Watchin' Jim on dress-parade;
'Tel finally he rid away,
And last he heerd was the old man say,—
"Well, good-by, Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"
Tuk the papers, the old man did,
A-watchin' fer Jim,
Fully believin' he'd make his mark
Some way-jes' wrapped up in him!
And many a time the word 'ud come
'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum:
At Petersburg, fer instunce, where
Jim rid right into their cannons there,
And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t'other way,
And socked it home to the boys in gray,
As they skooted fer timber, and on and on-
Jim a lieutenant, and one arm gone,-
And the old man's words in his mind all day,-
"Well, good-by, Jim:
Think of a private, now, perhaps,
We'll say like Jim,
'At's clumb clean up to the shoulder-straps-
And the old man jes' wrapped up in him!
Think of him-with the war plum' through,
And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue
A-laughin' the news down over Jim,
And the old man, bendin' over him—
The surgeon turnin' away with tears
'At hadn't leaked fer years and years,
As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to
His Father's, the old voice in his ears,-
"Well, good-by, Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"
8. Samuel Minturn Peck (1854of letters. His poems are very popular.
MY LITTLE GIRL
My little girl is nested
Within her tiny bed,
With amber ringlets crested
Around her dainty head;
She lies so calm and stilly,
She breathes so soft and low,
She calls to mind a lily
Half-hidden in the snow.
A weary little mortal
Has gone to slumberland;
The Pixies at the portal
Have caught her by the hand.
She dreams her broken dolly
Will soon be mended there,
That looks so melancholy
Upon the rocking-chair.
I kiss your wayward tresses,
My drowsy little queen;
I know you have caresses
From floating forms unseen.
O, Angels, let me keep her
To kiss away my cares,
This darling little sleeper,
Who has my love and prayers.
9. Edith Thomas (1854- ) is a writer of note, living in New York City. Stedman says: "Her place is secure among the truest living poets of our English tongue.'
There was a rover from a western shore,
England! whose eyes the sudden tears did drown,
Beholding the white cliff and sunny down
Of thy good realm, beyond the sea's uproar.
I, for a moment, dreamed that, long before,
I had beheld them thus, when, with the frown
Of sovereignty, the victor's palm and crown
Thou from the tilting-field of nations bore.
Thy prowess and thy glory dazzled first;
But when in fields I saw the tender flame
Of primroses, and full-fleeced lambs at play,
Meseemed I at thy breast, like these, was nursed;
Then mother-Mother England! home I came,
Like one who hath been all too long away!
As nestling at thy feet in peace I lay,
A thought awoke and restless stirred in me:
"My land and congeners are beyond the sea,
Theirs is the morning and the evening day,
Wilt thou give ear while this of them I say:
'Haughty art thou, and they are bold and free,
As well befits who have descent from thee,
And who have trodden brave the forlorn way.
Children of thine, but grown to strong estate;
Nor scorn from thee would they be slow to pay,
Nor check from thee submissly would they bear;
Yet, Mother England! yet their hearts are great,
And if for thee should dawn some darkest day
At cry of thine how proudly would they dare!""
There may be canker at the rose's core,
An arrow through the summer darkness flying—
A poisoned breath in the green leaves' low sighing,
And bane from Trebizond our bees may store;
And thou, whose face makes sunshine at my door-
How know I but those sweetest lips be lying,
And in their perjuries thine eyes complying,
What time they say, "Trust us forevermore?"
But no! beneath what seems I'll not be prying,
Not though the rose have canker at its core-
My love, not though thy sweetest lips be lying!
To doubt, were to receive some wounding score
Each hour each day and morrow to be dying;
To Death I yield, but not to Doubt, who slays before!
10. Henry Cuyler Bunner (1855-1896) was for a long time editor of Puck. His poems are full of wit and humor, and his short stories are clever reflections of real life.
THE WAY TO ARCADY
Oh, what's the way to Arcady,
To Arcady, to Arcady;
Oh, what's the way to Arcady,
Where all the leaves are merry?
Oh, what's the way to Arcady?
The spring is rustling in the tree,—
The tree the wind is blowing through,-
It sets the blossoms flickering white.
I knew not skies could burn so blue
Nor any breezes blow so light.
They blow an old-time way for me,
Across the world to Arcady.
Oh, what's the way to Arcady?
Sir Poet, with the rusty coat,
Quit mocking of the song-bird's note.
How have you heart for any tune,
You with the wayworn russet shoon?
Your scrip, a-swinging by your side,
Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide.
I'll brim it well with pieces red,
If you will tell the way to tread.
Oh, I am bound for Arcady,
And if you but keep pace with me
You tread the way to Arcady.
|