Come out from your alleys, your courts, and your lanes,
And breathe, like your eagles, the air of our plains;
Take a whiff from our fields, and your excellent wives
Will declare 'tis 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 round-about 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 bandanas 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 around 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 by its side had the flavor of birch:
O, such 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,
With a glow in his heart, and a cold in his head.
'Tis past,--he is dreaming-I see him again;
The ledger returns as by legerdemain ;
His mustache is damp with an easterly flaw,
And he holds in his fingers an omnibus straw.
He dreams the chill gust is a blossoming gale,
That the straw is a rose from his dear native vale;
And murmurs, unconscious of space and of time,
"A 1.-Extra super.--Ah, is n't it prime!
O, what are the prizes we perish to win,
To the first little "shiner" we caught with a pin!
No soil upon earth is so dear to our eyes
As the soil we first stirred in terrestrial pies!
Then come from all parties, and parts, to our feast;
Though not at the "Astor," we 'll give you at least
A bite at an apple, a seat on the grass,
And the best of old-water-at nothing a glass.
Ex. CVIII.-HIAWATHA'S DEPARTURE.
HEAVY with heat and silence
Grew the afternoon of summer;
With a drowsy sound the forest
Whispered round the sultry wigwam,
With a sound of sleep the water
Rippled on the beach below it:
From the corn-fields shrill and ceaseless
Sang the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena;
And the guests of Hiawatha,*
Weary with the heat of summer,
Slumbered in the sultry wigwam.
Slowly o'er the simmering landscape
Fell the evening's dusk and coolness,
And the long and level sunbeams
Shot their spears into the forest,
Breaking through its shields of shadow,
Rushed into each secret ambush,
Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow;
Still the guests of Hiawatha
Slumbered in the silent wigwam.
From his place rose Hiawatha,
Bade farewell to old Nokomis,
Spake in whispers, spake in this wise,
Did not wake the guests, that slumbered:
"I am going, O Nokomis,
On a long and distant journey,
To the portals of the sunset,
To the regions of the home-wind,
Of the northwest wind, Keewaydin.
But these guests I leave behind me,
In your watch and ward I leave them;
See that never harm comes near them,
See that never fear molests them,
Never danger nor suspicion,
Never want of food or shelter,
In the lodge of Hiawatha !"
Forth into the village went he,
Bade farewell to all the warriors,
Bade farewell to all the young men,
Spake persuading, spake in this wise:
"I am going, O my people,
On a long and distant journey;
Many moons and many winters
Will have come, and will have vanished,
Ere I come again to see you.
But my guests I leave behind me;
Listen to their words of wisdom,
Listen to the truth they tell you,
For the Master of Life has sent them
From the land of light and morning!"
On the shore stood Hiawatha,
Turned and waved his hand at parting;
On the clear and luminous water
Launched his birch canoe for sailing,
From the pebbles of the margin,
Shoved it forth into the water;
Whispered to it "Westward, westward!"
And with speed it darted forward.
And the evening sun descending
Set the clouds on fire with redness,
Burned the broad sky, like a prairie,
Left upon the level water
One long track and trail of splendor,
Down whose stream, as down a river,
Westward, westward, Hiawatha
Sailed into the fiery sunset,
Sailed into the purple vapors,
Sailed into the dusk of evening.
And the people from the margin
Watched him floating, rising, sinking,
Till the birch canoe seemed lifted
High into that sea of splendor,
Till it sank into the vapors
Like the new moon, slowly, slowly
Sinking in the purple distance.
And they said, "Farewell for ever!"
Said, "Farewell, O Hiawatha !"
And the forests, dark and lonely,
Moved through all their depths of darkness,
Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
And the waves upon the margin
Rising, rippling on the pebbles,
Sobbed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha !"
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
From her haunts among the fen-lands,
Screamed, "Farewell, Ŏ Hiawatha!"
Thus departed Hiawatha,
Hiawatha the beloved,
In the glory of the sunset,
In the purple mists of evening,
To the regions of the home-wind,
Of the northwest wind, Keewaydin,
To the islands of the blessed,
To the kingdom of Ponemah,
To the land of the hereafter!
Ex. CIX.-PARRHASIUS AND THE CAPTIVE.
And not a sound was heard but of a dog
Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone,
Or the dull echo from the pavement rung,
As the faint captive changed his weary feet.
'Twas evening, and the half-descended sun
Tipped with a golden fire the many domes
Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere
Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street,
Through which the captive gazed.
The golden light into the painter's room
Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole
From the dark pictures radiantly forth,
And in the soft and dewy atmosphere,
Like forms and landscapes, magical they lay.
Parrhasius stood, gazing, forgetfully,
Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus,
The vulture at his vitals, and the links
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh;
And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim,
Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth
With its far-reaching fancy, and with form
And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye
Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip
Were like the wingéd god's, breathing from his flight.
"Bring me the captive now!
My hands feel skillful, and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit airily and swift,
And I could paint the bow
Upon the bended heavens; around me play
Colors of such divinity to-day.
"Ha! bind him on his back!
Look! as Prometheus in my picture here!
Quick! or he faints! stand with the cordial near!
Now-bend him on the rack!
Press down the poisoned links into his flesh!
And tear agape that healing wound afresh!
"So, let him writhe! How long
Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now!
What a fine agony works upon his brow!
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