And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finish'd the one-hoss shay.
Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always somewhere a weakest spot,-
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring, or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, lurking still:
Find it somewhere you must and will,-
Above or below, or within or without,—
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.
But the Deacon swore, (as deacons do,
With an
"I dew vum," or an
I tell yeou,")
He would build one shay to beat the town
'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
It should be so built that it couldn' break daown :
"Fur "said the Deacon-"'t's mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest.”
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,—
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees ;
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the "Settlers' ellum"-
Last of its timber, they couldn't sell 'em,-
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he put her through."
"There!" said the Deacon-" naow she'll dew!"
I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beasts turn'd gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropp'd away,
Children and grandchildren-where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED,-it came and found
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound;
Eighteen hundred increased by ten,-
"Hahnsum kerridge" they call'd it then;
Eighteen hundred and twenty came,—
Running as usual, much the same;
Thirty and forty at last arrive;
And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it! You're welcome. No extra charge.)
FIRST OF NOVEMBER, the Earthquake-day,—
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavour of mild decay,
But nothing local as one may say.
There couldn't be,-for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less nor more,
And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub encore.
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!
First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys! get out of the way:
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tail'd, ewe-neck'd bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson ;-off went they.
The parson was working his Sunday's text,-
Had got to fifthly, and stopp'd perplex'd
At what the Moses-was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.
-First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,-
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,—
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
-What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,—
All at once, and nothing first,-
Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.
BEHOLD the rocky wall
That down its sloping sides
Pours the swift rain-drops, blending, as they fall,
In rushing river-tides!
Yon stream, whose sources run
Turn'd by a pebble's edge,
Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun
Through the cleft mountain-ledge.
The slender rill had stray'd,
But for the slanting stone,
To evening's ocean, with the tangled braid
Of foam-fleck'd Oregon.
So from the heights of Will
Life's parting stream descends,
And, as a moment turns its slender rill,
Each widening torrent bends,—
From the same cradle's side,
From the same mother's knee,—
One to long darkness and the frozen tide,
One to the Peaceful Sea!
HERE! Sweep these foolish leaves away;
I will not crush my brains to-day!
Look! are the southern curtains drawn?
Fetch me a fan, and so begone!
Not that the palm-tree's rustling leaf
Brought from a parching coral-reef!
Its breath is heated;-I would swing
The broad gray plumes,—the eagle's wing.
I hate these roses' feverish blood!
Pluck me a half-blown lily-bud,
A long-stemm'd lily from the lake,
Cold as a coiling water-snake!
Rain me sweet odours on the air,
And wheel me up my Indian chair,
And spread some book not overwise
Flat out before my sleepy eyes!
Who knows it not-this dead recoil
Of weary fibres stretch'd with toil,
The pulse that flutters faint and low
When summer's seething breezes blow?
O Nature! bare thy loving breast,
And give thy child one hour of rest,—
One little hour to lie unseen
Beneath thy scarf of leafy green!
So, curtain'd by a singing pine,
Its murmuring voice shall blend with mine,
Till, lost in dreams, my faltering lay
In sweeter music dies away.
THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.
THIS is the ship of pearl, which-poets feign-
Sails the unshadow'd main,
The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
Wreck'd is the ship of pearl!
And every chamber'd cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies reveal'd,-
Its iris'd ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unseal'd!
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