Boston is up, and its noisy blare
Strikes heavily on the muffled air;
Like the growling of some savage beast,
Hidden away at his morning feast:
A faint, dull light is off the east,
A trifle of cream, that mingles there
With the milky hue of the thick, dull air;
And by that light in the east, you guess
That the Sun is somewhere up to dress,
But, held back by some fond caress,
Has caught his night-gown over his head,
And——Boston, breakfasted,
Quite cool, thus knowingly looks up,
One hand holding the coffee-cup,
The other with the 'Morning Post'
To 'calculate' how long, at most,
'This heavy weather will hold on'—
So, breakfasts, dines, and sups, Boston.
Oh! pleasant reflections are every where
Except in this cursed atmosphere;
But nothing whatever, unless their priest,
Disturbs your Boston phlegm the least;
Not even a storm, No'th-East by East.
III.
The iron chariots bowling on
From Albany and Stonington,
Are chiming with their thousand wheels,
And within, the living cargo reels
And nods about familiarly,
Each to the other, as he were a brother,
And all as the mist falls silently.
Five hundred noses point ahead,
And a thousand eye-lids closed, as dead
As already the silver coin had pressed,
And sealed them in their final rest;
So chill, from the mist of the neighboring deep,
Is the nodding, nibbling, icy sleep;
And dreams confusing go and come,
Which blessings are and a curse to some;
But all with a feeling of 'Devil-may-care,'
Peculiar to the rail-road car,
Or such as you fancy a witch's are
On a broom-stick ride in the midnight air;
Some 'promenade all' at Symms's Hole,
Or, 'Hands all around' at the Northern Pole;
The spot, where the earth having come to a crisis
The Sun goes around on the tops of the ices,
A weary Anchises;
Ices, like Alps, of all shapes and devices;
The pyramid, dome, the temple, and all
That seemed 'frozen music' to Madame De Stael;
While cluster of stars, with their beautiful eyes,
Just peep in between, with a kind of surprise;
Some fading, some flashing, all grouping anew,
Like the lights of a city, when passing: in view,
Or laughing young girls, all crowding for places
In windows brim full of (God bless!) their sweet faces;
And thus night and day, vis-à-vis to each other,
Waltz round the horizon like sister and brother;
While deep in the vault, with a hand unseen,
(The 'unknown God' of the shifting scene.)
From the morning of Time, one star has stood
And ruled that glittering multitude.
Or, some may prefer, as it's here rather cold,
To mount on a streamer of crimson or gold,
And shooting off in a shaft of light,
Ride tangent up to the top o' the night,
And dip in the slant of the Sun, as he
Wheels up somewhere in the Indian sea;
Or wink to the wink of a new-made star,
Not yet rolled round, and 'caviare
To the general;' but here with a jar
That murders sleep, old Beelzebub,
With a kind of 'hip-hurrah!' hubbub,
A snort and a scream, has startled all;
And the lady in the travelling shawl
Has dropped her babe, too drugged to squall;
And stiff as a shaking Quaker sits
The gentleman in summer 'fits,'
No'th-East by East, a point too far;
His dream is true, that he left last night
New-York, at eighty of Fahrenheit—
And his coat in the baggage-car!
But dreams must change; and now they wake
To run on coffee and beef-steak;
The latest 'Picayune,' and then
A southern climate, to read it in;
A flower or two, a light and table,
To make the thing more passable;
A sea-coal fire, a Tremont-bath—
All the dear comforts Boston hath
In such rich store; and her's so much,
No other rail-road leads to such:
But some, with stubborn memories
Of last night's ugly-sounding seas,
The few, with stomachs out of tone,
Dream every thing; but, senses gone,
Have no distinct conception what,
Save a fire, and a bed, and something hot,
In (oh, so like a home to one!)
The pleasant rooms at the Albion.
IV.
All night long, in the outer bay,
The ships have rocked with the lazy sea,
Off and on, with a slow chasseé,
And all night long, on top of the mist,
The stars have danced unceasingly,
And the moon has smiled her prettiest;
Yet not one ray has wandered by:
Oh! when shall we have a brighter sky!
The wind is light and the light is dim,
But a single star worn pale and slim,
As though the journey had wearied him,
Has just come down from Heaven, to say
That the Sun is coming up this way,
With promise of a gala-day.
Great wonder had been, up there, he says,
That Boston lay so long in a haze;
And strange they hadn't invented a way,
Some patent or other, to blow it away;
No'th-East by East had gone ashore
Below, some twenty leagues or more;
He had weathered the Cape about midnight,
And was taking a nap, to come up bright;
An hour, or two at the most, and he
Would bring the bloom of the orange-tree,
And swear it was just from Florida,
Caught last night at the fall of the dew;
He left as the stars came out of the blue,
And shunning the breath of the land, by sea
Has kept all fresh it fragrancy.
Thus spake, or looked the star, and soon
The air is soft as a breeze in June;
The sun comes down by way of the moon,
And all the sister stars and brothers,
And other lights, if there are others,
Mars, and his Tiger,[C] all are out;
And right glad they look, as about to shout,
At sight again, their right good will
On Boston heights and Bunker Hill:
And Bunker Hill's great Orator,'[D]
Catching a ray from every star,
Binds him a chaplet of Thirteen,
And silent, smiles upon the scene.
The mists have gone off silently,
And scarcely whispered their good-bye;
They have crept away with a stealthy roll,
Like the gathering of a noiseless scroll;
You may see them yet, as they glide away,
And hang their curtains about the bay;
While the pointed seas flash out between,
Like the spears of a host, in battle seen;
Or lift their white caps, one by one,
A welcome to the rising sun:
A moment's hush, on sea and air,
Still, as an angel passing were,
To bid them breathe a silent prayer,
And then, all free and gloriously
The Sun comes mounting from the sea,
As lightning had sprang sudden there,
And lingered in the atmosphere!
Again the languid pulses start
Like a rush of joy to a weary heart,
That hardly hath left a hope for such,
So mild its quick but gentle touch:
And now it clasps in warm embrace
All living things, and face to face
And lip to lip, shall cling all day,
Still giving life, unceasingly.
Beneath the clear unclouded sky
All quiet and still the islands lie,
Like monsters of the deep, couchant;
And farther out is cool Nahant,
A finger pointing the sea aslant;
The light-house top, and Nix's Mate,
And tall ships moving by in state,
With top-sails and top-gallants bent
To catch each wandering breeze that's sent;
Some, just come in from Labrador,
Sweep by with the nod of an emperor;
And some are there, have dipped their spars
In waters that flash back of stars
A sky-full from each wave that swells
Its mounting crest in the Dardanelles;
Some, that have iced them at Cape Horn;
And some dash in, with topsails torn
In some such trifling matter as
A rough-and-tumble at Hatteras;
And some, still warm from southern seas
And cotton bags, hail out, 'Balize;'
A long procession, dashing on,
Like the march of men to a clarion.
They may do these things in Italy
In a different way; but enough for me
The off-hand manner, the tone, the style,
The 'keeping' of all, and the glorious smile
Of earth and air, and sky and sea,
So gayly decked and brilliantly;
Why, Heaven has left a door ajar
This side the world, to show how fair
May be a land, and sky, and air,
Where bold and free are 'heart and hand'—
And such is this, our glorious land!
Beside, your Greece and Rome, and all
Who hold themselves so beautiful,
Have no such charming mists as these,
No climate changing with each breeze;
And nothing to compare, in the least,
With a Boston storm, No'th-East by East.