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-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
“Huddup!” said the parson.-Off went they.

The parson was working his Sunday's text,—
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
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.

The Living Temple

Not in the world of light alone,
Where God has built his blazing throne,

Nor yet alone in earth below,

With belted seas that come and go,
And endless isles of sunlit green,
Is all thy Maker's glory seen:
Look in upon thy wondrous frame,—
Eternal wisdom still the same!

The smooth, soft air with pulse-like waves
Flows murmuring through its hidden caves,
Whose streams of brightening purple rush,
Fired with a new and livelier blush,

While all their burden of decay
The ebbing current steals away,

And red with Nature's flame they start
From the warm fountains of the heart.

No rest that throbbing slave may ask,
Forever quivering o'er his task,
While far and wide a crimson jet
Leaps forth to fill the woven net
Which in unnumbered crossing tides
The flood of burning life divides,
Then, kindling each decaying part,
Creeps back to find the throbbing heart.

But warmed with that unchanging flame
Behold the outward moving frame,
Its living marbles jointed strong
With glistening band and silvery thong,
And linked to reason's guiding reins
By myriad rings in trembling chains,
Each graven with the threaded zone
Which claims it as the master's own.

See how yon beam of seeming white
Is braided out of seven-hued light,
Yet in those lucid globes no ray
By any chance shall break astray.
Hark how the rolling surge of sound,
Arches and spirals circling round,

Wakes the hushed spirit through thine ear
With music it is heaven to hear.

Then mark the cloven sphere that holds
All thought in its mysterious folds;
That feels sensation's faintest thrill,
And flashes forth the sovereign will;
Think on the stormy world that dwells
Locked in its dim and clustering cells!
The lightning gleams of power it sheds
Along its hollow glassy threads!

O Father! grant thy love divine
To make these mystic temples thine!
When wasting age and wearying strife
Have sapped the leaning walls of life,
When darkness gathers over all,
And the last tottering pillars fall,
Take the poor dust thy mercy warms,
And mould it into heavenly forms!

The Chambered Nautilus

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sails the unshadowed 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;
Wrecked is the ship of pearl!

And every chambered cell,

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies revealed,-

Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil

That spread his lustrous coil;

Still, as the spiral grew,

He left the past year's dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
Built up its idle door,

Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no

more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,

Child of the wandering sea,

Cast from her lap, forlorn!

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born

Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!

While on mine ear it rings,

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,

As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past!

Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

ALBERT PIKE (1809-1891)

Dixie

I wish I was in de land ob cotton,
Old times dar am not forgotten;

Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land! In Dixie land whar I was born in,

Early on one frosty mornin',

Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!

Chorus-Den I wish I was in Dixie! Hooray! Hooray! In Dixie's land we'll took our stand, to lib

an' die in Dixie,

Away, away, away down south in Dixie!
Away, away, away down south in Dixie!

Old missus marry Will de weaber,
William was a gay deceaber,

When he put his arm around 'er,

He looked as fierce as a forty-pounder.

His face was sharp as a butcher cleaber,
But dat did not seem to greab 'er;
Will run away, missus took a decline, O
Her face was the color of bacon rhine, O.

While missus libbed, she libbed in clover,
When she died, she died all over;

How could she act de foolish part,
An' marry a man to break her heart?

FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD (1811-1850)
To Sleep

Come to me, angel of the weary hearted!

Since they my loved ones, breathed upon by thee, Unto thy realms unreal have departed,

I too may rest-even I: ah! haste to me.

I dare not bid thy darker, colder brother
With his more welcome offering appear,

For those sweet lips at morn will murmur, "Mother,"
And who shall soothe them if I be not near?

Bring me no dream, dear Sleep, though visions glowing With hues of heaven thy wand enchanted shows;

I ask no glorious boon of thy bestowing,

Save that most true, most beautiful,-repose.

I have no heart to roam in realms of Faery,
To follow Fancy at her elfin call:

I am too wretched-too soul-worn and weary;
Give me but rest, for rest to me is all.

Paint not the Future to my fainting spirit,

Though it were starred with glory like the skies; There is no gift immortals may inherit,

That could rekindle hope in these cold eyes.

And for the Past-the fearful Past-ah! never
Be Memory's downcast gaze unveiled by thee:
Would thou couldst bring oblivion forever
Of all that is, that has been, and will be!

ROBERT HINCKLEY MESSINGER (1811-1874)

A Winter Wish

Old wine to drink!

Ay, give the slippery juice

That drippeth from the grape thrown loose

Within the tun;

Plucked from beneath the cliff
Of sunny-sided Teneriffe,

And ripened 'neath the blink
Of India's sun!

Tempered with well-boiled water!
Peat whiskey hot,

These make the long night shorter,

Forgetting not

Good stout old English porter.

Old wood to burn!

Ay, bring the hill-side beech

From where the owlets meet and screech,

And ravens croak;

The crackling pine, and cedar sweet;
Bring too a clump of fragrant peat,

Dug 'neath the fern;

The knotted oak,

A fagot, too, perhaps,

Whose bright flame, dancing, winking,
Shall light us at our drinking;

While the oozing sap

Shall make sweet music to our thinking.

Old books to read!

Ay, bring those nodes of wit,