A SONG

FOR THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF HARVARD COLLEGE, 1836

This song, which I had the temerity to sing myself (_felix auda-cia_, Mr. Franklin Dexter had the goodness to call it), was sent in a little too late to be printed with the official account of the celebration. It was written at the suggestion of Dr. Jacob Bigelow, who thought the popular tune "The Poacher's Song" would be a good model for a lively ballad or ditty. He himself wrote the admirable Latin song to be found in the record of the meeting.

WHEN the Puritans came over Our hills and swamps to clear, The woods were full of catamounts, And Indians red as deer, With tomahawks and scalping-knives, That make folks' heads look queer; Oh the ship from England used to bring A hundred wigs a year!

The crows came cawing through the air To pluck the Pilgrims' corn, The bears came snuffing round the door Whene'er a babe was born, The rattlesnakes were bigger round Than the but of the old rams horn The deacon blew at meeting time On every "Sabbath" morn.

But soon they knocked the wigwams down, And pine-tree trunk and limb Began to sprout among the leaves In shape of steeples slim; And out the little wharves were stretched Along the ocean's rim, And up the little school-house shot To keep the boys in trim.

And when at length the College rose, The sachem c.o.c.ked his eye At every tutor's meagre ribs Whose coat-tails whistled by But when the Greek and Hebrew words Came tumbling from his jaws, The copper-colored children all Ran screaming to the squaws.

And who was on the Catalogue When college was begun?

Two nephews of the President, And the Professor's son; (They turned a little Indian by, As brown as any bun;) Lord! how the seniors knocked about The freshman cla.s.s of one!

They had not then the dainty things That commons now afford, But succotash and hominy Were smoking on the board; They did not rattle round in gigs, Or dash in long-tailed blues, But always on Commencement days The tutors blacked their shoes.

G.o.d bless the ancient Puritans!

Their lot was hard enough; But honest hearts make iron arms, And tender maids are tough; So love and faith have formed and fed Our true-born Yankee stuff, And keep the kernel in the sh.e.l.l The British found so rough!

THE ISLAND HUNTING-SONG

The island referred to is a domain of princely proportions, which has long been the seat of a generous hospitality. Naushon is its old Indian name. William Swain, Esq., commonly known as "the Governor," was the proprietor of it at the time when this song was written. Mr. John M.

Forbes is his worthy successor in territorial rights and as a hospitable entertainer. The Island Book has been the recipient of many poems from visitors and friends of the owners of the old mansion.

No more the summer floweret charms, The leaves will soon be sere, And Autumn folds his jewelled arms Around the dying year; So, ere the waning seasons claim Our leafless groves awhile, With golden wine and glowing flame We 'll crown our lonely isle.

Once more the merry voices sound Within the antlered hall, And long and loud the baying hounds Return the hunter's call; And through the woods, and o'er the hill, And far along the bay, The driver's horn is sounding shrill,-- Up, sportsmen, and away!

No bars of steel or walls of stone Our little empire bound, But, circling with his azure zone, The sea runs foaming round; The whitening wave, the purpled skies, The blue and lifted sh.o.r.e, Braid with their dim and blending dyes Our wide horizon o'er.

And who will leave the grave debate That shakes the smoky town, To rule amid our island-state, And wear our oak-leaf crown?

And who will be awhile content To hunt our woodland game, And leave the vulgar pack that scent The reeking track of fame?

Ah, who that shares in toils like these Will sigh not to prolong Our days beneath the broad-leaved trees, Our nights of mirth and song?

Then leave the dust of noisy streets, Ye outlaws of the wood, And follow through his green retreats Your n.o.ble Robin Hood.

DEPARTED DAYS

YES, dear departed, cherished days, Could Memory's hand restore Your morning light, your evening rays, From Time's gray urn once more, Then might this restless heart be still, This straining eye might close, And Hope her fainting pinions fold, While the fair phantoms rose.

But, like a child in ocean's arms, We strive against the stream, Each moment farther from the sh.o.r.e Where life's young fountains gleam; Each moment fainter wave the fields, And wider rolls the sea; The mist grows dark,--the sun goes down,-- Day breaks,--and where are we?

THE ONLY DAUGHTER

ILl.u.s.tRATION OF A PICTURE

THEY bid me strike the idle strings, As if my summer days Had shaken sunbeams from their wings To warm my autumn lays; They bring to me their painted urn, As if it were not time To lift my gauntlet and to spurn The lists of boyish rhyme; And were it not that I have still Some weakness in my heart That clings around my stronger will And pleads for gentler art, Perchance I had not turned away The thoughts grown tame with toil, To cheat this lone and pallid ray, That wastes the midnight oil.

Alas! with every year I feel Some roses leave my brow; Too young for wisdom's tardy seal, Too old for garlands now.

Yet, while the dewy breath of spring Steals o'er the tingling air, And spreads and fans each emerald wing The forest soon shall wear.

How bright the opening year would seem, Had I one look like thine To meet me when the morning beam Unseals these lids of mine!

Too long I bear this lonely lot, That bids my heart run wild To press the lips that love me not, To clasp the stranger's child.

How oft beyond the dashing seas, Amidst those royal bowers, Where danced the lilacs in the breeze, And swung the chestnut-flowers, I wandered like a wearied slave Whose morning task is done, To watch the little hands that gave Their whiteness to the sun; To revel in the bright young eyes, Whose l.u.s.tre sparkled through The sable fringe of Southern skies Or gleamed in Saxon blue!

How oft I heard another's name Called in some truant's tone; Sweet accents! which I longed to claim, To learn and lisp my own!

Too soon the gentle hands, that pressed The ringlets of the child, Are folded on the faithful breast Where first he breathed and smiled; Too oft the clinging arms untwine, The melting lips forget, And darkness veils the bridal shrine Where wreaths and torches met; If Heaven but leaves a single thread Of Hope's dissolving chain, Even when her parting plumes are spread, It bids them fold again; The cradle rocks beside the tomb; The cheek now changed and chill Smiles on us in the morning bloom Of one that loves us still.

Sweet image! I have done thee wrong To claim this destined lay; The leaf that asked an idle song Must bear my tears away.

Yet, in thy memory shouldst thou keep This else forgotten strain, Till years have taught thine eyes to weep, And flattery's voice is vain; Oh then, thou fledgling of the nest, Like the long-wandering dove, Thy weary heart may faint for rest, As mine, on changeless love; And while these sculptured lines retrace The hours now dancing by, This vision of thy girlish grace May cost thee, too, a sigh.

SONG

WRITTEN FOR THE DINNER GIVEN TO CHARLES d.i.c.kENS BY THE YOUNG MEN OF BOSTON, FEBRUARY 1, 1842

THE stars their early vigils keep, The silent hours are near, When drooping eyes forget to weep,-- Yet still we linger here; And what--the pa.s.sing churl may ask-- Can claim such wondrous power, That Toil forgets his wonted task, And Love his promised hour?

The Irish harp no longer thrills, Or breathes a fainter tone; The clarion blast from Scotland's hills, Alas! no more is blown; And Pa.s.sion's burning lip bewails Her Harold's wasted fire, Still lingering o'er the dust that veils The Lord of England's lyre.

But grieve not o'er its broken strings, Nor think its soul hath died, While yet the lark at heaven's gate sings, As once o'er Avon's side; While gentle summer sheds her bloom, And dewy blossoms wave, Alike o'er Juliet's storied tomb And Nelly's nameless grave.

Thou glorious island of the sea!

Though wide the wasting flood That parts our distant land from thee, We claim thy generous blood; Nor o'er thy far horizon springs One hallowed star of fame, But kindles, like an angel's wings, Our western skies in flame!

LINES

RECITED AT THE BERKSHIRE JUBILEE, PITTSFIELD, Ma.s.s., AUGUST 23, 1844