Papa Ettir "^xB^u^B of |0|^n S>mxi^. 
 
 John Smith, an honest, working man, 
 
 The ploughman's humble walks did share, 
 
 Until he o'er a letter ran, 
 
 Announcing he'd been left an heir. 
 
 Some kinsman, in a distant town, 
 
 Had died, and left him an estate. 
 Vast as the riches of a crown — 
 
 Men envied Mr. Smith his fate. 
 
70 POEMS. 
 
 To go and mourn his kinsman dead, 
 John bundled up, and off did put : — 
 
 He, though with joy upon his head. 
 Walked with the plan he had on foot. 
 
 He had an understanding good, 
 A useful thing upon the road, 
 
 And many things he understood. 
 Because not longer much than broad. 
 
 He was a very dumpy man, 
 
 Though not now troubled with the dumps ; 
 And where the road through forest ran, 
 
 Beneath the trees he stirred his stumps. 
 
 In traveling, he grew weak from thirst. 
 His ybo^ slipped, as his strength did fail — 
 
 His understanding lost he curst : — 
 
 Ah ! what can ail ? — There's want of ale. 
 
 Recovering, he his speed put out, 
 Thinking he saw a cascade nigh ; . 
 
 But close inspection left no doubt, 
 The cataract was in his eye. 
 
 Next hunger pinching very sore, 
 He seized upon a roasting goose ; 
 
 But his digestion being poor, 
 
 He turned the tailor^ s iron loose. 
 
 As hunger pressed him still, in haste, 
 He reached another fire ahead. 
 
 Where boiled a pig — with dainty taste, 
 He still abstained — the pig was lead. 
 
HAPS AND MISHAPS OP JOHN SMITH. 71 
 
 Still farther on, to buy he thought 
 Some ham and cahhage — ^never bad — 
 
 And felt for money which he brought — 
 Ham's sons had cabbaged all he had. 
 
 Next town he stopped, and now he grew 
 
 So tired, he took a stage-coach there ; 
 From roasts and boils got in a stew, 
 
 Because he thought the fare not fair. 
 
 The driver put him out — ^he walked 
 
 Till soul as well as body fails ; 
 But Smith was not thus to be balked. 
 
 He mended up his sole, with nails. 
 
 At last some food which he could eat, 
 
 He got in shape of chick or owl. 
 And thought his dinner hard to beat, 
 
 Though what he ate was very fowl. 
 
 But worse distress came on him now, 
 
 He had no dimes to pay his way ; 
 His landlord scowled with angry brow — 
 
 Smith thought the devil was to pay. 
 
 He was arrested, held to bail, 
 
 But not a friend was on the spot ; 
 For 'neath such pressure oft they fail, 
 
 As does the bale upon a pot. 
 
 So Johnny told his landlord then. 
 
 He was an heir, and could not stay — 
 A breath of air oft changes men, • 
 
 The landlord let him go his way. 
 
72 POEMS. 
 
 He reached the town where was divided 
 A crown mid scores that came as Jieir^ 
 
 And when the matter was decided, 
 A 'plough was still Smith's only share. 
 
 He put for home, his plans defeated, 
 And all his prospects thus did fail : — 
 
 Hard fate indeed to him was meted, 
 For back he rode upon a rail. 
 
 John Smith returned a wiser man. 
 And staid at home and labored there ; 
 
 And quickly then the rumor ran. 
 The village heir had turned to air. 
 
 Where the Danube pours its waters 
 
 Eastward to the Euxine Sea, 
 Where Circassia sells her daughters 
 
 O'er the wave to Sinope — 
 In Wallachia and Moldavia, 
 
 Where nor mosque nor minaret 
 Views Mahomet as its Saviour, 
 
 Where the Cross is floating yet : — 
 
 There the Russian lifts his banner, 
 There his colors streaming high. 
 
 And the Christian's loud hosannah 
 Reaches even to the sky : 
 
"where the DANUBE POURS ITS WATERS." 73 
 
 Floating Cross and floating Orescent, 
 O'er contending hosts are raised, 
 
 Proud array, though evanescent — 
 Grod or Allah — which be praised ? 
 
 There the English lion's roaring, 
 
 There the Cossack's on his steed, 
 And the mountaineers are pouring. 
 
 With their banners in the lead : 
 There the fluttering Gallic eagles 
 
 Hover o'er the scene afar. 
 And Britannia's thirsty beagles 
 
 Snuff the breezes big with war. 
 
 France is pouring in her legions, 
 
 England leading men to blood ; 
 Russia to the Southern regions, 
 
 Pours her armies as a flood : 
 Thousands rushing to the battle, 
 
 Men and nations bite the dust : 
 What are these but human cattle. 
 
 Slain to slake their tyrants' lust ? 
 
 See the Western Armies moving, 
 
 While Moscovia pours her hordes — 
 Cossacks to and fro are roving, 
 
 For the sport that blood affords : 
 Hear the distant cannon booming. 
 
 And the clanging of the fight ; 
 See the Cross and Crescent looming. 
 
 To the serried columns' sight. 
 
 See the Danube's crimson waters 
 Hurrying to the dismal sea ; 
 
74 {poems. 
 
 Waters drunk with bloody slaughters 
 Of the men who would be free : 
 
 Caws the crow, and croaks the raven, 
 And the wolf, while feasting howls, 
 
 Tearing hearts that ne'er were craven, 
 'Mid the gibberish of the ghouls. 
 
 Moan the sons and weep the daughters 
 
 Of the men in battle slain ; 
 And the rivers, foul with slaughters. 
 
 Pour red waters to the main : 
 Bleach the bones of fallen millions, 
 
 Fester rotten corpses where 
 Europe's tyrants hold the billions, 
 
 And their lives, as light as air. 
 
 Grows the grass in town and village, 
 
 Commerce stagnant on the sea ; 
 Carnage, blood, and fiery pillage. 
 
 These the things that now must be : 
 Art and Science are forgotten, 
 
 Learning sleeping in its halls ; 
 Ships upon the sea are rotten. 
 
 Towns are mouldered, broken walls. 
 
 God ! direct the storm that's brewing, 
 
 Lay ambitious tyrants low. 
 Liberty to man accruing — 
 
 Teach their hosts thy will to know : 
 And while clouds and tempests lower, 
 
 War's black banner flaunts unfurled. 
 Let the nations feel thy power — 
 
 Freedom dawning on the world. 
 
In Memory of Mrs. H. R. D. 
 
 The Spring returns with brightening sky, 
 And flowers exhale their rich perfumes, 
 
 As when thy fostering hand was nigh 
 
 To train their vines, or pluck their blooms. 
 
 The bee is humming round the flower. 
 The mock-bird sings his merry lay. 
 
 The thrush is hiding in the bower, 
 And laughing children run and play. 
 
 We miss thee in the garden walk. 
 We miss thy footsteps in the hall ; 
 
 Thy gentle smile, thy pleasant talk. 
 Thy merry laugh — we miss them all. 
 
 We miss thee at the social board. 
 
 We miss thee nightly round the hearth, 
 
 We miss thee when our hearts are stored 
 With sorrow, or with gentle mirth. 
 
 The sod is on thy pulseless breast. 
 The grass is growing on thy grave — 
 
 Thou'rt sleeping in thy long, long rest — 
 We buffet life's relentless wave. 
 
 I lately on the canvass gazed. 
 And saw the copy of thy smile — 
 
 Thine eye that now in death is glazed, 
 And mused in revery the while. 
 
76 POEMS. 
 
 Thine eye from off the canvass bent 
 
 Its mellow ray into my heart, 
 And memory to thine image lent 
 
 So true a look, it made me start. 
 
 I felt as though that same mild eye 
 Which looked in kindness on me here, 
 
 Still looked upon me from the sky, 
 And silently I dropped a tear. 
 
 Well, thou art happy — ^why should we 
 Indulge a wish to have thee back ? — 
 
 'Tis better that we go thee. 
 For heaven has joys, which earth must lack. 
 
 Written while Editor of " The Independent Press." 
 
 Once upon a time, when sitting in our sanctum, while were flit- 
 ting 
 O'er our mind, so busy thinking, just a score of things or more, 
 Came a Pussy, softly creeping, thinking, likely, we were sleep- 
 ing, 
 Like a sinner slyly peeping, peeping in our sanctum door : — 
 " We will watch Miss Pussy," said we, as she cleared our sanc- 
 tum door — 
 
 " We will watch her, nothing more." 
 
 Softly moved she onward, stealing, every step so gently feeling, 
 Looking right and left about her, while the people all below 
 Kept a laughing and a talking ; but Miss Pussy kept a walking 
 
ouB neighbor's oat. 77 
 
 Farther in, and never balking, thinking not a bit of wo, 
 Or that she might catch a Tartar, if within she'd farther go — 
 That we'd toss her down below. 
 
 Would yon think it ? — ^we were hoping, that the Pussy, slowly 
 
 moping. 
 Spied the plagued little Mousey, that had gnawed our papers 
 
 some — 
 That she meant to catch him for us, and we gladdened o'er the 
 
 chorus 
 We would sing, when dead before us, lay the little creature 
 
 dumb; 
 For we fairly wished the rascal blown to pieces by a bomb — 
 But this pleasure didn't come. 
 
 For instead of catching Mousey, lo ! the good-for-nothing hussy 
 Seized upon our only cracker, bought in Linch & Davis' store, 
 And back softly started, creeping, still believing we were sleeping, 
 And before her slyly peeping, making for our sanctum door ; 
 For she came in nothing having, but was going from our floor 
 With a cracker, nothing more. 
 
 But our little negro, Thomas, happening in our door to come as 
 She concluded she might safely leap from out our sanctum door, 
 With his pocket full of rockseSy lo ! this cat of Mr. Coxe's 
 Went a tumbling o'er the boxes, with a shin or two made sore : 
 Let this learn each prowling Pussy, that her thieving should be 
 o'er; 
 
 Only this, and nothing more. 
 
 SEQUEL. 
 
 Since the tale above related, we have killed the mouse so hated : 
 For we caught him in our drawer, by a cracker there decoyed, 
 
78 POEMS. 
 
 And we mashed him on our table — then as fast we were able 
 Threw him down upon Mike Graybill, though we aimed him 
 
 at Tom Floyd ; 
 And this sequel has a moral : — Let no Mousey be decoyed 
 Where he can be thus destroyed. 
 
 C0 Safaattna^* 
 
 Written during the prevalence of yellow fever in Savannah, in 1854. 
 
 O'er thee, city of Savannah, 
 
 Cypress wreaths the breezes blow. 
 
 And a sombre, deathly banner 
 Leads thee to the house of wo. 
 
 Lovely city, in thy bosom 
 
 Fell Disease has sown his seed ; 
 
 Soon they spring and quickly blossom, 
 And they to the charnel lead. 
 
 Though the sun is bright above thee. 
 Bright the stars shine o'er thy head ; 
 
 Though thy sons and daughters love thee, 
 Silent city of the dead : 
 
 Still the blighting plague hath bound thee, 
 Death's dark pinions poised above — 
 
 Fall thy noblest children round thee, 
 Martyrs to their filial love. 
 
 Chapman sleeps for thee a martyr, 
 WiLDMAN slumbers in the ground. 
 
INTERCEPTED LETTER. 79 
 
 Sons for thee who life would barter : 
 Where can nobler sons be found ? 
 
 Gartland, too, for thee is sleeping 
 In the cold and narrow grave — 
 * Crumley, where the sick were weeping, 
 All he had, his life, he gave. 
 
 Other noble sons are staying 
 
 Round the couch where fever stands. 
 
 Where insatiate Death is preying. 
 And run out life's golden sands. 
 
 Dark and gloomy, fair Savannah, 
 
 Is the fate which now is thine ; 
 Waves o'er thee Death's sombre banner, 
 
 Bow thy sons before his shrine. 
 
 God be with thee in thy sorrow, 
 
 Stay the angel's deathly wing, 
 Bring thee in a glad to-morrow. 
 
 Health and comfort to thee bring. 
 
 From Mrs. Susan Simple to her Husband, concerning her Baby exhibited at the 
 Augusta Fair. 
 
 Dear husband, how vain are the phantoms of earth, 
 And the whisperings of hope how alluringly deceiving ! 
 
 How uncertain the things which the future gives birth — 
 But it's no use complaining, or even qf grieving. 
 
 * When this poem was written, the report was that Mr. Crumley had died. He did 
 not die, however, but recovered from his attack of the epidemic, and is now engaged in 
 his duties as a Methodist itinerant minister. 
 
80 POEMS. 
 
 You know when I left yon, my prospects were bright 
 That I'd be by the worth of the premium richer ; 
 
 But my prospects are gone, and my hopes are a blight, 
 For a great chubby thing took the premium pitcher. 
 
 Would you think — could you think — ^that a darling like mine 
 Could have failed to have got e'en a goblet for pretty ? 
 
 Why, she was an angel compared with the swine — 
 But I won't e'en compare with them dear little Nettie. 
 
 Just to think all the trimming, and working, and lace. 
 That I've toiled to complete, and to have it in season, 
 
 Was all to no purpose — was ever a case 
 
 So provokingly bad, and without any reason ? 
 
 Oh ! it wasn't fair, now — you may know 'twasn't fair — 
 " But they had such a plague-taked ugly committee, 
 That it's not at all wonderful, I do declare. 
 
 That they could not appreciate sweet little Nettie. 
 
 Well, let it all slope, for I really believe 
 
 That it's but a small thing either winning or losing, 
 
 And I do not complain, and I scorn e'en to grieve — 
 So adieu till you see me, your own dearest 
 
 Susan. 
 
 Thick clouds of fog hang on the pines. 
 And rain-drops glisten on their spires, 
 
 While shimmering through their dusky lines, 
 Shine faint the negroes' morning fires. 
 
DECEMBER Uth, 1854. g2 
 
 The sun is lounging late to-day, 
 
 In dusky curtains fringed with red, 
 While now and then a straggling ray 
 
 Of eye-light struggles from his head. 
 
 The dark-winged crow, with dampened plumes. 
 
 Flaps on the misty, mirky air. 
 With passage bent where faintly looms 
 
 The negro's form, his food to share. 
 
 Upon the bosom of the stream, 
 
 Down where the waters glide beneath 
 
 Overhanging bows, in mazy dream. 
 The wood-duck's in a vapory wreath. 
 
 Trots on my steed — ^like smoke roll out 
 
 His nostrils many a steamy cloud — 
 With watchful eye he looks about. 
 
 His vision airy spectres crowd. 
 
 And slowly over yonder mead 
 
 The cattle wind their heavy way ; 
 Some dragging ox is in the lead. 
 
 An age upon each step he'll stay. 
 
 In yonder woods the plaintive wail 
 
 Of bunny falls upon the ear — 
 The hawk that flushed the whirring quail 
 
 Has filled his quaking heart with fear. 
 
 Goo-hoo ! brings up the grunting swine, 
 
 That loiter, rooting as they come : 
 They're hunting mast — they know 'tis fine, 
 
 And corn is very scarce at home. 
 
82 POEMS. 
 
 The day advances, and the sun 
 Rolls back the fog in airy space ; 
 
 And ere the zenith has been won, 
 He shows a smiling, glowing face. 
 
 High over all Jehovah reigns, 
 
 With reverence bow the knee to him : 
 
 He binds the nations in his chains, 
 And makes the rulers' glory dim. 
 
 The lightning leaves his steps behind. 
 His thunders on the mountains fall ; 
 
 He rolls his utterance on the wind. 
 Volcanoes answer to his call. 
 
 His voice uplifted on the mount, 
 
 Both kings and people filled with awe : 
 
 From Sinai sprang the sacred fount 
 
 Whence gushed supreme and heavenly law. 
 
 We bow the knee, oh ! Lord, to thee — 
 Jehovah rules the earth and sky : 
 
 His voice uplifted on the sea. 
 The ocean rolls her billows high. 
 
 Earth rocks and to her centre quakes. 
 The mountains tremble at thy word ; 
 
 Earth's architraves thy tempest shakes — 
 We bow the knee, and own thee Lord. 
 
^OQl^mlmlOim. 
 
 This morning, when the sun was low, 
 And dogs were trotting to and fro, 
 The blood of ewes began to flow. 
 And rams were dying rapidly. 
 
 But dogdom saw another sight, 
 For farmers cursed with all their might. 
 And swore they'd shoot them e'er the night 
 Had draped them in dark scenery. 
 
 With double-barreled guns arrayed, 
 With musket and with rusty blade. 
 Each hero's bosom undismayed, 
 All joined the dreadful revelry. * 
 
 Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
 Then fled the dogs by buck-shot driven, 
 And louder than young bolts of heaven, 
 . Far flashed the red artillery. 
 
 But redder yet those fires shall glow, 
 Where frost is just as white as snow, 
 And many a hero there shall show 
 His dauntless deeds of bravery. 
 
 'Tis morn — ^but scarce yon lurid sun 
 Can paint the war-clouds rolling dun. 
 While all the dogs and puppies run 
 To 'scape the sulph'rous canopy. 
 
84 POEMS. 
 
 The combat deepens : on, ye brave, 
 Who rush to glory or the grave ! 
 Wave, heroes, wave, all your banners wave, 
 And charge with all your chivalry. 
 
 Ah ! few shall part where many meet. 
 No more these dogs will mutton eat. 
 And every turf beneath their feet 
 Shall be a puppy's sepulchre. 
 
 %utumn. 
 
 At eve and morn the wanton breeze 
 Doth dip his feet in Tyrian dews. 
 
 And paint the foliage T)f the trees 
 In golden, purple, crimson hues. 
 
 The zephyr comes with mellow wing. 
 Comes laden with autumnal sounds. 
 
 From neighboring hills where echoes ring. 
 From meadows coursed by baying hounds. 
 
 And in the browning stubble's heard 
 The buzzing of the insect throng. 
 
 And from the wood the summer bird 
 Is pouring forth his farewell song. 
 
 The plaintive kildee seeks the rill. 
 The partridge whistles in the copse, 
 
 The gun is echoed from the hill. 
 
 And from the tree the squirrel drops. 
 
AUTUMN. 85 
 
 The cotton dons its robe of white, 
 The maize is golden in the field, 
 
 The moon sheds forth a milder light, 
 Less torrid is the solar shield. 
 
 The rustic corn-song lades the breeze, 
 As chanted forth by merry slaves — 
 
 Few sons of toil more blest than these. 
 Though Beecher cants and Parker raves. 
 
 The grapes are purple on the vine, 
 Persimmons turn to golden hue. 
 
 Grows ripe the luscious muscadine, 
 And autumn fruitage greets the view. 
 
 Now Cuffee winds his merry horn, 
 And Towzer leaps with frantic joy — 
 
 Wo to the 'possum — ere 'tis mom 
 He's food for negro girl or boy. 
 
 The road is now with teamsters strewn, 
 Who crack their whips as on they ride — 
 
 No monarch seated on his throne 
 Is loftier in his regal pride. 
 
 'Tis sad, 'tis true, yet pleasant all. 
 When autumn's genial sun is shed, 
 
 When flowers decay and leaflets fall. 
 And low, sad breezes fan the head. 
 
Wxiih lam's Wim^, 
 
 Mamma, I wish I lived away, 
 Away across the great, big sea, 
 
 Where little heathen children play, 
 And then how happy I should be ! 
 
 I wish you'd be a heathen too. 
 
 And then we all could have some bread, 
 And good warm clothes for Sister Sue, 
 
 And Brother Willie, who is dead. 
 
 I'd go and find his little grave, 
 And tell him to come home again, 
 
 And bread and little shoes he'd have. 
 And he would thank his Sister Jane. 
 
 And folks would come and see you then — 
 Mamma, you look so sick and pale ! — 
 
 And bring some bread and butter when 
 They heard my sister's hungry wail. 
 
 Mamma, can't Grod his bounties shed 
 Except on heathens ? Can't he give 
 
 To Sister Sue and me some bread. 
 And let your little daughters live ? 
 
 I went to church, to-day, and heard 
 The preacher for the heathen pray. 
 
 But not the first imploring word 
 For hungry little Christians say. 
 
LITTLE jane's WISH. 87 
 
 My little dress was worn and thin, 
 
 And I sat shivering in the cold, 
 While other little girls put in 
 
 The box their shining sums of gold. 
 
 They told me that this was to buy 
 
 For little heathen girls some bread — 
 Oh ! mother, how I wish that I 
 
 Could be a heathen, and be fed. 
 
 They laughed at my old, faded dress, 
 
 And put on many haughty airs : 
 I thought of Grod in my distress. 
 
 And hid my face, and said my prayers. 
 
 Mamma, sha'n't we be heathens too. 
 So we can have some clothes and bread, 
 
 I and my little Sister Sue, 
 
 And Brother Willie, who is dead ? 
 
 ®Ij^ g^atr. 
 
 I NEVER turn to childhood's home, 
 Where wild-birds sing and roses nod. 
 
 But o'er my memory thoughts will come 
 Of those who slumber 'neath the sod. 
 
 I think of her who went to rest. 
 Called suddenly to her reward — 
 
 I knew how kindly glowed her breast 
 
 With thoughts which angels love to guard. 
 
88 THE DEAD. 
 
 And of her son does memory rise, 
 
 The humble Christian, neighbor kind, 
 
 The man renowned for enterprise, 
 Who in his prime repose did find. 
 
 And then I think of him again, 
 
 Who kindly watched around the bed. 
 
 Where sickness racked the nerves with pain. 
 And grieve to think that he is dead. 
 
 I think of her, our neighbor kind — 
 I see her smile, her manner bland ; 
 
 I think upon her placid mind, 
 
 Her ready, and her friendly hand. 
 
 I think of her, the lovely maid. 
 
 Whose cheek was like the snow that's driven- 
 The tender flower which seemed decayed. 
 
 But budded here, and bloomed in heaven. 
 
 And oh ! I think of him the good. 
 The father of his weeping child. 
 
 The treasure of paternal blood, 
 
 And then my grief is deep and wild. 
 
 Hushed be my harp, no longer sing, 
 Too deep's the melancholy thrill : — 
 
 My trembling chords away I fling. 
 
 So dark the thoughts which memory fill. 
 
I HEAR a wail ! 
 
 The mother, pale 
 And faint with hunger, stood among 
 Her starving children, as they clung 
 Around her garment old and torn, 
 For many a weary winter worn : 
 And many a tear by the mother is shed, 
 As her children cry, ^' Mother, give us bread !'' 
 
 There swept up the street a pageant by, 
 And the silks were rustling in the breeze. 
 
 And the gold shone bright in the mid-day sky. 
 And the birds sang sweet in the scattered trees* 
 
 But the mother's heart, 
 How keen the smart 
 That smites to her bosom's core, 
 As such pomp she sees. 
 And she bends her knees. 
 And her lips begin to pour 
 Warm words in prayer, o'er each darling head. 
 And she cries, " Oh ! Father, give them bread !" 
 
 Old age has laid him down to die 
 
 Upon his squalid bed of straw ; 
 Gaunt poverty stands grimly by, 
 
 And hunger reads to him his iron law. 
 And as gray hairs lie down to sleep, 
 And none is near his couch to weep, 
 Or close his eyes when he is dead. 
 The old man mutters, " Give me bread !" 
 
90 POEMS. 
 
 There's famine in the land ! 
 
 Strong men lie down to die, 
 And death drives home a pallid band, 
 As thousands to the eharnel hie : 
 And as they march to the house of the dead, 
 Their wild cry rings out, '' G-ive us bread !" 
 
 The rich have bread, and their tables groan 
 With abundant food, while the millions moan ; 
 And they close their hearts, send their doors they shut, 
 And their maws with the fat of the land they glut. 
 
 I hear a howl ! 
 The lion's growl 
 Strikes not to the heart of his victims fear, 
 So great as that which is cowering here. 
 A maddened crowd of demons rush 
 From street to street like the torrent flush : 
 They fire the houses in their wake. 
 And the gold-kings in their strong-holds quake ; 
 Their palaces topple, and their grandeur falls, 
 And the furious mob in its frenzy calls : 
 And they're crushed in the street, and they tread on the dead, 
 And they hiss in the flames, crying, " Grive us bread !" 
 
 Oft in the stilly night. 
 Before I had got married, 
 
 I till the morning light 
 In groceries often tarried. 
 
BURIAL OF "SAM." 91 
 
 I there did drink of punch and gin, 
 
 And with my friends grew merry ; 
 But long, alas ! the time has been 
 
 Since I sipped port and sherry. 
 Thus in the stilly night, 
 
 Ere Sally's chain had bound me, 
 I drank till morning light. 
 
 Companions all around me. 
 
 When I remember all 
 
 The friends that drank together, 
 In grocery, or at ball. 
 
 In hot and wintry weather, 
 I feel like one who treads alone 
 
 Some grocery deserted. 
 Whose hopes are dead, whose brandy's fled, 
 
 And he to home departed. 
 Thus in the stilly night. 
 
 Since Sally's chain has bound me. 
 Sad memory brings the light 
 
 Of other nights around me. 
 
 Not a " cry'''' escaped from a " brother^ s^^ throat, 
 As his corse to the gully we hurried ; 
 
 Not a pistol discharged its farewell shot 
 O'er the grave where our hero was buried. 
 
 We buried him darkly, at dead of night, 
 
 The sods with our bowie-knives turning, 
 
92 POEMS. 
 
 By the lantern's dim and glimmering light, 
 And a Dutchman slowly burning. 
 
 No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 
 
 Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him, 
 
 But he lay like a brigand taking his rest, 
 With our ritual bound around him. 
 
 Few and short were the prayers that we said, 
 
 And we spoke not a word of sorrow. 
 As we thought on the visions of offices fled. 
 
 That we'd hoped to enjoy on the morrow. 
 
 We thought, as we filled up his narrow bed. 
 
 And smoothed down his lonely pillow. 
 How the '-'- furriners''' soon would tread over his head. 
 
 In spite of McPherson and Miller. 
 
 Lightly they'll call him the bantling of Hone, 
 And for oaths and for pass- words upbraid him, 
 
 But no more will he swear, if they'll let him sleep on, 
 In the grave where Democracy laid him. 
 
 But half of our heavy task was done, 
 
 When 'twas hinted 'twas time for retiring. 
 
 By the sound of the booming minute-gun, 
 That the An ties were joyfully firing. 
 
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down. 
 
 From his Louisville butcheries gory : 
 As a Paddy peeped at us we tossed him a stone, 
 
 And left Sammy alone with his glory. 
 
Having failed to perform as he would in Crimea, 
 There to add new eclat to the page of his story, 
 
 John Bull has adopted a novel idea 
 
 To repair all the damage there done to his glory. 
 
 So he marshals his fleet in imposing array. 
 Confessing thereby some disquieting qualm. 
 
 And shows us if weak in a real affray. 
 His arm is omnipotent, fighting in sham. 
 
 But let him not boast of his wonderful fleet, 
 
 Or seek thus the storm to allay which is brewing ; 
 
 For should he insist with us Yankees to meet. 
 
 We'll teach him the difference 'twixt shamming and doing. 
 
 'Tis Christmas morn, the cock has crowed, 
 
 And waked our hearts to joy ; 
 The bark of life we've gayly rowed, 
 
 And now one loud ahoy ! 
 One loud ahoy to joy ahead, 
 
 To speed it on its way ; 
 
 One loud ahoy to sorrow fled, 
 
 To bid it long good day. 
 
 'Tis Christmas morn. 
 
 Then wind the horn. 
 
 And call the dogs away : 
 
 We'll swallow the nogg, 
 Then over the bog. 
 And chase the fox to-day. 
 
94 POEMS. 
 
 The hickory-wood is on the hearth, 
 
 And bright the cheerful glow, 
 But sparkle brighter floods of mirth, 
 
 That o'er our bosoms flow. 
 From broiling ham come grateful fumes, 
 
 The toast is crisp and brown ; 
 In curling wreaths the coffee blooms, 
 Anon we'll drink it down. 
 'Tis Christmas morn. 
 Then wind the horn, 
 And call the dogs away : 
 
 We'll swallow the nogg, 
 Then over the bog, 
 And chase the fox to-day. 
 
 With stranger hearts to aught of care 
 
 Doth gleesome childhood leap ; 
 The negroes chaunt some rustic air. 
 
 And merry time they keep. 
 With joyful hearts they greet the day. 
 
 And " Christmas Grift," they cry : 
 Some slight memorial lights their way. 
 Their bounding blood drives high. 
 'Tis Christmas morn, 
 Then wind the horn. 
 And call the dogs away : 
 
 We'll swallow the nogg. 
 Then over the bog, 
 And chase the fox to-day. 
 
 A happy Christmas morn to all. 
 
 To bondman and to free : 
 To childhood and to age we call 
 
 To mingle in our glee. 
 
TIBfii. 95 
 
 Thank God, who makes our bosoms light, 
 
 Thank Grod for others' joy : 
 We'll spend one day with care away, 
 And hail to bliss ahoy ! 
 
 'Tis Christmas morn, 
 
 Then wind the horn, 
 And call the dogs away : 
 
 We'll swallow the nogg, 
 
 Then over the bog. 
 And chase the fox to-day. 
 
 Written at the close of the Year 1856. 
 
 Have ye marked the step of the Giant Time ? 
 Have ye heard the bells of his marching chime ? 
 Lo ! he binds on another 'round his neck. 
 And its ding-dong peals o'er the scattered wreck, 
 Of the blasted hopes, and the fallen plans. 
 And the pigmy imaginings, such as man's. 
 
 It tells of plans that are wrecked and gone — 
 
 It tells of hope which a moment shone — 
 
 It tells of the grave that has swallowed up friends — 
 
 It tells of the darkness thai^ever attends, 
 
 With its brooding wings, on the Giant's Path, 
 
 Prom which there are dropping black plimies of wrath. 
 
 His head is high in the realms of space. 
 In the distant sky doth he veil his face, 
 
96 POEMS. 
 
 But his ponderous stepping is felt anon, 
 As the trembling earth he treads upon, 
 In the course he makes over planets and stars, 
 The train of the comet, or the path of Mars. 
 
 And so has he trodden for many an age. 
 With the fields of space for his stej)ping-stage : 
 And many a world 'neath the Griant's tread 
 Has gone to be ranked with the past and dead : 
 And every thing crouches beneath his feet — 
 The Good and the Bad, the Bitter and Sweet.' 
 
 And how many bells does he bear on his neck ? 
 'Tisn't easy to count them 'mid the chaos and wreck 
 That the Giant doth make where he sets down his heel, 
 So stunning the shock that the mortals all feel : 
 Some six thousand bells do chronologists say. 
 But millions he bears in his scornfullest way. 
 
 On the Greek and Assyrian too has he trod. 
 
 Upon peasant and king, and the throne of their god, 
 
 Upon temple and mosque, upon tower and wall : 
 
 'Neath the weight of his heel do they every one fall. 
 
 And every thing droops at the treading of Time, 
 
 And the heart of the world shrinks aghast at his chime. 
 
 And whence doth he come, and whither will go ? 
 'Tis not for a mortal this secret to know : 
 Philosopher, sage, and the poet have tried 
 To find where he goes, but he scorneth with pride, 
 And mocks at the effort to fathom his plan. 
 For to know of his goal is not granted to man. 
 
 THE END. 
 
VB 
 
 OOOO 
 
 ivi71834 
 
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 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY