Imatges de pàgina

The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've tramp'd through wind and weather,

And slept out doors when nights were cold,

And ate and drank-and starved-to


We've learn'd what comfort is, I tell you!

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,

A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow! The paw he holds up there has been frozen),

Plenty of catgut for my fiddle

We'll have some music, if you are willing,

And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir!)

Shall march a little.-Start, you villain!
Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your
Put up that paw!
Dress! Take your


(Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold your

Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle
To aid a poor old patriot soldier.

(This out-door business is bad for March! Halt! Now show how the rebel


Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the


And Roger and I set up for kings!

No, thank you, sir,-I never drink;

Roger and I are exceedingly moral,— Aren't we, Roger?-see him wink!—

Well, something hot, then, we won't quarrel.

He's thirsty, too-see him nod his head?

What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk!— He understands every word that's said,And he knows good milk from water and


The truth is, sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog, I wonder I've not lost the respect

(Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog. But he sticks by, through thick and thin; And this old coat, with its empty pock

ets, And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There isn't another creature living

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster,

So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving

To such a miserable thankless master! No, sir!-see him wag his tail and grin! By George! it makes my old eyes


That is, there's something in this gin

That chokes a fellow. But no matter!


When he stands up to hear his sen


Now tell how many drams it takes

To honor a jolly new acquaintance. Five yelps, that's five! he's mighty knowing!

The night's before us, fill the glasses! Quick, sir! I'm ill,-my brain is going; Some brandy, thank you; there, it passes!

Why not reform? That's easily said;

But I've gone through such wretched treatment,

Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, And scarce remembering what meat


That my poor stomach's past reform;

And there are times when, mad with thinking,

I'd sell out Heaven for something warm To prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think?

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, A dear girl's love,-but I took to drink ;

The same old story; you know how it ends.

If you could have seen these classic features,

You needn't laugh, sir; they were not


Such a burning libel on God's creatures; I was one of your handsome men!

If you had seen her, so fair and young, Whose head was happy on this breast! If you could have heard the songs I sung When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guess'd

That ever I, sir, should be straying

From door to door with fiddle and dog,

Ragged and penniless, and playing

To you to-night for a glass of grog.

She's married since, a parson's wife; 'Twas better for her that we should part; Better the soberest, prosiest life

Than a blasted home and a broken


I have seen her? Once: I was weak and


On the dusty road; a carriage stopp'd; But little she dream'd, as on she went, Who kiss'd the coin that her fingers dropp'd!

You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry;

It makes me wild to think of the change!

What do you care for a beggar's story?
Is it amusing? you find it strange?

I had a mother so proud of me!

'Twas well she died before. Do you know

If the happy spirits in Heaven can see The ruin and wretchedness here below?

Another glass, and strong, to deaden

This pain; then Roger and I will start. I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, Aching thing, in place of a heart? He is sad sometimes, and would weep if he could,

No doubt, remembering things that


A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, And himself a sober, respectable cur.

I'm better now; that glass was warming,—
You rascal! limber your lazy feet!
We must be fiddling and performing
For supper and bed, or starve in the


Not a very gay life to lead, you think?

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free,

And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink ;

The sooner the better for Roger and me. J T. TROWBRIDGE

The Bridge of SighS.

"Drowned! drowned!"-Hamist.

ONE more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,

Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care,― Fashion'd so slenderly,

Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;

Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing;

Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.-

Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,

Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her

Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny

Rash and undutiful :
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her

Only the beautiful,

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O change! O wondrous change!

Burst are the prison-bars,—
This moment there so low,
So agonized, and now
Beyond the stars.

O change! stupendous change!
There lies the soulless clod;
The sun eternal breaks,
The new immortal wakes,—
Wakes with his God.



THERE'S a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot,

To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot;

The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs;

And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings:

Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's taking a drive in his carriage at last;

But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast:

Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!

You bumpkins! who stare at your brother convey'd,

Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid!

And be joyful to think, when by death you're laid low,

You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go!

Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!

But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad,

To think that a heart in humanity clad

He's only a pauper whom nobody Should make, like the brutes, such a deso


late end,

Oh, where are the mourners? Alas! there And depart from the light without leaving

are none;

He has left not a gap in the world, now

he's gone,

Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or


To the grave with his carcass as fast as you


Rattle his bones over the stones!

a friend!

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"WHY sit'st thou by that ruin'd hall, Thou aged carle so stern and gray?

He's only a pauper whom nobody Dost thou its former pride recall,


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Or ponder how it pass'd away?"«Know'st thou not me?" the Deep Voice


"So long enjoy'd, so oft misused— Alternate, in thy fickle pride, Desired, neglected, and accused!

The pauper at length makes a noise in the "Before my breath, like blazing flax,

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Pres hath envye, and wele is blent over alle. Savoure no more then the behove shalle; Rede wel thy self that other folke canst rede, And trouthe the shal delyver, hit ys no drede.

Peyne the not eche croked to redresse

In trust of hire that turneth as a balle, Grete rest stant in lytil besynesse;

Bewar also to spurne ayeine an nalle, Stryve not as doth a croke with a walle; Daunt thy selfe that dauntest otheres dede, And trouthe the shal delyver, hit is no drede.

That the ys sent receyve in buxomnesse,

The wrasteling of this world asketh a falle; Her is no home, her is but wyldyrnesse. Forth pilgrime! forth best out of thy


Loke up on hye, and thonke God of alle; Weyve thy lust, and let thy goste the lede, And trouthe shal thee delyver, hit is no drede.



LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood-
E'en such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies,
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past-and man forgot!




My prime of youth is but a frost of cares, My feast of joy is but a dish of pain, My crop of corn is but a field of tares,

And all my goodes is but vain hope of gain.

The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun; And now I live, and now my life is done!

My spring is past, and yet it hath not


The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green;

My youth is past, and yet I am but young,

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen. My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun; And now I live, and now my life is done!

I sought for death, and found it in the wombe,

I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade, I trade the ground, and knew it was my


And now I die, and now I am but made. The glass is full, and yet my glass is run; And now I live, and now my life is done!


ON HIS DIVINE POEMS. WHEN we for age could aeither read nor write,

The subject made us able to indite:
The soul, with nobler resolutions deck'd,
The body stooping, does herself erect:
No mortal parts are requisite to raise
Her that unbodied can her Maker praise-

The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; | Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers,

So calm are we when passions are no more. For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost.

Whose loves in higher love endure; What soul possess themselves so pure, Or is there blessedness like theirs?


Clouds of affection from our younger eyes
Conceal that emptiness which age descries. Oh yet we trust that somehow good
The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and de-
Will be the final goal of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Lets in new light through chinks that time Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;

has made.

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become As they draw near to their eternal home. Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view,

That stand upon the threshold of the new.




I HELD it truth, with him who sings
To one clear harp in divers tones,
That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things.
But who shall so forecast the years

And find in loss a gain to match?
Or reach a hand thro' time to catch
The far-off interest of tears?

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd,
Let darkness keep her raven gloss:
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss,
To dance with death, to beat the ground,
Than that the victor Hours should scorn
The long result of love, and boast,
'Behold the man that loved and lost,
But all he was is overworn."



Her eyes are homes of silent prayer,

Nor other thought her mind admits But, he was dead, and there he sits, And He that brought him back is there.

Then one deep love doth supersede

All other, when her ardent gaze Roves from the living brother's face, And rests upon the Life indeed. All subtle thought, all curious fears,

Borne down by gladness so complete, She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet With costly spikenard and with tears.

That nothing walks with aimless feet;
That not one life shall be destroyed,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete

That not a worm is cloven in vain;
That not a moth with vain desire
Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another's gain.
Behold, we know not anything;

I can but trust that good shall fall
At last-far off-at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.

So runs my dream: but what am I?
An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.


Again at Christmas did we weave

The holly round the Christmas hearth; The silent snow possessed the earth, And calmly fell our Christmas-eve: The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost. No wing of wind the region swept, But over all things brooding slept The quiet sense of something lost. As in the winters left behind

Again our ancient games had place, The mimic picture's breathing grace, And dance and song and hoodman-blind. Who show'd a token of distress?

No single tear, no mark of pain:
O sorrow, then can sorrow wane?
O grief, can grief be changed to less?

O last regret, regret can die!

No-mixt with all this mystic frame, Her deep relations are the same, But with long use her tears are dry.

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