The flowers that did in Eden bloom;
Unpitying frosts and Autumn's power
Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evening dews
At first thy little being came;
If nothing once, you nothing lose,
For when you die you are the same;
The space between is but an hour,
The frail duration of a flower.

The Parting Glass

The man that joins in life's career
And hopes to find some comfort here,
To rise above this earthly mass,-
The only way's to drink his glass.

But still, on this uncertain stage
Where hopes and fears the soul engage,
And while, amid the joyous band,
Unheeded flows the measured sand,
Forget not as the moments pass
That time shall bring the parting glass!

In spite of all the mirth I've heard,
This is the glass I always feared,
The glass that would the rest destroy,
The farewell cup, the close of joy.

With you, whom reason taught to think,
I could for ages sit and drink;
But with the fool, the sot, the ass,
I haste to take the parting glass.

The luckless wight, that still delays
His draught of joys to future days,
Delays too long-for then, alas!

Old age steps up, and-breaks the glass!

The nymph who boasts no borrowed charms,
Whose sprightly wit my fancy warms,-
What though she tends this country inn,
And mixes wine, and deals out gin?
With such a kind, obliging lass,
I sigh to take the parting glass.

With him who always talks of gain
(Dull Momus, of the plodding train),
The wretch who thrives by others' woes,
And carries grief where'er he goes,-
With people of this knavish class
The first is still my parting glass.

With those that drink before they dine,
With him that apes the grunting swine,
Who fills his page with low abuse,
And strives to act the gabbling goose
Turned out by fate to feed on grass-
Boy, give me quick the parting glass.

The man whose friendship is sincere,
Who knows no guilt, and feels no fear,-
It would require a heart of brass
With him to take the parting glass.

With him who quaffs his pot of ale,
Who holds to all an even scale,
Who hates a knave in each disguise,
And fears him not-whate'er his size-
With him, well pleased my days to pass,
May heaven forbid the Parting Glass!

To a Honey Bee

Thou, born to sip the lake or spring,
Or quaff the waters of the stream,
Why hither come, on vagrant wing?
Does Bacchus tempting seem,-

Did he for you this glass prepare?
Will I admit you to a share?

Did storms harass or foes perplex,
Did wasps or king-birds bring dismay,-
Did wars distress, or labors vex,

Or did you miss your way?

A better seat you could not take
Than on the margin of this lake.

Welcome!-I hail you to my glass:
All welcome here you find;
Here let the cloud of trouble pass,
Here be all care resigned.

This fluid never fails to please,

And drown the griefs of men or bees.

What forced you here we cannot know,
And you will scarcely tell,
But cheery we would have you go
And bid a glad farewell:

On lighter wings we bid you fly,-
Your dart will now all foes defy.

Yet take not, oh! too deep a drink,
And in this ocean die;

Here bigger bees than you might sink,
Even bees full six feet high.

Like Pharaoh, then, you would be said
To perish in a sea of red.

Do as you please, your will is mine;
Enjoy it without fear,

And your grave will be this glass of wine,
Your epitaph—a tear;

Go, take your seat in Charon's boat;
We'll tell the hive, you died afloat.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN

The Yankee Man-of-War

'Tis of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the Stripes and Stars, And the whistling wind from the west-nor'-west blew through the pitch-pine spars;

With her starboard tacks aboard, my boys, she hung upon the gale;

Of an autumn night we raised the light on the old Head of Kinsale.

It was a clear and cloudless night, and the wind blew steady and strong,

As gayly over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along; With the foaming seas beneath her bow the fiery waves she spread,

And bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cathead.

There was no talk of short'ning sail by him who walked the poop,

And under the press of her pond'ring jib, the boom bent like a hoop!

And the groaning water-ways told the strain that held her stout main-tack,

But he only laughed as he glanced aloft at a white and silvery track.

The mid-tide meets in the Channel waves that flow from shore to shore.

And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone to Dunmore.

And that sterling light in Tusker Rock where the old bell tolls each hour,

And the beacon light that shone so bright was quench'd on Waterford Tower.

The mighty ropes our good ship wore were her whole topsails three,

Her spanker and her standing jib-the courses being free, "Now, lay aloft! my heroes bold, not a moment must be passed !"

And royals and top-gallant sails were quickly on each mast.

What looms upon our starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze?

'Tis time our good ship hauled her wind abreast the old Saltees,

For by her ponderous press of sail and by her consorts four We saw our morning visitor was a British man-of-war.

Up spake our noble Captain then, as a shot ahead of us past

"Haul snug your flowing courses! lay your topsail to the mast!"

Those Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs from the deck of their covered ark,

And we answered back by a solid broadside from the decks of our patriot bark.

"Out booms! out booms!" our skipper cried, "out booms and give her sheet,"

And the swiftest keel that was ever launched shot ahead of the British fleet,

And amidst a thundering shower of shot, with stun'-sails

hoisting away,

Down the North Channel Paul Jones did steer just at the break of day.

TIMOTHY DWIGHT (1752-1817)

The Smooth Divine

There smiled the smooth Divine, unused to wound
The sinner's heart with hell's alarming sound.

No terrors on his gentle tongue attend;

No grating truths the nicest ear offend.

That strange new-birth, that methodistic grace,
Nor in his heart nor sermons found a place.
Plato's fine tales he clumsily retold,

Trite, fireside, moral seesaws, dull as old,-
His Christ and Bible placed at good remove,
Guilt hell-deserving, and forgiving love.

'Twas best, he said, mankind should cease to sin:
Good fame required it; so did peace within.
Their honors, well he knew, would ne'er be driven;
But hoped they still would please to go to heaven.
Each week he paid his visitation dues;

Coaxed, jested, laughed; rehearsed the private news;
Smoked with each goody, thought her cheese excelled;
Her pipe he lighted, and her baby held.

Or placed in some great town, with lacquered shoes,
Trim wig, and trimmer gown, and glistening hose,
He bowed, talked politics, learned manners mild,
Most meekly questioned, and most smoothly smiled;
At rich men's jests laughed loud, their stories praised,
Their wives' new patterns gazed, and gazed, and gazed;
Most daintily on pampered turkeys dined,
Nor shrunk with fasting, nor with study pined:
Yet from their churches saw his brethren driven,
Who thundered truth, and spoke the voice of heaven,
Chilled trembling guilt in Satan's headlong path,
Charmed the feet back, and roused the ear of death.
"Let fools," he cried, "starve on, while prudent I
Snug in my nest shall live, and snug shall die."

ST. GEORGE TUCKER (1752-1828)

Days of My Youth

Days of my youth,

Ye have glided away;

Hairs of my youth,

Ye are frosted and gray;

Eyes of my youth,

Your keen sight is no more;

Cheeks of my youth,

Ye are furrowed all o'er;

Strength of my youth,

All your vigor is gone;

Thoughts of my youth,

Your gay visions are flown.

Days of my youth,

I wish not your recall;