Chapter 2
Before the Curtain.
Behind the footlights hangs the rusty baize, A trifle shabby in the upturned blaze Of flaring gas, and curious eyes that gaze.
The stage, methinks, perhaps is none too wide, And hardly fit for royal Richard's stride, Or Falstaff's bulk, or Denmark's youthful pride.
Ah, well! no passion walks its humble boards; O'er it no king nor valiant Hector lords: The simplest skill is all its space affords.
The song and jest, the dance and trifling play, The local hit at follies of the day, The trick to pass an idle hour away,--
For these, no trumpets that announce the Moor, No blast that makes the hero's welcome sure,-- A single fiddle in the overture!
The Stage-Driver's Story.
It was the stage-driver's story, as he stood with his back to the wheelers, Quietly flecking his whip, and turning his quid of tobacco; While on the dusty road, and blent with the rays of the moonlight, We saw the long curl of his lash and the juice of tobacco descending.
"Danger! Sir, I believe you,--indeed, I may say on that subject, You your existence might put to the hazard and turn of a wager. I have seen danger? Oh, no! not me, sir, indeed, I assure you: 'Twas only the man with the dog that is sitting alone in yon wagon.
It was the Geiger Grade, a mile and a half from the summit: Black as your hat was the night, and never a star in the heavens. Thundering down the grade, the gravel and stones we sent flying Over the precipice side,--a thousand feet plumb to the bottom.
Half-way down the grade I felt, sir, a thrilling and creaking, Then a lurch to one side, as we hung on the bank of the canon; Then, looking up the road, I saw, in the distance behind me, The off hind wheel of the coach just loosed from its axle, and following.
One glance alone I gave, then gathered together my ribbons, Shouted, and flung them, outspread, on the straining necks of my cattle; Screamed at the top of my voice, and lashed the air in my frenzy, While down the Geiger Grade, on _three_ wheels, the vehicle thundered.
Speed was our only chance, when again came the ominous rattle: Crack, and another wheel slipped away, and was lost in the darkness. _Two_ only now were left; yet such was our fearful momentum, Upright, erect, and sustained on _two_ wheels, the vehicle thundered.
As some huge boulder, unloosed from its rocky shelf on the mountain, Drives before it the hare and the timorous squirrel, far-leaping, So down the Geiger Grade rushed the Pioneer coach, and before it Leaped the wild horses, and shrieked in advance of the danger impending.
But to be brief in my tale. Again, ere we came to the level, Slipped from its axle a wheel; so that, to be plain in my statement, A matter of twelve hundred yards or more, as the distance may be, We travelled upon _one_ wheel, until we drove up to the station.
Then, sir, we sank in a heap; but, picking myself from the ruins, I heard a noise up the grade; and looking, I saw in the distance The three wheels following still, like moons on the horizon whirling, Till, circling, they gracefully sank on the road at the side of the station.
This is my story, sir; a trifle, indeed, I assure you. Much more, perchance, might be said; but I hold him, of all men, most lightly Who swerves from the truth in his tale--No, thank you--Well, since you _are_ pressing, Perhaps I don't care if I do: you may give me the same, Jim,--no sugar."
Aspiring Miss de Laine.
A Chemical Narrative.
Certain facts which serve to explain The physical charms of Miss Addie De Laine, Who, as the common reports obtain, Surpassed in complexion the lily and rose; With a very sweet mouth and a _retrousse_ nose; A figure like Hebe's, or that which revolves In a milliner's window, and partially solves That question which mentor and moralist pains, If grace may exist _minus_ feeling or brains.
Of course the young lady had beaux by the score, All that she wanted,--what girl could ask more? Lovers that sighed, and lovers that swore, Lovers that danced, and lovers that played, Men of profession, of leisure, and trade; But one, who was destined to take the high part Of holding that mythical treasure, her heart,-- This lover--the wonder and envy of town-- Was a practising chemist,--a fellow called Brown.
I might here remark that 'twas doubted by many, In regard to the heart, if Miss Addie had any; But no one could look in that eloquent face, With its exquisite outline, and features of grace, And mark, through the transparent skin, how the tide Ebbed and flowed at the impulse of passion or pride,-- None could look, who believed in the blood's circulation As argued by Harvey, but saw confirmation, That here, at least, Nature had triumphed o'er art, And, as far as complexion went, she had a heart.
But this, _par parenthesis_. Brown was the man Preferred of all others to carry her fan, Hook her glove, drape her shawl, and do all that a belle May demand of the lover she wants to treat well. Folks wondered and stared that a fellow called Brown-- Abstracted and solemn, in manner a clown, Ill dressed, with a lingering smell of the shop-- Should appear as her escort at party or hop. Some swore he had cooked up some villanous charm, Or love philter, not in the regular Pharm-- Acopea, and thus, from pure _malis prepense_, Had bewitched and bamboozled the young lady's sense; Others thought, with more reason, the secret to lie In a magical wash or indelible dye; While Society, with its censorious eye And judgment impartial, stood ready to damn What wasn't improper as being a sham.
For a fortnight the townfolk had all been agog With a party, the finest the season had seen, To be given in honor of Miss Pollywog, Who was just coming out as a belle of sixteen. The guests were invited: but one night before, A carriage drew up at the modest back-door Of Brown's lab'ratory; and, full in the glare Of a big purple bottle, some closely-veiled fair Alighted and entered: to make matters plain, Spite of veils and disguises,--'twas Addie De Laine.
As a bower for true love, 'twas hardly the one That a lady would choose to be wooed in or won: No odor of rose or sweet jessamine's sigh Breathed a fragrance to hallow their pledge of troth by, Nor the balm that exhales from the odorous thyme; But the gaseous effusions of chloride of lime, And salts, which your chemist delights to explain As the base of the smell of the rose and the drain. Think of this, O ye lovers of sweetness! and know What you smell, when you snuff up Lubin or Pinaud.
I pass by the greetings, the transports and bliss, Which, of course, duly followed a meeting like this, And come down to business;--for such the intent Of the lady who now o'er the crucible leant, In the glow of a furnace of carbon and lime, Like a fairy called up in the new pantomime;-- And give but her words as she coyly looked down, In reply to the questioning glances of Brown: "I am taking the drops, and am using the paste, And the little, white powders that had a sweet taste, Which you told me would brighten the glance of my eye, And the depilatory, and also the dye, And I'm charmed with the trial; and now, my dear Brown, I have one other favor,--now, ducky, don't frown,-- Only one, for a chemist and genius like you But a trifle, and one you can easily do. Now listen: tomorrow, you know, is the night Of the birthday _soiree_ of that Pollywog fright; And I'm to be there, and the dress I shall wear Is _too_ lovely; but"--"But what then, _ma chere_?" Said Brown, as the lady came to a full stop, And glanced round the shelves of the little back shop. "Well, I want--I want something to fill out the skirt To the proper dimension, without being girt In a stiff crinoline, or caged in a hoop That shows through one's skirt like the bars of a coop; Something light, that a lady may waltz in, or polk, With a freedom that none but you masculine folk Ever know. For, however poor woman aspires, She's always bound down to the earth by these wires. Are you listening? nonsense! don't stare like a spoon, Idiotic; some light thing, and spacious, and soon-- Something like--well, in fact--something like a balloon!" Here she paused; and here Brown, overcome by surprise, Gave a doubting assent with still wondering eyes, And the lady departed. But just at the door Something happened,--'tis true, it had happened before In this sanctum of science,--a sibilant sound, Like some element just from its trammels unbound, Or two substances that their affinities found.
The night of the anxiously looked-for _soiree_ Had come, with its fair ones in gorgeous array; With the rattle of wheels, and the tinkle of bells, And the "How do ye dos," and the "Hope you are wells;" And the crash in the passage, and last lingering look You give as you hang your best hat on the hook; The rush of hot air as the door opens wide; And your entry,--that blending of self-possessed pride And humility shown in your perfect-bred stare At the folk, as if wondering how they got there; With other tricks worthy of Vanity Fair. Meanwhile that safe topic, the heat of the room, Already was losing its freshness and bloom; Young people were yawning, and wondering when The dance would come off, and why didn't it then: When a vague expectation was thrilling the crowd, Lo, the door swung its hinges with utterance proud! And Pompey announced, with a trumpet-like strain, The entrance of Brown and Miss Addie De Laine.
She entered: but oh, how imperfect the verb To express to the senses her movement superb! To say that she "sailed in" more clearly might tell Her grace in its buoyant and billowy swell. Her robe was a vague circumambient space, With shadowy boundaries made of point-lace. The rest was but guess-work, and well might defy The power of critical feminine eye To define or describe: 'twere as futile to try The gossamer web of the cirrus to trace, Floating far in the blue of a warm summer sky.
'Midst the humming of praises and the glances of beaux, That greet our fair maiden wherever she goes, Brown slipped like a shadow, grim, silent, and black, With a look of anxiety, close in her track. Once he whispered aside in her delicate ear, A sentence of warning,--it might be of fear: "Don't stand in a draught, if you value your life." (Nothing more,--such advice might be given your wife Or your sweetheart, in times of bronchitis and cough, Without mystery, romance, or frivolous scoff.) But hark to the music: the dance has begun. The closely-draped windows wide open are flung; The notes of the piccolo, joyous and light, Like bubbles burst forth on the warm summer night. Round about go the dancers; in circles they fly; Trip, trip, go their feet as their skirts eddy by; And swifter and lighter, but somewhat too plain, Whisks the fair circumvolving Miss Addie De Laine.
Taglioni and Cerito well might have pined For the vigor and ease that her movements combined; E'en Rigelboche never flung higher her robe In the naughtiest city that's known on the globe. 'Twas amazing, 'twas scandalous: lost in surprise, Some opened their mouths, and a few shut their eyes.
But hark! At the moment Miss Addie De Laine, Circling round at the outer edge of an ellipse, Which brought her fair form to the window again, From the arms of her partner incautiously slips! And a shriek fills the air, and the music is still, And the crowd gather round where her partner forlorn Still frenziedly points from the wide window-sill Into space and the night; for Miss Addie was gone!
Gone like the bubble that bursts in the sun; Gone like the grain when the reaper is done; Gone like the dew on the fresh morning grass; Gone without parting farewell; and alas! Gone with a flavor of Hydrogen Gas.
When the weather is pleasant, you frequently meet A white-headed man slowly pacing the street; His trembling hand shading his lack-lustre eye, Half blind with continually scanning the sky.
Rumor points him as some astronomical sage, Reperusing by day the celestial page; But the reader, sagacious, will recognize Brown, Trying vainly to conjure his lost sweetheart down, And learn the stern moral this story must teach, That Genius may lift its love out of its reach.
California Madrigal.
On the Approach of Spring.
Oh come, my beloved! from thy winter abode, From thy home on the Yuba, thy ranch overflowed; For the waters have fallen, the winter has fled, And the river once more has returned to its bed.
Oh, mark how the spring in its beauty is near! How the fences and tules once more re-appear! How soft lies the mud on the banks of yon slough By the hole in the levee the waters broke through!
All Nature, dear Chloris, is blooming to greet The glance of your eye, and the tread of your feet; For the trails are all open, the roads are all free, And the highwayman's whistle is heard on the lea.
Again swings the lash on the high mountain trail, And the pipe of the packer is scenting the gale; The oath and the jest ringing high o'er the plain, Where the smut is not always confined to the grain.
Once more glares the sunlight on awning and roof, Once more the red clay's pulverized by the hoof, Once more the dust powders the "outsides" with red, Once more at the station the whiskey is spread.
Then fly with me, love, ere the summer's begun, And the mercury mounts to one hundred and one; Ere the grass now so green shall be withered and sear, In the spring that obtains but one month in the year.
St. Thomas.
A Geographical Survey.
(1868.)
Very fair and full of promise Lay the island of St. Thomas: Ocean o'er its reefs and bars Hid its elemental scars; Groves of cocoanut and guava Grew above its fields of lava. So the gem of the Antilles,-- "Isles of Eden," where no ill is,-- Like a great green turtle slumbered On the sea that it encumbered. Then said William Henry Seward, As he cast his eye to leeward, "Quite important to our commerce Is this island of St. Thomas."
Said the Mountain ranges, "Thank'ee, But we cannot stand the Yankee O'er our scars and fissures poring, In our very vitals boring, In our sacred caverns prying, All our secret problems trying,-- Digging, blasting, with dynamit Mocking all our thunders! Damn it! Other lands may be more civil, Bust our lava crust if we will."
Said the Sea,--its white teeth gnashing Through its coral-reef lips flashing,-- "Shall I let this scheming mortal Shut with stone my shining portal, Curb my tide, and check my play, Fence with wharves my shining bay? Rather let me be drawn out In one awful water-spout!"
Said the black-browed Hurricane, Brooding down the Spanish main, "Shall I see my forces, zounds! Measured by square inch and pounds, With detectives at my back When I double on my track, And my secret paths made clear, Published o'er the hemisphere To each gaping, prying crew? Shall I? Blow me if I do!"
So the Mountains shook and thundered, And the Hurricane came sweeping, And the people stared and wondered As the Sea came on them leaping: Each, according to his promise, Made things lively at St. Thomas.
Till one morn, when Mr. Seward Cast his weather eye to leeward, There was not an inch of dry land Left to mark his recent island.
Not a flagstaff or a sentry, Not a wharf or port of entry,-- Only--to cut matters shorter-- Just a patch of muddy water In the open ocean lying, And a gull above it flying.
The Ballad of Mr. Cooke.
A Legend of the Cliff House, San Francisco.
Where the sturdy ocean breeze Drives the spray of roaring seas That the Cliff-House balconies Overlook:
There, in spite of rain that balked, With his sandals duly chalked, Once upon a tight-rope walked Mr. Cooke.
But the jester's lightsome mien, And his spangles and his sheen, All had vanished, when the scene He forsook;----
Yet in some delusive hope, In some vague desire to cope, One still came to view the rope Walked by Cooke.
Amid Beauty's bright array, On that strange eventful day, Partly hidden from the spray, In a nook,
Stood Florinda Vere de Vere; Who with wind-dishevelled hair, And a rapt, distracted air, Gazed on Cooke.
Then she turned, and quickly cried To her lover at her side, While her form with love and pride Wildly shook,
"Clifford Snook! oh, hear me now! Here I break each plighted vow: There's but one to whom I bow, And that's Cooke!"
Haughtily that young man spoke: "I descend from noble folk. 'Seven Oaks,' and then 'Se'nnoak,' Lastly Snook,
Is the way my name I trace: Shall a youth of noble race In affairs of love give place To a Cooke?"
"Clifford Snook, I know thy claim To that lineage and name, And I think I've read the same In Horne Tooke;
But I swear, by all divine, Never, never to be thine, 'Till thou canst upon yon line Walk like Cooke."
Though to that gymnastic feat He no closer might compete Than to strike a _balance_-sheet In a book;
Yet thenceforward, from that day, He his figure would display In some wild athletic way, After Cooke.
On some household eminence, On a clothes-line or a fence, Over ditches, drains, and thence O'er a brook,
He, by high ambition led, Ever walked and balanced; Till the people, wondering, said, "How like Cooke!"
Step by step did he proceed, Nerved by valor, not by greed, And at last the crowning deed Undertook:
Misty was the midnight air, And the cliff was bleak and bare, When he came to do and dare Just like Cooke.
Through the darkness, o'er the flow, Stretched the line where he should go Straight across, as flies the crow Or the rook:
One wild glance around he cast; Then he faced the ocean blast, And he strode the cable last Touched by Cooke.
Vainly roared the angry seas; Vainly blew the ocean breeze; But, alas! the walker's knees Had a crook;
And before he reached the rock Did they both together knock, And he stumbled with a shock-- Unlike Cooke!
Downward dropping in the dark, Like an arrow to its mark, Or a fish-pole when a shark Bites the hook,
Dropped the pole he could not save, Dropped the walker, and the wave Swift ingulfed the rival brave Of J. Cooke!
Came a roar across the sea Of sea-lions in their glee, In a tongue remarkably Like Chinnook;
And the maddened sea-gull seemed Still to utter, as he screamed, "Perish thus the wretch who deemed Himself Cooke!"
But, on misty moonlit nights, Comes a skeleton in tights, Walks once more the giddy heights He mistook;
And unseen to mortal eyes, Purged of grosser earthly ties, Now at last in spirit guise Outdoes Cooke.
Still the sturdy ocean breeze Sweeps the spray of roaring seas, Where the Cliff-House balconies Overlook;
And the maidens in their prime, Reading of this mournful rhyme, Weep where, in the olden time, Walked J. Cooke.
The Legends of the Rhine.
Beetling walls with ivy grown, Frowning heights of mossy stone; Turret, with its flaunting flag Flung from battlemented crag; Dungeon-keep and fortalice Looking down a precipice O'er the darkly glancing wave By the Lurline-haunted cave; Robber haunt and maiden bower, Home of Love and Crime and Power,-- That's the scenery, in fine, Of the Legends of the Rhine.
One bold baron, double-dyed Bigamist and parricide, And, as most the stories run, Partner of the Evil One; Injured innocence in white, Fair but idiotic quite, Wringing of her lily hands; Valor fresh from Paynim lands, Abbot ruddy, hermit pale, Minstrel fraught with many a tale,-- Are the actors that combine In the Legends of the Rhine.
Bell-mouthed flagons round a board; Suits of armor, shield, and sword; Kerchief with its bloody stain; Ghosts of the untimely slain; Thunder-clap and clanking chain; Headsman's block and shining axe; Thumbscrews, crucifixes, racks; Midnight-tolling chapel bell, Heard across the gloomy fell,-- These, and other pleasant facts, Are the properties that shine In the Legends of the Rhine.
Maledictions, whispered vows Underneath the linden boughs; Murder, bigamy, and theft; Travellers of goods bereft; Rapine, pillage, arson, spoil,-- Every thing but honest toil, Are the deeds that best define Every Legend of the Rhine.
That Virtue always meets reward, But quicker when it wears a sword; That Providence has special care Of gallant knight and lady fair; That villains, as a thing of course, Are always haunted by remorse,-- Is the moral, I opine, Of the Legends of the Rhine.
Mrs. Judge Jenkins.
[Being the Only Genuine Sequel to "Maud Muller."]
Maud Muller, all that summer day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay;
Yet, looking down the distant lane, She hoped the judge would come again.
But when he came, with smile and bow, Maud only blushed, and stammered, "Ha-ow?"
And spoke of her "pa," and wondered whether He'd give consent they should wed together.
Old Muller burst in tears, and then Begged that the judge would lend him "ten;"
For trade was dull, and wages low, And the "craps," this year, were somewhat slow.
And ere the languid summer died, Sweet Maud became the judge's bride.
But, on the day that they were mated, Maud's brother Bob was intoxicated;
And Maud's relations, twelve in all, Were very drunk at the judge's hall.
And when the summer came again, The young bride bore him babies twain.
And the judge was blest, but thought it strange That bearing children made such a change:
For Maud grew broad and red and stout; And the waist that his arm once clasped about
Was more than he now could span. And he Sighed as he pondered, ruefully,
How that which in Maud was native grace In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place;
And thought of the twins, and wished that they Looked less like the man who raked the hay
On Muller's farm, and dreamed with pain Of the day he wandered down the lane.
And, looking down that dreary track, He half regretted that he came back.
For, had he waited, he might have wed Some maiden fair and thoroughbred;
For there be women fair as she, Whose verbs and nouns do more agree.
Alas for maiden! alas for judge! And the sentimental,--that's one-half "fudge;"
For Maud soon thought the judge a bore, With all his learning and all his lore.
And the judge would have bartered Maud's fair face For more refinement and social grace.
If, of all words of tongue and pen, The saddest are, "It might have been,"
More sad are these we daily see: "It is, but hadn't ought to be."
Avitor.
An Aerial Retrospect.
What was it filled my youthful dreams, In place of Greek or Latin themes, Or beauty's wild, bewildering beams? Avitor?
What visions and celestial scenes I filled with aerial machines,-- Montgolfier's and Mr. Green's! Avitor.
What fairy tales seemed things of course! The rock that brought Sindbad across, The Calendar's own winged-horse! Avitor!
How many things I took for facts,-- Icarus and his conduct lax, And how he sealed his fate with wax! Avitor!
The first balloons I sought to sail, Soap-bubbles fair, but all too frail, Or kites,--but thereby hangs a tail. Avitor!
What made me launch from attic tall A kitten and a parasol, And watch their bitter, frightful fall? Avitor?
What youthful dreams of high renown Bade me inflate the parson's gown, That went not up, nor yet came down? Avitor?
My first ascent, I may not tell: Enough to know that in that well My first high aspirations fell, Avitor!
My other failures let me pass: The dire explosions; and, alas! The friends I choked with noxious gas, Avitor!
For lo! I see perfected rise The vision of my boyish eyes, The messenger of upper skies, Avitor!
A White-Pine Ballad.
Recently with Samuel Johnson this occasion I improved, Whereby certain gents of affluence I hear were greatly moved; But not all of Johnson's folly, although multiplied by nine, Could compare with Milton Perkins, late an owner in White Pine.
Johnson's folly--to be candid--was a wild desire to treat Every able male white citizen he met upon the street; And there being several thousand--but this subject why pursue? 'Tis with Perkins, and not Johnson, that to-day we have to do.
No: not wild promiscuous treating, not the winecup's ruby flow, But the female of his species brought the noble Perkins low. 'Twas a wild poetic fervor, and excess of sentiment, That left the noble Perkins in a week without a cent.
"Milton Perkins," said the Siren, "not thy wealth do I admire, But the intellect that flashes from those eyes of opal fire; And methinks the name thou bearest surely cannot be misplaced, And, embrace me, Mister Perkins!" Milton Perkins her embraced.
But I grieve to state, that even then, as she was wiping dry The tear of sensibility in Milton Perkins' eye, She prigged his diamond bosom-pin, and that her wipe of lace Did seem to have of chloroform a most suspicious trace.
Enough that Milton Perkins later in the night was found With his head in an ash-barrel, and his feet upon the ground; And he murmured "Seraphina," and he kissed his hand, and smiled On a party who went through him, like an unresisting child.
Moral.
Now one word to Pogonippers, ere this subject I resign, In this tale of Milton Perkins,--late an owner in White Pine,-- You shall see that wealth and women are deceitful, just the same; And the tear of sensibility has salted many a claim.
What the Wolf Really Said to Little Red Riding-Hood.
Wondering maiden, so puzzled and fair, Why dost thou murmur and ponder and stare? "Why are my eyelids so open and wild?"-- Only the better to see with, my child! Only the better and clearer to view Cheeks that are rosy, and eyes that are blue.
Dost thou still wonder, and ask why these arms Fill thy soft bosom with tender alarms, Swaying so wickedly?--are they misplaced, Clasping or shielding some delicate waist: Hands whose coarse sinews may fill you with fear Only the better protect you, my dear!
Little Red Riding-Hood, when in the street, Why do I press your small hand when we meet? Why, when you timidly offered your cheek, Why did I sigh, and why didn't I speak? Why, well: you see--if the truth must appear-- I'm not your grandmother, Riding-Hood, dear!
The Ritualist.
By a Communicant of "St. James's."
He wore, I think, a chasuble, the day when first we met; A stole and snowy alb likewise: I recollect it yet. He called me "daughter," as he raised his jewelled hand to bless; And then, in thrilling undertones, he asked, "Would I confess?"
O mother, dear! blame not your child, if then on bended knees I dropped, and thought of Abelard, and also Eloise; Or when, beside the altar high, he bowed before the pyx, I envied that seraphic kiss he gave the crucifix.
The cruel world may think it wrong, perhaps may deem me weak, And, speaking of that sainted man, may call his conduct "cheek;" And, like that wicked barrister whom Cousin Harry quotes, May term his mixed chalice "grog," his vestments, "petticoats."
But, whatsoe'er they do or say, I'll build a Christian's hope On incense and on altar-lights, on chasuble and cope. Let others prove, by precedent, the faith that they profess: "His can't be wrong" that's symbolized by such becoming dress.
A Moral Vindicator.
If Mr. Jones, Lycurgus B., Had one peculiar quality, 'Twas his severe advocacy Of conjugal fidelity.
His views of heaven were very free; His views of life were painfully Ridiculous; but fervently He dwelt on marriage sanctity.
He frequently went on a spree; But in his wildest revelry, On this especial subject he Betrayed no ambiguity.
And though at times Lycurgus B. Did lay his hands not lovingly Upon his wife, the sanctity Of wedlock was his guaranty.
But Mrs. Jones declined to see Affairs in the same light as he, And quietly got a decree Divorcing her from that L. B.
And what did Jones, Lycurgus B., With his known idiosyncrasy? He smiled,--a bitter smile to see,-- And drew the weapon of Bowie.
He did what Sickles did to Key,-- What Cole on Hiscock wrought, did he; In fact, on persons twenty-three He proved the marriage sanctity.
The counsellor who took the fee, The witnesses and referee, The judge who granted the decree, Died in that wholesale butchery.
And then when Jones, Lycurgus B., Had wiped the weapon of Bowie, Twelve jurymen did instantly Acquit and set Lycurgus free.
Songs Without Sense.
For the Parlor and Piano.
I.--The Personified Sentimental.
Affection's charm no longer gilds The idol of the shrine; But cold Oblivion seeks to fill Regret's ambrosial wine. Though Friendship's offering buried lies 'Neath cold Aversion's snow, Regard and Faith will ever bloom Perpetually below.
I see thee whirl in marble halls, In Pleasure's giddy train; Remorse is never on that brow, Nor Sorrow's mark of pain. Deceit has marked thee for her own; Inconstancy the same; And Ruin wildly sheds its gleam Athwart thy path of shame.
II.--The Homely Pathetic.
The dews are heavy on my brow; My breath comes hard and low; Yet, mother, dear, grant one request, Before your boy must go. Oh! lift me ere my spirit sinks, And ere my senses fail: Place me once more, O mother dear! Astride the old fence-rail.
The old fence-rail, the old fence-rail! How oft these youthful legs, With Alice' and Ben Bolt's, were hung Across those wooden pegs. 'Twas there the nauseating smoke Of my first pipe arose: O mother, dear! these agonies Are far less keen than those.
I know where lies the hazel dell, Where simple Nellie sleeps; I know the cot of Nettie Moore, And where the willow weeps. I know the brookside and the mill: But all their pathos fails Beside the days when once I sat Astride the old fence-rails.
III.--Swiss Air.
I'm a gay tra, la, la, With my fal, lal, la, la, And my bright-- And my light-- Tra, la, le. [Repeat.]
Then laugh, ha, ha, ha, And ring, ting, ling, ling, And sing fal, la, la, La, la, le. [Repeat.]