Sivut kuvina
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until you cannot see their joints,—but their shining is that of a SEake'3 belly, after all. In deeper suggestiveness I find as great a difference. The mountains dwarf mankind and foreshorten the procession of its long generations. The sea drowns out humanity and time; it has no sympathy with either; for it belongs to eternity, and of that it sings its monotonous 3ong for ever and ever.

Yet I should love to have a little box by the sea-shore. I should love to gaze out on the wild feline element from a front window of my own, just as I should love to look on a caged panther, and see it stretch its shining length, and then curl over and lap its smooth sides, and by-ard-by begin to lash itself into rage, and show its white teeth, and spring at its bars, and howl the cry of its mad, but, to me, harmless fury.

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LESSINGS on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still

Kissed by strawberries on the hill;

With the sunshine on thy face,

Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace!

From my heart I give thee joy;

I was once a barefoot boy.

Prince thou art—the grown-up man,

Only is republican.

Let the million-dollared ride!

Barefoot, trudging at his side,

Thou hast more than he can buy,

In the reach of ear and eye:

Outward sunshine, inward joy.

Blessings on the barefoot boy.

O! for boyhood's painless play,
Bleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools:
Of the wild bee's morning chase,
Of the wild flower's time and place,
Flight of fowl, and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;

How the tortoise bears his shell.
How the woodchuck digs his cell.
And the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole's nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow.
Where the ground-nut trails its vine.
Where the wood-grape's clusters shins:
Of the black wasp's cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!
For, eschewing books and tasks.
Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks.
Part and parcel of her joy,
Blessings on the barefoot boy.

0 for boyhood's time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for!

1 was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played.
Plied the snouted mole his spade;

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For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight,
Through the day, and through the night:
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!
Still, as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too,
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy.
Fashioned for a barefoot boy 1

O, for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread,
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O'er me like a regal tent,
Cloudy ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frogs' orchestra;

And, to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch; pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerily, then, my little man!
Live and laugh as boyhood can;
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat;
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt's for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil,
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy'



JEHOLD this ruin! 'tis a skull,
Once of ethereal spirit full!
This narrow cell was life's retreat,
This space was thought's mysterious

What beauteous pictures filled this

What dreams of pleasure, long forgot!
Nor grief, nor joy, nor hope, nor fear,
Has left one trace of record there.

Beneath this mouldering canopy

Once shone the bright and busy eye:

Yet start not at that dismal void;

If social love that eye employed,

If with no lawless fire it gleamed,

But through the dew of kindness beamed,

That eye shall be forever bright

When stars and sun have lost their light.

Here, in this silent cavern, hung
The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue;
If falsehood's honey it disdained,
And, when it could not praise, was

If bold in virtue's cause it spoke,
Yet gentle concord never broke,
That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee
When death unveils eternity.

Say, did these fingers delve the min«,
Or with its envied rubies shine?
To hew the rock or wear the gem,
Can nothing now avail to them:
But if the page of truth they sought,
And comfort to the mourner brought,
These hands a richer meed shall claim
Than all that waits on wealth or famel

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LOWLY thy flowing tide
Came in, old Avon! Scarcely did mine

eyes, As watchfully I roamed thy greenwood side, Perceive its gentle rise.

With many a stroke and strong The laboring boatmen upward plied their

oars; Yet little way they made, tho' laboring long Between thy winding shores.

Now down thine ebbing tide
The unlabored boat falls rapidly along;
The solitary helmsman sits to guide,

And sings an idle song.

Now o'er the rocks that lay
So silent late the shallow current roars;

Fast flow thy waters on their seaward way, Through wider-spreading shores.

Avon, I gaze and know The lesson emblemed in thy varying way; It speaks of human joys that rise so slow,

So rapidly decay.

Kingdoms which long have stood And slow to strength and power attained at

last, Thus from the summit of high Fortune! flood, They ebb to ruin fast.

Thus like thy flow appears Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage. Alas! how burryingly the ebbing years

Then hasten to old age!



HAF von funny leedle poy,

Vot gomes schust to mine knee; Der queerest schap, der createst rogue, 5M' As efer you dit see. X He runs, und schumps, und schmashes

I In all barte off der house:

But vot off dot? he vas mine son,

Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He get der measles und der mumbs

Und eferyding dot's oudt;
He sbills mine glass off lager bier,

Poots schnuff indo mine krant.
He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheeM,-

Dot vas der roughest chouse: I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy

But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

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