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I wandered like a wearied slave

       Whose morning task is done,

       To watch the little hands that gave

       Their whiteness to the sun;

       To revel in the bright young eyes,

       Whose lustre sparkled through

       The sable fringe of Southern skies

       Or gleamed in Saxon blue!

       How oft I heard another's name

       Called in some truant's tone;

       Sweet accents! which I longed to claim,

       To learn and lisp my own!

      Too soon the gentle hands, that pressed

       The ringlets of the child,

       Are folded on the faithful breast

       Where first he breathed and smiled;

       Too oft the clinging arms untwine,

       The melting lips forget,

       And darkness veils the bridal shrine

       Where wreaths and torches met;

       If Heaven but leaves a single thread

       Of Hope's dissolving chain,

       Even when her parting plumes are spread,

       It bids them fold again;

       The cradle rocks beside the tomb;

       The cheek now changed and chill

       Smiles on us in the morning bloom

       Of one that loves us still.

      Sweet image! I have done thee wrong

       To claim this destined lay;

       The leaf that asked an idle song

       Must bear my tears away.

       Yet, in thy memory shouldst thou keep

       This else forgotten strain,

       Till years have taught thine eyes to weep,

       And flattery's voice is vain;

       Oh then, thou fledgling of the nest,

       Like the long-wandering dove,

       Thy weary heart may faint for rest,

       As mine, on changeless love;

       And while these sculptured lines retrace

       The hours now dancing by,

       This vision of thy girlish grace

       May cost thee, too, a sigh.

SONG

       Table of Contents

      WRITTEN FOR THE DINNER GIVEN TO CHARLES DICKENS BY THE YOUNG MEN OF BOSTON, FEBRUARY 1, 1842

      THE stars their early vigils keep,

       The silent hours are near,

       When drooping eyes forget to weep—

       Yet still we linger here;

       And what—the passing churl may ask—

       Can claim such wondrous power,

       That Toil forgets his wonted task,

       And Love his promised hour?

      The Irish harp no longer thrills,

       Or breathes a fainter tone;

       The clarion blast from Scotland's hills,

       Alas! no more is blown;

       And Passion's burning lip bewails

       Her Harold's wasted fire,

       Still lingering o'er the dust that veils

       The Lord of England's lyre.

      But grieve not o'er its broken strings,

       Nor think its soul hath died,

       While yet the lark at heaven's gate sings,

       As once o'er Avon's side;

       While gentle summer sheds her bloom,

       And dewy blossoms wave,

       Alike o'er Juliet's storied tomb

       And Nelly's nameless grave.

      Thou glorious island of the sea!

       Though wide the wasting flood

       That parts our distant land from thee,

       We claim thy generous blood;

       Nor o'er thy far horizon springs

       One hallowed star of fame,

       But kindles, like an angel's wings,

       Our western skies in flame!

LINES

       Table of Contents

      RECITED AT THE BERKSHIRE JUBILEE, PITTSFIELD, MASS., AUGUST 23, 1844

      COME back to your mother, ye children, for shame,

       Who have wandered like truants for riches or fame!

       With a smile on her face, and a sprig in her cap,

       She calls you to feast from her bountiful lap.

      Come out from your alleys, your courts, and your lanes,

       And breathe, like young eagles, the air of our plains;

       Take a whiff from our fields, and your excellent wives

       Will declare it 's all nonsense insuring your lives.

      Come you of the law, who can talk, if you please,

       Till the man in the moon will allow it's a cheese,

       And leave "the old lady, that never tells lies,"

       To sleep with her handkerchief over her eyes.

      Ye healers of men, for a moment decline

       Your feats in the rhubarb and ipecac line;

       While you shut up your turnpike, your neighbors can go

       The old roundabout road to the regions below.

      You clerk, on whose ears are a couple of pens,

       And whose head is an ant-hill of units and tens,

       Though Plato denies you, we welcome you still

       As a featherless biped, in spite of your quill.

      Poor drudge of the city! how happy he feels,

       With the burs on his legs and the grass at his heels

       No dodger behind, his bandannas to share,

       No constable grumbling, "You must n't walk there!"

      In yonder green meadow, to memory dear,

       He slaps a mosquito and brushes a tear;

       The dew-drops hang round him on blossoms and shoots,

       He breathes but one sigh for his youth and his boots.

      There stands the old school-house, hard by the old church;

       That tree at its side had the flavor of birch;

       Oh, sweet were the days of his juvenile tricks,

       Though the prairie of youth had so many "big licks."

      By the side of yon river he weeps and he slumps,

       The boots fill with water, as if they were pumps,

       Till, sated with rapture, he steals to his bed,

      

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