His rod miraculous. I see thy bloom
Tinging, too scantly, these New England vales.
But, lo! the sturdy farmer lifts his flail,
To crush thy bones unpitying, and his wife
With 'kerchief'd head, and eyes brimful of dust,
Thy fibrous nerves, with hatchel-tooth divides.
-I hear a voice of music-and behold!
The ruddy damsel singeth at her wheel,
While by her side the rustic lover sits.
Perchance, his shrewd eye secretly doth count
The mass of skeins, which, hanging on the wall,
Increaseth day by day. Perchance his thought,
(For men have deeper minds than women-sure!)
Is calculating what a thrifty wife
The maid will make; and how his dairy shelves
Shall groan beneath the weight of golden cheese,
Made by her dexterous hand, while many a keg
And pot of butter, to the market borne,
May, transmigrated, on his back appear,
In new thanksgiving coats.
Mine own New England, for thy once loved wheel,
By sofa and piano quite displac'd.
Why dost thou banish from thy parlor-hearth
That old Hygeian harp, whose magic rul'd
Dyspepsia, as the minstrel-shepherd's skill
Exorcis'd Saul's ennui? There was no need,
In those good times, of callisthenics, sure,
And there was less of gadding, and far more
Of home-born, heart-felt comfort, rooted strong
In industry, and bearing such rare fruit,
As wealth might never purchase.
Thou shred of linen. I did let thee drop,
In my harangue, as wiser ones have lost
The thread of their discourse. What was thy lot
When the rough battery of the loom had stretch'd
And knit thy sinews, and the chemist sun
Thy brown complexion bleach'd?
Some idiosyncrasy, that marks thee out
A defunct pillow-case.-Did the trim guest,
To the best chamber usher'd, e'er admire
The snowy whiteness of thy freshen'd youth
Feeding thy vanity? or some sweet babe
Pour its pure dream of innocence on thee?
Say, hast thou listen'd to the sick one's moan,
When there was none to comfort?—or shrunk back
From the dire tossings of the proud man's brow?
Or gather'd from young beauty's restless sigh
Wilt tell no secrets, ha?-Well then, go down,
With all thy churl-kept hoard of curious lore,
In majesty and mystery, go down
Into the paper-mill, and from its jaws,
Stainless and smooth, emerge.-Happy shall be
The renovation, if on thy fair page
Wisdom and truth, their hallow'd lineaments
Trace for posterity. So shall thine end
Be better than thy birth, and worthier bard
Thine apotheosis immortalise.
OUT springs the bubble, dazzling bright,
With ever-changing hues of light,
And so amid the flowery grass
Our gilded years of childhood pass.
Yet bears not each with traitor sway,
Beneath its robe, some gem away?
Some bud of hope, at morning born,
Without the memory of the thorn?
Some fruit that ripen'd, free from care?
Where are those vanish'd treasures? where?
Then knowledge, with her letter'd lore,
Demands us at the nursery-door,
Reproves our love of vain delights,
And on the brow, “sub jugum,” writes.
But the sweet joys of earliest days,
The buoyant spirits, wing'd for praise,
Escape, exhale. We thought them seal'd
For wintry days, their charm to yield.
Where have they fled? Go, ask the sky, Where fleet the dews, when suns are high.
Upborne by history's arm, we tread
The crumbling soil, o'er nations dead.
The buried king, the mouldering sage,
The relics of a nameless age,
We summon forth, with vain regret;
And in that toil our heart forget :—
Till, warn'd, perchance, by wayward deeds,
How much that realm a regent needs,
Renew, with pangs of contrite pain,
The study of ourselves again.
While thus we roam, the silver hair
Steals o'er our temples here and there,
And beauty starts, amaz'd to see
The ploughshare of an enemy.
-What is that haunt, where willows wave? That yawning pit? The grave! the grave!
The turf is set, the violets grow,
The throngs rush on, where we lie low.
Our name is lost, amid their strife,
The bubble bursts,—and this is life!
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