Choice Specimens of American Literature, and Literary Reader Part 61

Where hast thou been this year, beloved?

What hast thou seen?

What visions fair, what glorious life, Where thou hast been?

The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong!

'Twixt us and thee; The mystic veil! when shall it fall, That we may see?

Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone, But present still, And waiting for the coming hour Of G.o.d's sweet will.

Lord of the living and the dead, Our Saviour dear!

We lay in silence at thy feet This sad, sad year!

=_Henry T. Tuckerman._=

From his "Poems."

=_391._= THE STATUE OF WAs.h.i.+NGTON.

The quarry whence thy form majestic sprung, Has peopled earth with grace, Heroes and G.o.ds that elder bards have sung, A bright and peerless race, But from its sleeping veins ne'er rose before, A shape of loftier name Than his, who, Glory's wreath with meekness wore, The n.o.blest son of fame Sheathed is the sword that Pa.s.sion never stained; His gaze around is cast, As if the joys of Freedom, newly gained, Before his vision pa.s.sed; As if a nation's shout of love and pride With music filled the air, And his calm soul was lifted on the tide Of deep and grateful prayer; As if the crystal mirror of his life To fancy sweetly came, With scenes of patient toil and n.o.ble strife, Undimmed by doubt or shame; As if the lofty purpose of his soul Expression would betray-- The high resolve Ambition to control, And thrust her crown away!

O, it was well in marble, firm and white, To carve our hero's form, Whose angel guidance was our strength in fight, Our star amid the storm; Whose matchless truth has made his name divine, And human freedom sure, His country great, his tomb earth's dearest shrine, While man and time endure!

And it is well to place his image there, Beneath, the dome he blest; Let meaner spirits who its councils share, Revere that silent guest!

Let us go up with high and sacred love, To look on his pure brow, And as, with solemn grace, he points above, Renew the patriot's vow!

=_John G. Saxe, 1816-._= (Manual, p. 523, 531.)

From "Early Rising."

=_392._= THE BLESSING OF SLEEP.

"G.o.d bless the man who first invented sleep!"

So Sancho Panza said, and so say I: And bless him, also, that he didn't keep His great discovery to himself; nor try To make it--as the lucky fellow might-- A close monopoly by patent-right!

'Tis beautiful to leave the world a while For the soft visions of the gentle night; And free, at last, from mortal care or guile, To live as only in the angels' sight, In Sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in, Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin!

So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise.

I like the lad, who, when his father thought To clip his morning nap by hackneyed praise Of vagrant worm by early songster caught, Cried, "Served him right!--it's not at all surprising; The worm was punished, sir, for early rising!"

=_393._= "YE TAILYOR-MAN; A CONTEMPLATIVE BALLAD."

Right jollie is ye tailyor-man As annie man may be; And all ye daye, upon ye benche He worketh merrilie.

And oft, ye while in pleasante wise He coileth up his lymbes, He singeth songs ye like whereof Are not in Watts his hymns.

And yet he toileth all ye while His merrie catches rolle; As true unto ye needle as Ye needle to ye pole.

What cares ye valiant tailyor-man For all ye cowarde fears?

Against ye scissors of ye Fates, He points his mightie shears.

He heedeth not ye anciente jests That witless sinners use; What feareth ye bolde tailyor-man Ye hissinge of a goose?

He pulleth at ye busie threade, To feede his lovinge wife And eke his childe; for unto them It is the threade of life.

He cutteth well ye rich man's coate, And with unseemlie pride, He sees ye little waistcoate In Ye cabbage bye his side,

Meanwhile ye tailyor-man his wife, To labor nothing loth, Sits bye with readie hande to baste Ye urchin, and ye cloth.

Full happie is ye tailyor-man Yet is he often tried, Lest he, from fullness of ye dimes, Wax wanton in his pride.

Full happie is ye tailyor-man, And yet he hath a foe, A cunning enemie that none So well as tailyors knowe.

It is ye slipperie customer Who goes his wicked wayes, And wears ye tailyor-man his coate, But never, never payes!

From "The Money King."

=_394._= ANCIENT AND MODERN GHOSTS CONTRASTED.

In olden times,--if cla.s.sic poets say The simple truth, as poets do to-day,-- When Charon's boat conveyed a spirit o'er The Lethean water to the Hadean sh.o.r.e, The fare was just a penny,--not too great, The moderate, regular, Stygian statute rate.

_Now_, for a s.h.i.+lling, he will cross the stream, (His paddles whirling to the force of steam!) And bring, obedient to some wizard power, Back to the Earth more spirits in an hour, Than Brooklyn's famous ferry could convey, Or thine, Hoboken, in the longest day!

Time was when men bereaved of vital breath, Were calm and silent in the realms of Death; When mortals dead and decently inurned Were heard no more; no traveler returned, Who once had crossed the dark Plutonian strand, To whisper secrets of the spirit-land,-- Save when perchance some sad, unquiet soul-- Among the tombs might wander on parole,-- A well-bred ghost, at night's bewitching noon, Returned to catch some glimpses of the moon, Wrapt in a mantle of unearthly white, (The only rapping of an ancient sprite!) Stalked round in silence till the break of day, Then from the Earth pa.s.sed unperceived away.

Now all is changed: the musty maxim fails, And dead men _do_ repeat the queerest tales!

Alas, that here, as in the books, we see The travelers clash, the doctors disagree!

Alas, that all, the further they explore, For all their search are but confused the more!

Ye great departed!--men of mighty mark,-- Bacon and Newton, Adams, Adam Clarke, Edwards and Whitefield, Franklin, Robert Hall, Calhoun, Clay, Channing, Daniel Webster,--all Ye great quit-tenants of this earthly ball,-- If in your new abodes ye cannot rest, But must return, O, grant us this request: Come with a n.o.ble and celestial air, To prove your t.i.tle to the names ye bear!

Give some clear token of your heavenly birth; Write as good English as ye wrote on earth!

Show not to all, in ranting prose and verse, The spirit's progress is from bad to worse; And, what were once superfluous to advise, Don't tell, I beg you, such, egregious lies!-- Or if perchance your agents are to blame, Don't let them trifle with your honest fame; Let chairs and tables rest, and "rap" instead, Ay, "knock" your slippery "Mediums" on the head!

=_395._= "Boys"

"The proper study of mankind is man,"-- The most perplexing one, no doubt, is woman, The subtlest study that the mind can scan, Of all deep problems, heavenly or human!

But of all studies in the round of learning, From nature's marvels down to human toys, To minds well fitted for acute discerning, The very queerest one is that of boys!

If to ask questions that would puzzle Plato, And all the schoolmen of the Middle Age,-- If to make precepts worthy of old Cato, Be deemed philosophy, your boy's a sage!

If the possession of a teeming fancy, (Although, forsooth, the younker doesn't know it,) Which he can use in rarest necromancy, Be thought poetical, your boy's a poet!