LITMIR.BIZ

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a little Indian by,

       As brown as any bun;)

       Lord! how the seniors knocked about

       The freshman class 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.

      God 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 shell

       The British found so rough!

THE ISLAND HUNTING-SONG

       Table of Contents

      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 shore,

       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 noble Robin Hood.

DEPARTED DAYS

       Table of Contents

      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 shore

       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

       Table of Contents

      ILLUSTRATION 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,

      

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