I cannot say a scene is fair
                     Because it is beloved of thee
                    But I shall love to linger there,
                     For sake of thy dear memory;
                    I would not be so coldly just
                     As to love only what I must.

                    I cannot say a thought is good
                     Because thou foundest joy in it;
                    Each soul must choose its proper food
                     Which Nature hath decreed most fit;
                    But I shall ever deem it so
                     Because it made thy heart o'erflow.

                    I love thee for that thou art fair;
                     And that thy spirit joys in aught
                    Createth a new beauty there,
                     With throe own dearest image fraught;
                    And love, for others' sake that springs,
                     Gives half their charm to lovely things.

                    I not as all other women are
                    Is she that to my soul is dear;
                    Her glorious fancies come from far,
                    Beneath the silver evening-star,
                    And yet her heart is ever near.

                    Great feelings has she of her own,
                    Which lesser souls may never know;
                    God giveth them to her alone,
                    And sweet they are as any tone
                    Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.

                    Yet in herself she dwelleth not,
                    Although no home were half so fair;
                    No simplest duty is forgot,
                    Life hath no dim and lowly spot
                    That doth not in her sunshine share.

                    She doeth little kindnesses,
                    Which most leave undone, or despise;
                    For naught that sets one heart at ease,
                    And giveth happiness or peace,
                    Is low-esteemed m her eyes.

                    She hath no scorn of common things,
                    And, though she seem of other birth,
                    Round us her heart entwines and clings,
                    And patiently she folds her wings
                    To tread the humble paths of earth.

                    Blessing she is: God made her so,
                    And deeds of week-day holiness
                    Fall from her noiseless as the snow,
                    Nor hath she ever chanced to know
                    That aught were easier than to bless.

                    She is most fair, and thereunto
                    Her life loth rightly harmonize;
                    Feeling or thought that was not true
                    Ne'er made less beautiful the blue
                    Unclouded heaven of her eyes.

                    She is a woman: one in whom
                    The spring-time of her childish years
                    Hath never lost its fresh perfume,
                    Though knowing well that life bath room
                    For many blights and many tears.

                    I love her with a love as still
                    As a broad river's peaceful might,
                    Which, by high tower and lowly mill,
                    Goes wandering at its own will,
                    And yet doth ever flow aright.

                    And, on its full, deep breast serene,
                    Like quiet isles my duties lie;
                    It flows around them and between,
                    And makes them fresh and fair and green,
                    Sweet homes wherein to live and die.

                         Into the sunshine,
                         Full of the light,
                         Leaping and flashing
                         From morn till night!

                         Into the moonlight,
                         Whiter than snow,
                         Waving so flower-like
                         When the winds blow!

                         Into the starlight,
                         Rushing in spray,
                         Happy at midnight,
                         Happy by day!

                         Ever in motion,
                         Blithesome and cheery.
                         Still climbing heavenward,
                         Never aweary

                         Glad of all weathers,
                         Still seeming best,
                         Upward or downward,
                         Motion thy rest;—

                         Full of a nature
                         Nothing can tame,
                         Changed every moment,
                         Ever the same;—

                         Ceaseless aspiring,
                         Ceaseless content,
                         Darkness or sunshine
                         Thy element;—

                         Glorious fountain!
                         Let my heart be
                         Fresh, changeful, constant,
                         Upward, like thee!

                    There came a youth upon the earth,
                      Some thousand years ago,
                    Whose  slender hands were nothing worth,
                    Whether to plow, to reap, or sow.

                    Upon an empty tortoise-shell
                      He stretched some chords, and drew
                    Music that made men's bosoms swell
                    Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.

                    Then King Admetus, one who had
                      Pure taste by right divine,
                    Decreed his singing not too bad
                    To hear between the cups of wine

                    And so, well-pleased with being soothed
                      Into a sweet half-sleep,
                    Three times his kingly beard he smoothed,
                    And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.

                    His words were simple words enough,
                      And yet he used them so,
                    That what in other mouths was rough
                    In his seemed musical and low.

                    Men called him but a shiftless youth,
                      In whom no good they saw;
                    And yet, unwittingly, in truth,
                    They made his careless words their law.

                    They knew not how he learned at all,
                      For idly, hour by hour,
                    He sat and watched the dead leaves fall,
                    Or mused upon a common flower.

                    It seemed the loveliness of things
                      Did teach him all their use,
                    For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs,
                    He found a healing power profuse.

                    Men granted that his speech was wise,
                      But, when a glance they caught
                    Of his slim grace and woman's eyes,
                    They laughed, and called him good-for-naught.

                    Yet after he was dead and gone,
                      And e'en his memory dim,
                    Earth seemed more sweet to live upon,
                    More full of love, because of him.

                    And day by day more holy grew
                      Each spot where he had trod,
                    Till after—poets only knew
                    Their first-born brother as a god.

                    Weak-Winged is Song,
               Nor aims at that clear-ethered height
               Whither the brave deed climbs for light
                    We seem to do them wrong,
               Bringing our robin's-leaf to deck their hearse
               Who in warm life-blood wrote their nobler verse.
               Our trivial song to honor those who come
               With ears attuned to strenuous trump and drum.
               And shaped in squadron-strophes their desire
               Live battle-odes whose lines mere steel and fire:
                    Yet sometimes feathered words are strong,
               A gracious memory to buoy up and save
               From Lethe's dreamless ooze, the common grave
                    Of the unventurous throng.

               Many loved Truth, and lavished Life's best oil
                 Amid the dust of books to find her,
               Content at last, for guerdon of their toil,
                 With the cast mantle she hath left behind her.
                    Many in sad faith sought for her,
                    Many with crossed hands sighed for her;
                    But these, our brothers, fought for her,
                    At life's dear peril wrought for her,
                    So loved her that they died for her,
                    Tasting the raptured fleetness
                    Of her divine completeness
                    Their higher instinct knew
               Those love her best who to themselves are true,
               And what they dare to dream of, dare to do;
                    They followed her and found her
                    Where all may hope to find,
               Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind,
               But beautiful, with danger's sweetness round her.
                    Where faith made whole with deed
                    Breathes its awakening breath
                    Into the lifeless creed,
                    They saw her plumed and mailed,
                    With sweet, stern face unveiled,
               And all-repaying eyes, look proud on them in death.

               Our slender life runs rippling by, and glides
                 Into the silent hollow of the past;
                    What is there that abides
                 To make the next age better for the last?
                    Is earth too poor to give us
                 Something to live for here that shall outlive us?
                    Some more substantial boon
               Than such as flows and ebbs with
                    Fortune's fickle moon?
                    The little that we sec:
                    From doubt is never free;
                    The little that we do
                    Is but half-nobly true;
                    With our laborious hiving
                 What men call treasure, and the gods call dross,
                    Life seems a jest of Fate's contriving,
                    Only secure in every one's conniving,
                 A long account of nothings paid with loss,
                 Where we poor puppets, jerked by unseen wires,
                    After our little hour of strut and rave,
                 With all our pasteboard passions and desires,
                 Loves, hates, ambitions, and immortal fires,
                    Are tossed pell-mell together in the grave.
                    But stay! no age was e'er degenerate,
                    Unless men held it at too cheap a rate,
                    For in our likeness still we shape our fate.

                    Whither leads the path
                    To ampler fates that leads?
                    Not down through flowery meads,
                    To reap an aftermath
                 Of youth's vainglorious weeds,
                 But up the steep, amid the wrath
                 And shock of deadly-hostile creeds,
                 Where the world's best hope and stay
               By battle's flashes gropes a desperate way,
               And every turf the fierce foot clings to bleeds.
                Peace hath her not ignoble wreath,
                 Ere yet the sharp, decisive word
               Light the black lips of cannon, and the sword
                    Dreams in its easeful sheath;
               But some day the live coal behind the thought,
                    Whether from Baal's stone obscene,
                    Or from the shrine serene
                    Of God's pure altar brought,
               Bursts up in flame; the war of tongue and pen
               Learns with what deadly purpose it was fraught,
               And, helpless in the fiery passion caught,
               Shakes all the pillared state with shock of men
               Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed
               Confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued,
               And trips reproachful: "Was it, then, my praise,
               And not myself was loved?  Prove now thy truth;
               I claim of thee the promise of thy youth;
               Give me thy life, or cower in empty phrase,
               The victim of thy genius, not its mate!"
                 Life may be given in many ways,
                 And loyalty to Truth be sealed
               As bravely in the closet as the field,
                    So bountiful is Fate;
                    But then to stand beside her,
                    When craven churls deride her,
                 To front a lie in arms and not to yield,
                    This shows, methinks, God's plan
                    And measure of a stalwart man,
                    Limbed like the old heroic breeds,
                    Who stands self-poised on manhood's solid earth,
                 Not forced to frame excuses for his birth,
               Fed from within with all the strength he needs.

               Such was he, our Martyr-Chief,
                    Whom late the Nation he had led,
                    With ashes on her head,
               wept with the passion of an angry grief.
               Forgive me, if from present things I turn
               To speak what in my heart will beat and burn,
               And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn.
                    Nature, they say, doth dote,
                    And cannot make a man
                    Save on some worn-out plan,
                    Repeating us by rote
               For him her Old-World moulds aside she threw,
                 And, choosing sweet clay from the breast
                    Of the unexhausted West,
               With stuff untainted shaped a hero new,
               Vise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true.
                    How beautiful to see
                 Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed,
                 Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead;
               One whose meek flock the people joyed to be,
                    Not lured by any cheat of birth,
                    But by his clear-grained human worth,
               And brave old wisdom of sincerity!
                 They knew that outward grace is dust;
                 They could not choose but trust
               In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill,
                    And supple-tempered will
               That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust.
                 His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind,
                 Thrusting to thin air o er our cloudy bars,
                 A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind;
                 Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined,
                 Fruitful and friendly for all human kind,
               Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars.
                 Nothing of Europe here,
               Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still,
                    Ere any names of Serf and Peer
                 Could Nature's equal scheme deface
                 And thwart her genial will;
                 Here was a type of the true elder race,
               And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face.
                 I praise him not; it were too late;
               And some innative weakness there must be
               In him who condescends to victory
               Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait,
                 Safe in himself as in a fate.
                    So always firmly he
                    He knew to bide his time,
                    And can his fame abide,
               Still patient in his simple faith sublime,
                    Till the wise years decide.
                 Great captains, with their guns and drums,
                 Disturb our judgment for the hour,
                    But at last silence comes;
                 These all are gone, and, standing like a tower,
                 Our children shall behold his fame,
                    The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man,
               Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame,
                 New birth of our new soil, the first American.

               Over his keys the musing organist,
                 Beginning doubtfully and far away,
               First lets his fingers wander as they list,
                 And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay:
               Then, as the touch of his loved instrument
                 Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme
               First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent
                 Along the wavering vista of his dream.

               Not only around our infancy
                 Doth heaven with all its splendors lie;
               Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,
                 We Sinais climb and know it not.

               Over our manhood bend the skies;
                 Against our fallen and traitor lives
               The great winds utter prophecies;
                 With our faint hearts the mountain strives;
               Its arms outstretched, the druid wood
                 Waits with its benedicite;
               And to our age's drowsy blood
                 Mill shouts the inspiring sea.

               Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us;
                 The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in,
               The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us,
                   We bargain for the graves we lie in;
               At the devil's booth are all things sold,
               Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold;
               For a cap and bells our lives we pay,
                 Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking
               'Tis heaven alone that is given away,
                 'Tis only God may be had for the asking;
               No price is set on the lavish summer;
                 June may be had by the poorest comer.

               And what is so rare as a day in June?
                 Then, if ever, come perfect days;
               Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
                 And over it softly her warm ear lays
               Whether we look, or whether we listen,
                 We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
               Every, clod feels a stir of might,
                 An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
               And, groping blindly above it for light,
                 Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
               The flush of life may well be seen
                 Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
               The cowslip startles in meadows green,
                 The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
               And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
                 To be some happy creature's palace;
               The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
                 Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
               And lets his illumined being o'errun
                 With the deluge of summer it receives;
               His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
                 And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sink
               He pings to the wide world, and she to her nest,
                 In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

               Now is the high-tide of the year,
                 And whatever of life bath ebbed away
               Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,
                 Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
               Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
                 We are happy now because God wills it;
               No matter how barren the past may have been,
                 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;
               We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
                 How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
               We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing
                 That skies are clear and grass is growing;
               The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
                 That dandelions are blossoming near,
               That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
                 That the river is bluer than the sky,
               That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
                 And if the breeze kept the good news back,
               For other couriers we should not lack;
                 We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,
               And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,
                 Warmed with the new wine of the year,
               Tells all in his lusty crowing!

               Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
                 Everything is happy now,
               Everything is upward striving;
                 'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true
               As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,—
                 Tis the natural way of living
               Who knows whither the clouds have fled?
                 In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake;
               And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,
                 The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;
               The soul partakes the season's youth,
                 And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
               Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,
                 Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.
               What wonder if Sir Launfal now
                 Remembered the keeping of his vow?

          Guvener B. is a sensible man;
            He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks;
          He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can,
            An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes;—
               But John P.
               Robinson he
          Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

          My! aint it terrible?  Wut shall we du?
            We can't never choose him o' course,—thet's flat;
          Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?)
            An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that;
               Fer John P.
               Robinson he
          Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener

          Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man:
            He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf;
          But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,—
            He's been true to one party—an' thet is himself;—
               So John P.
               Robinson he
          Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

          Gineral C. he goes in fer the war;
            He don't vally principle more 'n an old cud;
          Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer,
            But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood?
               So John P.
               Robinson he
          Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

          We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village,
            With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint
          We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage,
            An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint,
               But John P.
               Robinson he
          Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee.

          The side of our country must oilers be took,
            An' Presidunt Polk' you know he is our country.
          An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book
            Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry
               An' John P.
               Robinson he
          Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.

          Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies;
            Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, fum:
          An' thet all this big talk of our destinies
            Is half on it ign'ance, an' t' other half rum,
               But John P.
               Robinson he
          Sez it aint no seek thing; an', of course, so must we.

          Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life
            Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats,
          An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife,
            To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes,
               But John P.
               Robinson he
          Sez they didn't know everthin' down in Judee.

          Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us
            The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters,
          I vow, God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers
            To start the world's team wen it gits in a Slough;
               Fer John P.
               Robinson he
          Sez the world 'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!

               God makes sech nights, all white an' still
               Fur 'z you can look or listen,
               Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill,
               All silence an' all glisten.

               Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown
               An' peeked in thru' the winder,
               An' there sot Huldy all alone,
               'Ith no one nigh to hender.

               A fireplace filled the room's one side
               With half a cord o' wood in—
               There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died)
               To bake ye to a puddin'.

               The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out
               Towards the pootiest, bless her,
               An' leetle flames danced all about
               The chiny on the dresser.

               Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,
               An' in amongst 'em rusted
               The ole queen's arm thet gran'ther Young
               Fetched back from Concord busted.

               The very room, coz she was in,
               Seemed warm from floor to ceilin',
               An' she looked full ez rosy agin
               Ez the apples she was peelin'.

               'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look
               On seek a blessed cretur,
               A dogrose blushin' to a brook
               Ain't modester nor sweeter.

               He was six foot o' man, A 1,
               Clean grit an' human natur';
               None couldn't quicker pitch a ton
               Nor dror a furrer straighter.

               He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,
               He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em,
               Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells—
               All is, he couldn't love 'em.

               But long o' her his veins 'ould run
               All crinkly like curled maple,
               The side she breshed felt full o' sun
               Ez a south slope in Ap'il.

               She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing
               Ez hisn in the choir;
               My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring,
               She knowed the Lord was nigher.

               An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer,
               When her new meetin'-bunnet
               Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair
               O' blue eyes sot upun it.

               Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some!
               She seemed to 've gut a new soul,
               For she felt sartin-sure he'd come,
               Down to her very shoe-sole.

               She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu;
               A-raspin' on the scraper,—
               All ways to once her feelin's flew
               Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

               He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,
               Some doubtfle o' the sekle,
               His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,
               But hern went pity Zekle.

               An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk
               Ez though she wished him furder,
               An' on her apples kep' to work,
               Parin' away like murder.

               "you want to see my Pa, I s'pose?"
               "Wal...no...I come dasignin'"—
               "To see my Ma?  She's sprinklin' clo'es
               Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."

               To say why gals acts so or so,
               Or don't, 'ould be presumin';
               Mebby to mean yes an' say no
               Comes nateral to women.

               He stood a spell on one foot fust,
               Then stood a spell on t'other,
               An' on which one he felt the wust
               He couldn't ha' told ye nuther.

               Says he, "I'd better call agin;"
               Says she, "Think likely, Mister;"
               Thet last word pricked him like a pin,
               An'...  Wal, he up an' kist her.

               When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,
               Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
               All kin' o' smily roun' the lips
               An' teary roun' the lashes.

               For she was jes' the quiet kind
               Whose naturs never vary,
               Like streams that keep a summer mind
               Snowhid in Jenooary.

               The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued
               Too tight for all expressin',
               Tell mother see how metters stood,
               And gin 'em both her blessin'.

               Then her red come back like the tide
               Down to the Bay o' Fundy,
               An' all I know is they was cried
               In meetin' come nex' Sunday.

          Once git a smell o' musk into a draw,
          An' it clings hold like precerdents in law;
          Your gra'ma'am put it there,—when, goodness knows,—
          To jes this—worldify her Sunday-clo'es;
          But the old chist wun't sarve her gran'son's wife,
          (For, 'thout new funnitoor, wut good in life?)
          An' so ole clawfoot, from the precinks dread
          O' the spare chamber, slinks into the shed,
          Where, dim with dust, it fust or last subsides
          To holdin' seeds an' fifty things besides;
          But better days stick fast in heart an' husk,
          An' all you keep in't gits a scent o' musk.
          Jes' so with poets: wut they've airly read
          Git,s kind o' worked into their heart-an' head,
          So 's 't they can't seem to write but jest on sheers
          With furrin countries or played-out ideers,
           Nor hev a feelin', ef it doosn't smack
          O' wut some critter chose to feel 'way back.
          This makes 'em talk o' daisies, larks, an' things,
          Ez though we'd nothin' here that blows an' sings,—
          (Why, I'd give more for one live bobolink
          Than a square mile o' larks in printer's ink,)
          This makes 'em think our fust o' May is May,
          Which 't ain't, for all the almanicks can say.
          O little city-gals, don't never go it
          Blind on the word o' noospaper or poet!
          They're apt to puff, an' May-day seldom looks
          Up in the country, ez it dons in books
          They're no more like than hornets'-nests an' hives,
          Or printed sarmons be to holy lives.
          I, with my trouses perched on cow-hide boots,
          Tuggin' my foundered feet out by the roots,
          Hev seen ye come to fling on April's hearse
          Your muslin nosegays from the milliner's,
          Puzzlin' to find dry ground your queen to choose,
          An' dance your throats sore m morocker shoes
          I've seen ye an' felt proud, thet, come wut would,
          Our Pilgrim stock wuz pithed with hardihood.
          Pleasure doos make us Yankees kind o' winch,
          Ez though 'twuz sunthin' paid for by the inch;
          But yit we du contrive to worry thru,
          Ef Dooty tells us thet the thing's to du,
          An' kerry a hollerday, ef we set out,
          Ez stidchly ez though 'twaz a redoubt.
          I, country-born an' bred, know where to find
          Some blooms thet make the season suit the mind,
          An' seem to metch the doubtin' bluebird's notes,—
          Half-vent'rin' liverworts in furry coats,
          Bloodroots, whose rolled-up leaves ef you oncurl,
          Each on 'em 's cradle to a baby-pearl,—
          But these are jes' Spring's pickets; sure ez sin,
          The rebble frosts'll try to drive 'em in;
          For half our May's so awfully like Mayn't,
          'Twould rile a Shaker or an evrige saint;
          Though I own up I like our back'ard springs
          Thet kind o' haggle with their greens an' things,
          An' when you most give up, 'ithout more words
          Toss the fields full o' blossoms, leaves, an' birds
          Thet's Northun natur', slow an' apt to doubt,
          But when it doos git stirred, ther' 's no gin-out!

          Fust come the blackbirds clatt'rin' in tall trees,
          An' settlin' things in windy Congresses,—
          Queer politicians, though, for I'll be skinned
          Ef all on 'em don't head against the wind.
          'Fore long the trees begin to show belief,
          The maple crimsons to a coral-reef,
          Then saffern swarms swing off from' all the willers
          So plump they look like yaller caterpillars,
          Then gray hossches'nuts leetle hands unfold
          Softer'n a baby's be at three days old
          Thet's robin-redbreast's almanick; he knows
          Thet arter this ther' 's only blossom-snows
          So, choosin' out a handy crotch an' spouse,
          He goes to plast'rin' his adobe house.
          Then seems to come a hitch,—things lag behind,
          Till some fine mornin' Spring makes up her mind,
          An' ez, when snow-swelled avers cresh their dams
          Heaped-up with ice thet dovetails in an' jams,
          A leak comes spirtin thru some pin-hole cleft,
          Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right an' left,
          Then all the waters bow themselves an' come
          Suddin, in one gret slope o' shedderin' foam,
          Jes' so our Spring gits everythin' in tune
          An gives one leap from April into June
          Then all comes crowdin' in; afore you think,
          Young oak-leaves mist the side-hill woods with pink
          The catbird in the laylock-bush is loud;
          The orchards turn to heaps o' rosy cloud;
          Red-cedars blossom tu, though few folks know it,
          An' look all dipt in sunshine like a poet;
          The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o' shade
          An' drows'ly simmer with the bees' sweet trade;
          In ellum-shrouds the flashin' hangbird clings
          An' for the summer vy'ge his hammock slings;
          All down the loose-walled lanes in archin' bowers
          The barb'ry droops its strings o' golden flowers,
          Whose shrinkin' hearts the school-gals love to try
          With pins—they'll worry yourn so, boys, bimeby!
          But I don't love your cat'logue style,—do you?—
          Ez ef to sell off Natur' b y vendoo;
          One word with blood in 't 's twice ez good ez two:
          'Nuff sed, June's bridesman, poet o' the year,
          Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here;
          Half-hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings,
          Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiverin' wings,
          Or, givin' way to't in a mock despair,
          Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru the air.
          I ollus feels the sap start in my veins
          In Spring, with curus heats an' prickly pains,
          Thet drive me, when I git a chance, to walk
          Off by myself to hev a privit talk
          With a queer critter thet can't seem to 'gree
          Along o' me like most folks,—Mister Me.
          Ther' 's times when I'm unsoshle ez a stone
          An' sort o' suffocate to be alone,—
          I'm crowded jes' to think thet folks are nigh,
          An' can't bear nothin' closer than the sky;
          Now the wind's full ez shifty in the mind
          Ez wut it is ou'-doors, ef I ain't blind,
          An' sometimes, in the fairest sou'west weather,
          My innard vane pints east for weeks together,
          My natur' gits all goose-flesh, an' my sins
          Come drizzlin' on my conscience sharp ez pins:
          Wal, et sech times I jes' slip out o' sight
          An' take it out in a fair stan'-up fight
          With the one cuss I can't lay on the shelf,
          The crook'dest stick in all the heap,—Myself.

          'Twuz so las' Sabbath arter meetin'-time:
          F'indin' my feelin's wouldn't noways rhyme
          With nobody's, but off the hendle flew
          An' took things from an east-wind pint o' view,
          I started off to lose me in the hills
          Where the pines be, up back o' Siah's Mills:
          Pines, ef you're blue, are the best friends I know,
          They mope an' sigh an' sheer your feelin's so,—
          They hesh the ground beneath so, tu, I swan,
          You half-forgit you've gut a body on.
          "Ther' 's a small school'us' there where four road, meet,
          The door-steps hollered out by little feet,
          An side-posts carved with names whose owners grew
          To gret men, some on 'em an' deacons, tu;
          'Tain't used no longer, coz the town hez gut
          A high-school, where they teach the Lord knows wut:
          Three-story larnin' 's poplar now: I guess
          We thriv' ez wal on jes' two stories less,
          For it strikes me ther' 's sech a thing ez sinnin'
          By overloadin' children's underpinnin:
          Wal, here it wuz I larned my A B C,
          An' it's a kind o' favorite spot with me.
          We're curus critters: Now ain't jes' the minute
          Thet ever fits us easy while we're in it;
          Long ez 'twuz futur', 'twould be perfect bliss,—
          Soon ez it's past, thet time's wuth ten o' this
          An' yit there ain't a man thet need be told
          Thet Now's the only bird lays eggs o' gold.
          A knee-high lad, I used to plot an' plan
          An' think 'twuz life's cap-sheaf to be a man;
          Now, gittin' gray, there's nothin' I enjoy
          Like dreamin' back along into a boy:
          So the ole school'us' is a place I choose
          Afore all others, ef I want to muse;
          I set down where I used to set, an' git
          Diy boyhood back, an' better things with it,—
          Faith, Hope, an' sunthin' ef it isn't Cherrity,
          It's want o' guile, an' thet's ez gret a rerrity.
          Now, 'fore I knowed, thet Sabbath arternoon
          Thet I sot out to tramp myself in tune,
          I found me in the school'us' on my seat,
          Drummin' the march to No-wheres with my feet.
          Thinkin' o' nothin', I've heerd ole folks say,
          Is a hard kind o' dooty in its way:
          It's thinkin' everythin' you ever knew,
          Or ever hearn, to make your feelin's blue.

          From this to thet I let my worryin' creep
          Till finally I must ha' fell asleep.

          Our lives in sleep are some like streams thet glide
          Twixt flesh an' sperrit boundin' on each side,
          Where both shores' shadders kind o' mix an' mingle
          In sunthin' thet ain't jes' like either single;
          An' when you cast off moorin's from To-day,
          An' down towards To-morrer drift away,
          The imiges thet tengle on the stream
          Make a new upside-down'ard world o' dream:
          Sometimes they seem like sunrise-streaks an' warnin's
          O' wut'll be in Heaven on Sabbath-mornin's,
          An', mixed right in ez ef jest out o' spite,
          Sunthin' thet says your supper ain't gone right.
          I'm gret on dreams: an' often, when I wake,
          I've lived so much it makes my mem'ry ache,
          An' can't skurce take a cat-nap in my cheer
          'Thout hevin' 'em, some good, some bad, all queer.

          Now I wuz settin' where I'd ben, it seemed,
          An' ain't sure yit whether I rally dreamed,
          Nor, ef I did, how long I might ha' slep',
          When I hearn some un stompin' up the step,
          An' lookirz' round, ef two an' two make four,
          I see a Pilgrim Father in the door.

          He wore a steeple-hat, tall boots, an' spurs
          With rowels to 'em big ez ches'nut-burrs,
          An' his gret sword behind him sloped away
          Long'z a man's speech thet dunno wut to say.—
          "Ef your name's Biglow, an' your given-name
          Hosee," sez he, "it's arter you I came;
          I'm your gret-gran they multiplied by three."
          "My wut?"  sez I.—your gret-gret-gret," sez he:
          "You wouldn't ha' never ben here but for me.
          Two hundred an' three year ago this May,
          The ship I come in sailed up Boston Bay;
          I'd been a cunnle in our Civil War,—
          But wut on girth hev ,you gut up one for?
          Coz we du things in England, 'tain't for you
          To git a notion you can du 'em tu:
          I'm told you write in public prints: ef true,
          It's nateral you should know a thing or two."—
          "Thet air's an argymunt I can't endorse,—
          'Twould prove, coz you wear spurs, you kep' a horse:

          But du pray tell me, 'fore we furder go,
          How in all Natur' did you come to know
          'Bout our affairs," sez I "in Kingdom-Come?"—
          "Wal, I worked round at sperrit-rappin' some,
          An' danced the tables till their legs wuz gone,
          In hopes o' larnin wut wuz goin' on,"
          Sez he, "but mejums lie so like all-split
          Thet I concluded it wuz best to quit.
          But, come now, ef you wun't confess to knowin',
          You've some conjectures how the thing's a-goin'."—
          "Gran'ther," sez I, "a vane warn't never known
          Nor asked to hev a jedgment of its own;
          An' yit, ef 'tain't gut rusty in the jints,
          It's safe to trust its say on certin pints
          It knows the wind's opinions to a T,
          An' the wind settles wut the weather'll be."
          "I never thought a scion of our stock
          Could grow the wood to make a weathercock;
          When I wuz younger'n you, skurce more'n a shaver,
          No airthly wind," sez he, "could make me waver!"
          (Ez he said this, he clinched his jaw an' forehead,
          Hitchin' his belt to bring his sword-hilt forrard.)
          "Jes' so it wuz with me," sez I, "I swow,
          When I wuz younger'n wut you see me now,—
          Nothin' from Adam's fall to Huldy's bonnet,
          Thet I warm't full-cocked with my jedgment on it;
          But now I'm gittin' on in life, I find
          It's a sight harder to make up my mind,—
          Nor I don't often try tu, when events
          Will du it for me free of all expense.
          The moral question's ollus plain enough,—
          It's jes' the human-natur' side thet's tough;
          Wut's best to think mayn't puzzle me nor you,—
          The pinch comes in decidin' wut to du;
          Ef you read History, all runs smooth ez grease,
          Coz there the men ain't nothin' more'n idees,—
          But come to make it, ez we must to-day,
          Th' idees hev arms an' legs an' stop the way
          It's easy fixin' things in facts an' figgers,—
          They can't resist, nor warn't brought up with nigers;
          But come to try your the'ry on,—why, then
          Your facts an' figgers change to ign'ant men
          Actin' ez ugly—"—"Smite 'em hip an' thigh!"
          Sez gran'ther, "and let every man-child die!
          Oh for three weeks o' Crommle an' the Lord!
          Up, Isr'el, to your tents an' grind the sword!
          "Thet kind o' thing worked wal in ole Judee,
          But you forgit how long it's hen A.D.;
          You think thet's ellerkence—I call it shoddy,
          A thing," sez I, "wun't cover soul nor body;
          I like the plain all-wool o' common-sense,
          Thet warms ye now, an' will a twelvemonth hence.
          You took to follerin' where the Prophets beckoned.
          An', fust you knowed on, back come Charles the Second;
          Now, wut I want's to hev all we gain stick,
          An' not to start Millennium too quick;
          We hain't to punish only, but to keep,
          An' the cure's gut to go a cent'ry deep"
          "Wal, milk-an'-water ain't the best o' glue,"
          Sez he, "an' so you'll find before you're thru;

          "Strike soon," sez he, "or you'll be deadly ailin'—
          Folks thet's afeared to fail are sure o' failin';
          God hates your sneakin' creturs thet believe
          He'll settle things they run away an' leave!"
          He brought his foot down fiercely, ez he spoke,
          An' give me sech a startle thet I woke.