LITMIR.BIZ

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READERS

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      NAY, blame me not; I might have spared

       Your patience many a trivial verse,

       Yet these my earlier welcome shared,

       So, let the better shield the worse.

      And some might say, "Those ruder songs

       Had freshness which the new have lost;

       To spring the opening leaf belongs,

       The chestnut-burs await the frost."

      When those I wrote, my locks were brown,

       When these I write—ah, well a-day!

       The autumn thistle's silvery down

       Is not the purple bloom of May.

      Go, little book, whose pages hold

       Those garnered years in loving trust;

       How long before your blue and gold

       Shall fade and whiten in the dust?

      O sexton of the alcoved tomb,

       Where souls in leathern cerements lie,

       Tell me each living poet's doom!

       How long before his book shall die?

      It matters little, soon or late,

       A day, a month, a year, an age—

       I read oblivion in its date,

       And Finis on its title-page.

      Before we sighed, our griefs were told;

       Before we smiled, our joys were sung;

       And all our passions shaped of old

       In accents lost to mortal tongue.

      In vain a fresher mould we seek—

       Can all the varied phrases tell

       That Babel's wandering children speak

       How thrushes sing or lilacs smell?

      Caged in the poet's lonely heart,

       Love wastes unheard its tenderest tone;

       The soul that sings must dwell apart,

       Its inward melodies unknown.

      Deal gently with us, ye who read

       Our largest hope is unfulfilled—

       The promise still outruns the deed—

       The tower, but not the spire, we build.

      Our whitest pearl we never find;

       Our ripest fruit we never reach;

       The flowering moments of the mind

       Drop half their petals in our speech.

      These are my blossoms; if they wear

       One streak of morn or evening's glow,

       Accept them; but to me more fair

       The buds of song that never blow.

       April 8, 1862.

EARLIER POEMS

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      1830–1836 OLD IRONSIDES

      This was the popular name by which the frigate Constitution was known. The poem was first printed in the Boston Daily Advertiser, at the time when it was proposed to break up the old ship as unfit for service. I subjoin the paragraph which led to the writing of the poem. It is from the Advertiser of Tuesday, September 14, 1830:—

      "Old Ironsides.—It has been affirmed upon good authority that the Secretary of the Navy has recommended to the Board of Navy Commissioners to dispose of the frigate Constitution. Since it has been understood that such a step was in contemplation we have heard but one opinion expressed, and that in decided disapprobation of the measure. Such a national object of interest, so endeared to our national pride as Old Ironsides is, should never by any act of our government cease to belong to the Navy, so long as our country is to be found upon the map of nations. In England it was lately determined by the Admiralty to cut the Victory, a one-hundred gun ship (which it will be recollected bore the flag of Lord Nelson at the battle of Trafalgar,) down to a seventy-four, but so loud were the lamentations of the people upon the proposed measure that the intention was abandoned. We confidently anticipate that the Secretary of the Navy will in like manner consult the general wish in regard to the Constitution, and either let her remain in ordinary or rebuild her whenever the public service may require."—New York Journal of Commerce.

      The poem was an impromptu outburst of feeling and was published on the next day but one after reading the above paragraph.

      AY, tear her tattered ensign down

       Long has it waved on high,

       And many an eye has danced to see

       That banner in the sky;

       Beneath it rung the battle shout,

       And burst the cannon's roar;—

       The meteor of the ocean air

       Shall sweep the clouds no more.

      Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,

       Where knelt the vanquished foe,

       When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,

       And waves were white below,

       No more shall feel the victor's tread,

       Or know the conquered knee;—

       The harpies of the shore shall pluck

       The eagle of the sea!

      Oh better that her shattered hulk

       Should sink beneath the wave;

       Her thunders shook the mighty deep,

       And there should be her grave;

       Nail to the mast her holy flag,

       Set every threadbare sail,

       And give her to the god of storms,

       The lightning and the gale!

THE LAST LEAF

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      This poem was suggested by the appearance in one of our streets of a venerable relic of the Revolution, said to be one of the party who threw the tea overboard in Boston Harbor. He was a fine monumental specimen in his cocked hat and knee breeches, with his buckled shoes and his sturdy cane. The smile with which I, as a young man, greeted him, meant no disrespect to an honored fellow-citizen whose costume was out of date, but whose patriotism never changed with years. I do not recall any earlier example of this form of verse, which was commended by the fastidious Edgar Allan Poe, who made a copy of the whole poem which I have in his own handwriting. Good Abraham Lincoln had a great liking for the poem, and repeated it from memory to Governor Andrew, as the governor himself told me.

      I SAW him once before,

       As he passed by the door,

       And again

       The pavement stones resound,

       As he totters o'er the ground

       With his cane.

      They say that in his prime,

       Ere the pruning-knife of Time

       Cut him down,

       Not a better man was found

       By the Crier on his round

      

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