I hear in the chamber above me The sound of a door that is opened, From my study I see in the lamplight, A whisper and then a silence; Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall, By three doors left unguarded, They enter my castle wall. They climb up into my turret, O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me : They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine. Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, I have you fast in my fortress, In the round-tower of my heart. And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away. H. W. LONGFELLOW. JENNY KISSED ME. JENNY kissed me when we met, Say that health and wealth have missed me; LEIGH HUNT. I FEAR THY KISSES, GENTLE MAIDEN. I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden; I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion; P. B. SHELLEY. THE SMACK IN SCHOOL. A DISTRICT School, not far away, When suddenly, behind his back, As 't were a battery of bliss Let off in one tremendous kiss! "What's that?" the startled master cries; "That, thir," a little imp replies, "Wath William Willith, if you pleathe, I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe!" With frown to make a statue thrill, With stolen chattels on his back, Be guilty of an act so rude! Before the whole set school to boot - I know boo-hoo-I ought to not, OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT. OLD Master Brown brought his ferule down, Then Anthony Blair, with a mortified air, Took his penitent seat by the maiden sweet For he peeped at the girls with the beautiful curls, ANONYMOUS. THE BAREFOOT BOY. BLESSINGS 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 Let the million-dollared ride! O for boyhood's painless play, Sleep 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 shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans ! O for boyhood's time of June, Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Still as my horizon grew, - 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 : Quick and treacherous sands of sin. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. BOYHOOD. AH, then how sweetly closed those crowded days! The minutes parting one by one like rays, That fade upon a summer's eve. But O, what charm or magic numbers Can give me back the gentle slumbers Those weary, happy days did leave? When by my bed I saw my mother kneel, And with her blessing took her nightly kiss; Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this; E'en now that nameless kiss I feel. WASHINGTON ALLSTON. IT NEVER COMES AGAIN. THERE are gains for all our losses, There are balms for all our pain, But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again.. We are stronger, and are better, Under manhood's sterner reign; Something beautiful is vanished, RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. The greenest grasses Nature laid To sanctify her right. Adventurous joy it was for me! I crept beneath the boughs and found A circle smooth of mossy ground Beneath a poplar-tree. Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, To me upon my mossy seat, And gladdest hours for me did glide Nor he nor I did e'er incline To peck or pluck the blossoms white. How should I know but roses might Lead lives as glad as mine? My childhood from my life is parted, Another thrush may there rehearse ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. THE DESERTED GARDEN. I MIND me in the days departed, How often underneath the sun With childish bounds I used to run To a garden long deserted. The beds and walks were vanished quite; And wheresoe'er had struck the spade, THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my child. hood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; — The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; | And I almost worshipped her when she smiled, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, Ande'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing! And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And now, far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. SAMUEL WOODWORTH. THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. I LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it with sighs. 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart; Not a tie will break, not a link will start; Would you know the spell ?-a mother sat there! And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. In childhood's hour I lingered near I sat, and watched her many a day, When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray; - And turned from her Bible to bless her child. Tis past, 't is past! but I gaze on it now, ELIZA COOK WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. WOODMAN, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not! That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea, And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties; O, spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies! When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy Here too my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my handForgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand! My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend, Old tree the storm still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save, Thy axe shall hurt it not. GEORGE P. MORRIS |