GONE—ALL GONE!
By the bubbling fount ’mid the greenwood shades,
In the leafy world of the forest glades,
No more the birds, at the blush of morn,
Trill their sweet notes; they are gone—all gone!
Voices of summer, I’ve listed long
For the witching strains of your matin song;
Through the woodland dim, o’er the rustling lawn,
I have sought you oft; but you’re gone—all gone?
No more do you start in your still retreat
At the thundering tramp of the horses’ feet,
Or the wandering note of the bugle horn;
But the woods are mute, for you’re gone—all gone!
’Mid the wild wood’s haunts, through your lonely nests,
The rude winds play, and the snow-wreath rests
In their yielding curve, while in jeering scorn
The cold blast whistles, "Gone—all gone!"
They say that ye sing ’neath a sunnier arch
Of the azure skies, where the seasons’ march
Brings but one endless vernal dawn;
But my heart is sad, for you’re gone—all gone!
THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
The Christmas tree!
The Christmas tree!
O gather around it now;
Its fruits are free
For you and for me,
And they hang from every bough.
Its flowers are bright,
And they grew in a night,
For yesterday it was bare
Did ever you see
An evergreen tree
So fruitful and so fair?
Look! here is a rose!
And who would suppose
An orange and a pear
Would grow by the side
Of the garden’s pride?
But here, you see, they are.
And, stranger yet,
Here’s a bon-bon, set
On the same identical stem,
With two plums, so big
That a neighboring fig
Seems lost in the shadow of them.
And here, what’s this?
As I live, ’tis a kiss,
And just where a kiss should be;
A tulip full blown,
Hard by it is shown—
Indeed, ’tis a wonderful tree.
Here, bravo! I’ve found
Merry’s Museum, bound—
This must be the Tree of Knowledge;
Besides which, behold!
All lettered in gold,
A poem fresh out from the college.
Hold! hold! my good sirs,
Here’s a nice set of furs—
’Tis a fir-tree, you all must agree;
And here, not incog.,
Is a sweet sugar-hog—
Does that make a mahogany-tree?
Oh! who would have guessed?
Here’s a nice little chest,
Of course ’tis a chestnut-tree;
Not so fast, cousin Knox,
Here’s a beautiful box—
A box-tree it surely must be.
Your proof something lacks,
For here is an ax.
You must own ’tis an axle-tree now;
Hallo! here’s a whip,
For your horsemanship—
’Tis a whipple-tree, then, you’ll allow.
What now shall be said?
Here are needles and thread—
Let’s see—shall we call it tre-mend(o)us?
Oh, pshaw! pray do stop,
I’m ready to drop—
Your puns are absurdly stupendous.
MY MOTHER’S BIRTHPLACE.
It was just outside of the village,
In a cool, sequestered nook,
On the right was the murmuring forest,
On the left was the babbling brook.
Behind, the o’ershadowing mountain
Reared its gray old head to the sky,
While before it, the widening valley
Stretched out like a sea to the eye.
’Twas a rare, sweet spot, and a lovely
As ever this fair world knew;
There spring came earliest always,
And summer the latest withdrew.
Day reluctantly left it at evening,
And hastened to greet it at dawn,
And stars, birds, and flowers loved to visit
The place where my mother was born.
THE SONG OF BOB LINCOLN.
BY UNCLE TIM.
It was a beautiful morning, quite early in May,
The fathers all plowing, the children all play;
The mothers all spinning, as busy as bees,
And the birds quite as busy all round in the trees;
While some were singing songs over and over,
Sometimes in the tree-tops, then down in the clover,
Young Robert was trying his very best notes,
And the strength of his song by the length of his throat.
Chorus—Envy me, envy me,
Cordially, cordially,
Fiddlesticks, fiddlesticks!
Just act your pleasure, sir.
Sometimes he was singing to Jemmy the farmer,
And then to Miss Alice, and trying to charm her;
Next moment he’d light on the top of a thistle,
And either be singing or trying to whistle:
Miss Alice, Miss Alice! it will give me much pleasure
To sing you a sonnet while I am at leisure.
I will sing you a good one, and very explicit,
And stop when I choose, or whenever you wish it.
Chorus—Certainly, certainly, etc.
While Jemmy is plowing and learning to whistle,
My wife is at home, in the shade of a thistle,
In a neat little nest, with a wild rose behind it.
You need not look for it, for you never can find it.
The farmer is plowing, and soon will be mowing;
While he’s cutting the daisies his corn will be growing.
When the heads on the barley are ripe, and the cherry,
Mary Lincoln and I will be singing so merry.
Chorus—Cordially, cordially,
Envy me, envy me,
Fiddlesticks, fiddlesticks!
Just act your pleasure, sir.
When the leaves on the trees and the flowers on the clover
Are withered and faded, and Summer is over;
When the grass on the meadows is leveled and gone,
We will sing our last sonnet and leave you alone.
We will fly far away to the rice and the cotton;
But let not our thistle and rose be forgotten.
We are certain to come again early in Spring,
And bring some choice music, which we promise to sing.
Chorus—Cordially, cordially,
Envy me, envy me,
Fiddlesticks, fiddlesticks!
Just act your pleasure, sir.
A WILL AND A WAY.
A Lapland merchant must needs, one day,
To a distant market go;
But he had no horse, and he had no sleigh,
To carry him over the snow.
"Yet go I must," said the sturdy man—
"There is a way for every will—
Each new necessity has its plan,
For the earnest mind to fulfill."
So he drew, from the ice-bound river, a scow,
And lined it with furs and moss,
Then harnessed a reindeer to its prow,
With a rope his horns across.
No track was there—but the traveler knew
The way over valley and plain;
Like a well-trained steed, the reindeer flew,
And brought him safe back again.
The fashion he set is in fashion now,
Among the fur-clad Norse;
They use for a sleigh a flat-bottomed scow,
And a reindeer for a horse.
Said the resolute man, "They shall serve my turn;
Whatever we must, we may,
And sooner or later each man will learn,
That where there’s a will there’s a way."
BLOWING BUBBLES.
The boys were blowing bubbles,
Bright red, and green, and blue,
And every changing color
That ever mortal knew.
They floated in the window,
And glided past my chair,
But in a moment perished,
And faded in the air.
The boys, with shouts and laughter,
Blew till quite out of breath,
While high in the leafy maple
The bubbles gleamed till death.
Too much like earthly pleasure
Seemed the bubbles, bright and gay;
They charm a fleeting moment,
Then vanish, away—away.
Sweet love’s ecstatic potion
Our spirits long to sip,
But Death may dash the nectar
From the unsullied lip.
And he who quaffs the longest,
Whose heart divinely glows,
Finds clouds will gather round him,
For earthly joys must close.
Some grasp at wealth’s bright beacon,
And follow where it leads—
Sometimes to fairest honor,
Sometimes to foulest deeds
And often proves a bubble,
A floating thing of air—
Eludes the weary victim,
And leaves him starving there.
If love’s so frail a treasure,
And wealth may fade away;
If earthly joys are changing,
And fame lives but a day;
Then where are shining jewels
That will not break at last,
And leave us, eager viewers,
All mourning for the past?
High in the holy heavens,
A pearl of price untold
Shines brighter far than rubies,
More precious than fine gold.
It can not fade or perish,
Can never pass away;
It is a hope in Jesus,
A trust in God alway!
M. A. L.
