I was gone the live-long day.
No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing; Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels; God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood around her flowing, How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet house-hold feels! In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was the stumping Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on that wooden leg he wore, With a knot of women round him,-it was lucky I had found him, So I followed with the others, and the Corporal marched before.
They were making for the steeple,--the old soldier and his people; The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair.
Just across the narrow river--oh, so close it made me shiver!-- Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday was bare.
Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who stood behind it, Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the stubborn walls were dumb Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon each other, And their lips were white with terror as they said, THE HOUR HAS COME! The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we tasted, And our heads were almost splitting with the cannons' deafening thrill, When a figure tall and stately round the rampart strode sedately; It was PRESCOTT, one since told me; he commanded on the hill.
Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw his manly figure, With the banyan buckled round it, standing up so straight and tall; Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for pleasure, Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he walked around the wall.
At eleven the streets were swarming, for the red-coats' ranks were forming; At noon in marching order they were moving to the piers; How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked far down, and listened To the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted grenadiers! At length the men have started, with a cheer (it seemed faint-hearted), In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on their backs, And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-fight's slaughter, Round the barges gliding onward blushed like blood along their tracks.
So they crossed to the other border, and again they formed in order; And the boats came back for soldiers, came for soldiers, soldiers still: The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and fasting,-- At last they're moving, marching, marching proudly up the hill.
We can see the bright steel glancing all along the lines advancing,-- Now the front rank fires a volley,--they have thrown away their shot; For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls above them flying, Our people need not hurry; so they wait and answer not.
Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear sometimes and tipple), He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French war) before,-- Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were hearing,-- And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty belfry floor:-- "Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George's shillin's, But ye 'll waste a ton of powder afore a 'rebel' falls; You may bang the dirt and welcome, they're as safe as Dan'l Malcolm Ten foot beneath the gravestone that you've splintered with your balls!" In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepidation Of the dread approaching moment, we are well-nigh breathless all; Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety belfry railing, We are crowding up against them like the waves against a wall.
Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer,--nearer,--nearer, When a flash--a curling smoke-wreath--then a crash--the steeple shakes-- The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud is rended; Like a morning mist it gathered, like a thunder-cloud it breaks! Oh the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over! The red-coats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes his hay; Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong crowd is flying Like a billow that has broken and is shivered into spray.
Then we cried, "The troops are routed! they are beat--it can't be doubted! God be thanked, the fight is over!"-- Ah! the grim old soldier's smile! "Tell us, tell us why you look so ?" (we could hardly speak, we shook so), "Are they beaten?
Are they beaten?
ARE they beaten ?"--"Wait a while." Oh the trembling and the terror! for too soon we saw our error: They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven them back in vain; And the columns that were scattered, round the colors that were tattered, Toward the sullen, silent fortress turn their belted breasts again.
All at once, as we are gazing, lo the roofs of Charlestown blazing! They have fired the harmless village; in an hour it will be down! The Lord in heaven confound them, rain his fire and brimstone round them, The robbing, murdering red-coats, that would burn a peaceful town! They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see each massive column As they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting walls so steep.
Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless haste departed?
Are they panic-struck and helpless?
Are they palsied or asleep?
Now! the walls they're almost under! scarce a rod the foes asunder! Not a firelock flashed against them! up the earth-work they will swarm! But the words have scarce been spoken, when the ominous calm is broken, And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance of the storm! So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backwards to the water, Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe; And we shout, "At last they're done for, it's their barges they have run for: They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle 's over now!" And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier's features, Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask: "Not sure," he said; "keep quiet,--once more, I guess, they 'll try it-- Here's damnation to the cut-throats!"-- then he handed me his flask, Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of old Jamaiky; I 'm afeard there 'll be more trouble afore the job is done"; So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and hollow, Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun.
All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm clock dial, As the hands kept creeping, creeping,--they were creeping round to four, When the old man said, "They're forming with their bagonets fixed for storming: It 's the death-grip that's a coming,--they will try the works once more." With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them glaring, The deadly wall before them, in close array they come; Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold uncoiling,-- Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating drum.
Over heaps all torn and gory--shall I tell the fearful story, How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea breaks over a deck; How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men retreated, With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swimmers from a wreck?
It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say I fainted, And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with me down the stair: When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening lamps were lighted,-- On the floor a youth was lying; his bleeding breast was bare.
And I heard through all the flurry, "Send for WARREN! hurry! hurry! Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he 'll come and dress his wound!" Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death and sorrow, How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and bloody ground.
Who the youth was, what his name was, where the place from which he came was, Who had brought him from the battle, and had left him at our door, He could not speak to tell us; but 't was one of our brave fellows, As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying soldier wore.
For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered round him crying,-- And they said, "Oh, how they'll miss him!" and, "What will his mother do ?" Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has been dozing, He faintly murmured, "Mother!"-- and--I saw his eyes were blue.
"Why, grandma, how you 're winking!" Ah, my child, it sets me thinking Of a story not like this one.

Well, he somehow lived along; So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like a--mother, Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-checked, and strong.
And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant summer weather,-- "Please to tell us what his name was ?" Just your own, my little dear,-- There's his picture Copley painted: we became so well acquainted, That--in short, that's why I 'm grandma, and you children all are here! AT THE "ATLANTIC" DINNER DECEMBER 15, 1874 I SUPPOSE it's myself that you're making allusion to And bringing the sense of dismay and confusion to.
Of course some must speak,--they are always selected to, But pray what's the reason that I am expected to?
I'm not fond of wasting my breath as those fellows do; That want to be blowing forever as bellows do; Their legs are uneasy, but why will you jog any That long to stay quiet beneath the mahogany?
Why, why call me up with your battery of flatteries?
You say "He writes poetry,"-- that 's what the matter is "It costs him no trouble--a pen full of ink or two And the poem is done in the time of a wink or two; As for thoughts--never mind--take the ones that lie uppermost, And the rhymes used by Milton and Byron and Tupper most; The lines come so easy! at one end he jingles 'em, At the other with capital letters he shingles 'em,-- Why, the thing writes itself, and before he's half done with it He hates to stop writing, he has such good fun with it!" Ah, that is the way in which simple ones go about And draw a fine picture of things they don't know about! We all know a kitten, but come to a catamount The beast is a stranger when grown up to that amount, (A stranger we rather prefer should n't visit us, A _felis_ whose advent is far from felicitous.) The boy who can boast that his trap has just got a mouse Must n't draw it and write underneath "hippopotamus"; Or say unveraciously, "This is an elephant,"-- Don't think, let me beg, these examples irrelevant,-- What they mean is just this--that a thing to be painted well Should always be something with which we're acquainted well.
You call on your victim for "things he has plenty of,-- Those copies of verses no doubt at least twenty of; His desk is crammed full, for he always keeps writing 'em And reading to friends as his way of delighting 'em!" I tell you this writing of verses means business,-- It makes the brain whirl in a vortex of dizziness You think they are scrawled in the languor of laziness-- I tell you they're squeezed by a spasm of craziness, A fit half as bad as the staggering vertigos That seize a poor fellow and down in the dirt he goes! And therefore it chimes with the word's etytology That the sons of Apollo are great on apology, For the writing of verse is a struggle mysterious And the gayest of rhymes is a matter that's serious.
For myself, I'm relied on by friends in extremities, And I don't mind so much if a comfort to them it is; 'T is a pleasure to please, and the straw that can tickle us Is a source of enjoyment though slightly ridiculous.
I am up for a--something--and since I 've begun with it, I must give you a toast now before I have done with it.
Let me pump at my wits as they pumped the Cochituate That moistened--it may be--the very last bit you ate: Success to our publishers, authors and editors To our debtors good luck,--pleasant dreams to our creditors; May the monthly grow yearly, till all we are groping for Has reached the fulfilment we're all of us hoping for; Till the bore through the tunnel--it makes me let off a sigh To think it may possibly ruin my prophecy-- Has been punned on so often 't will never provoke again One mild adolescent to make the old joke again; Till abstinent, all-go-to-meeting society Has forgotten the sense of the word inebriety; Till the work that poor Hannah and Bridget and Phillis do The humanized, civilized female gorillas do; Till the roughs, as we call them, grown loving and dutiful, Shall worship the true and the pure and the beautiful, And, preying no longer as tiger and vulture do, All read the "Atlantic" as persons of culture do! "LUCY" FOR HER GOLDEN WEDDING, OCTOBER 18, 1875 "Lucy."-- The old familiar name Is now, as always, pleasant, Its liquid melody the same Alike in past or present; Let others call you what they will, I know you'll let me use it; To me your name is Lucy still, I cannot bear to lose it.
What visions of the past return With Lucy's image blended! What memories from the silent urn Of gentle lives long ended! What dreams of childhood's fleeting morn, What starry aspirations, That filled the misty days unborn With fancy's coruscations! Ah, Lucy, life has swiftly sped From April to November; The summer blossoms all are shed That you and I remember; But while the vanished years we share With mingling recollections, How all their shadowy features wear The hue of old affections! Love called you.

He who stole your heart Of sunshine half bereft us; Our household's garland fell apart The morning that you left us; The tears of tender girlhood streamed Through sorrow's opening sluices; Less sweet our garden's roses seemed, Less blue its flower-de-luces.
That old regret is turned to smiles, That parting sigh to greeting; I send my heart-throb fifty miles Through every line 't is beating; God grant you many and happy years, Till when the last has crowned you The dawn of endless day appears, And heaven is shining round you! October 11, 1875.
HYMN FOR THE INAUGURATION OF THE STATUE OF GOVERNOR ANDREW, HINGHAM, OCTOBER 7, 1875 BEHOLD the shape our eyes have known! It lives once more in changeless stone; So looked in mortal face and form Our guide through peril's deadly storm.
But hushed the beating heart we knew, That heart so tender, brave, and true, Firm as the rooted mountain rock, Pure as the quarry's whitest block! Not his beneath the blood-red star To win the soldier's envied sear; Unarmed he battled for the right, In Duty's never-ending fight.
Unconquered will, unslumbering eye, Faith such as bids the martyr die, The prophet's glance, the master's hand To mould the work his foresight planned, These were his gifts; what Heaven had lent For justice, mercy, truth, he spent, First to avenge the traitorous blow, And first to lift the vanquished foe.
Lo, thus he stood; in danger's strait The pilot of the Pilgrim State! Too large his fame for her alone,-- A nation claims him as her own! A MEMORIAL TRIBUTE READ AT THE MEETING HELD AT MUSIC HALL, FEBRUARY 8, 1876, IN MEMORY OF DR.

SAMUEL G.HOWE I.
LEADER of armies, Israel's God, Thy soldier's fight is won! Master, whose lowly path he trod, Thy servant's work is done! No voice is heard from Sinai's steep Our wandering feet to guide; From Horeb's rock no waters leap; No Jordan's waves divide; No prophet cleaves our western sky On wheels of whirling fire; No shepherds hear the song on high Of heaven's angelic choir.
Yet here as to the patriarch's tent God's angel comes a guest; He comes on heaven's high errand sent, In earth's poor raiment drest.
We see no halo round his brow Till love its own recalls, And, like a leaf that quits the bough, The mortal vesture falls.
In autumn's chill declining day, Ere winter's killing frost, The message came; so passed away The friend our earth has lost.
Still, Father, in thy love we trust; Forgive us if we mourn The saddening hour that laid in dust His robe of flesh outworn.
II.
How long the wreck-strewn journey seems To reach the far-off past That woke his youth from peaceful dreams With Freedom's trumpet-blast.
Along her classic hillsides rung The Paynim's battle-cry, And like a red-cross knight he sprung For her to live or die.
No trustier service claimed the wreath For Sparta's bravest son; No truer soldier sleeps beneath The mound of Marathon; Yet not for him the warrior's grave In front of angry foes; To lift, to shield, to help, to save, The holier task he chose.
He touched the eyelids of the blind, And lo! the veil withdrawn, As o'er the midnight of the mind He led the light of dawn.
He asked not whence the fountains roll No traveller's foot has found, But mapped the desert of the soul Untracked by sight or sound.
What prayers have reached the sapphire throne, By silent fingers spelt, For him who first through depths unknown His doubtful pathway felt, Who sought the slumbering sense that lay Close shut with bolt and bar, And showed awakening thought the ray Of reason's morning star.
Where'er he moved, his shadowy form The sightless orbs would seek, And smiles of welcome light and warm The lips that could not speak.
No labored line, no sculptor's art, Such hallowed memory needs; His tablet is the human heart, His record loving deeds.
III.
The rest that earth denied is thine,-- Ah, is it rest?
we ask, Or, traced by knowledge more divine, Some larger, nobler task?
Had but those boundless fields of blue One darkened sphere like this; But what has heaven for thee to do In realms of perfect bliss?
No cloud to lift, no mind to clear, No rugged path to smooth, No struggling soul to help and cheer, No mortal grief to soothe! Enough; is there a world of love, No more we ask to know; The hand will guide thy ways above That shaped thy task below.
JOSEPH WARREN, M.D.
TRAINED in the holy art whose lifted shield Wards off the darts a never-slumbering foe, By hearth and wayside lurking, waits to throw, Oppression taught his helpful arm to wield The slayer's weapon: on the murderous field The fiery bolt he challenged laid him low, Seeking its noblest victim.

Even so The charter of a nation must be sealed! The healer's brow the hero's honors crowned, From lowliest duty called to loftiest deed.
Living, the oak-leaf wreath his temples bound; Dying, the conqueror's laurel was his meed, Last on the broken ramparts' turf to bleed Where Freedom's victory in defeat was found.
June 11, 1875.
OLD CAMBRIDGE JULY 3, 1875 AND can it be you've found a place Within this consecrated space, That makes so fine a show, For one of Rip Van Winkle's race?
And is it really so?
Who wants an old receipted bill?
Who fishes in the Frog-pond still?
Who digs last year's potato hill ?-- That's what he'd like to know! And were it any spot on earth Save this dear home that gave him birth Some scores of years ago, He had not come to spoil your mirth And chill your festive glow; But round his baby-nest he strays, With tearful eye the scene surveys, His heart unchanged by changing days, That's what he'd have you know.
Can you whose eyes not yet are dim Live o'er the buried past with him, And see the roses blow When white-haired men were Joe and Jim Untouched by winter's snow?
Or roll the years back one by one As Judah's monarch backed the sun, And see the century just begun ?-- That's what he'd like to know! I come, but as the swallow dips, Just touching with her feather-tips The shining wave below, To sit with pleasure-murmuring lips And listen to the flow Of Elmwood's sparkling Hippocrene, To tread once more my native green, To sigh unheard, to smile unseen,-- That's what I'd have you know.
But since the common lot I've shared (We all are sitting "unprepared," Like culprits in a row, Whose heads are down, whose necks are bared To wait the headsman's blow), I'd like to shift my task to you, By asking just a thing or two About the good old times I knew,-- Here's what I want to know.
The yellow meetin' house--can you tell Just where it stood before it fell Prey of the vandal foe,-- Our dear old temple, loved so well, By ruthless hands laid low?
Where, tell me, was the Deacon's pew?
Whose hair was braided in a queue?
(For there were pig-tails not a few,)-- That's what I'd like to know.
The bell--can you recall its clang?
And how the seats would slam and bang?
The voices high and low?
The basso's trump before he sang?
The viol and its bow?
Where was it old Judge Winthrop sat?
Who wore the last three-cornered hat?
Was Israel Porter lean or fat ?-- That's what I'd like to know.
Tell where the market used to be That stood beside the murdered tree?
Whose dog to church would go?
Old Marcus Reemie, who was he?
Who were the brothers Snow?
Does not your memory slightly fail About that great September gale ?-- Whereof one told a moving tale, As Cambridge boys should know.
When Cambridge was a simple town, Say just when Deacon William Brown (Last door in yonder row), For honest silver counted down, His groceries would bestow ?-- For those were days when money meant Something that jingled as you went,-- No hybrid like the nickel cent, I'd have you all to know, But quarter, ninepence, pistareen, And fourpence hapennies in between, All metal fit to show, Instead of rags in stagnant green, The scum of debts we owe; How sad to think such stuff should be Our Wendell's cure-all recipe,-- Not Wendell H., but Wendell P.,-- The one you all must know! I question--but you answer not-- Dear me! and have I quite forgot How fivescore years ago, Just on this very blessed spot, The summer leaves below, Before his homespun ranks arrayed In green New England's elmbough shade The great Virginian drew the blade King George full soon should know! O George the Third! you found it true Our George was more than double you, For nature made him so.
Not much an empire's crown can do If brains are scant and slow,-- Ah, not like that his laurel crown Whose presence gilded with renown Our brave old Academic town, As all her children know! So here we meet with loud acclaim To tell mankind that here he came, With hearts that throb and glow; Ours is a portion of his fame Our trumpets needs must blow! On yonder hill the Lion fell, But here was chipped the eagle's shell,-- That little hatchet did it well, As all the world shall know! WELCOME TO THE NATIONS PHILADELPHIA, JULY 4, 1876 BRIGHT on the banners of lily and rose Lo! the last sun of our century sets! Wreathe the black cannon that scowled on our foes, All but her friendships the nation forgets All but her friends and their welcome forgets! These are around her; but where are her foes?
Lo, while the sun of her century sets, Peace with her garlands of lily and rose! Welcome! a shout like the war trumpet's swell Wakes the wild echoes that slumber around Welcome! it quivers from Liberty's bell; Welcome! the walls of her temple resound! Hark! the gray walls of her temple resound Fade the far voices o'er hillside and dell; Welcome! still whisper the echoes around; Welcome I still trembles on Liberty's bell! Thrones of the continents! isles of the sea Yours are the garlands of peace we entwine; Welcome, once more, to the land of the free, Shadowed alike by the pahn and the pine; Softly they murmur, the palm and the pine, "Hushed is our strife, in the land of the free"; Over your children their branches entwine, Thrones of the continents! isles of the sea! A FAMILIAR LETTER TO SEVERAL CORRESPONDENTS YES, write, if you want to, there's nothing like trying; Who knows what a treasure your casket may hold?
I'll show you that rhyming's as easy as lying, If you'll listen to me while the art I unfold.
Here's a book full of words; one can choose as he fancies, As a painter his tint, as a workman his tool; Just think! all the poems and plays and romances Were drawn out of this, like the fish from a pool! You can wander at will through its syllabled mazes, And take all you want,--not a copper they cost,-- What is there to hinder your picking out phrases For an epic as clever as "Paradise Lost"?
Don't mind if the index of sense is at zero, Use words that run smoothly, whatever they mean; Leander and Lilian and Lillibullero Are much the same thing in the rhyming machine.
There are words so delicious their sweetness will smother That boarding-school flavor of which we 're afraid,-- There is "lush" is a good one, and "swirl" another,-- Put both in one stanza, its fortune is made.
With musical murmurs and rhythmical closes You can cheat us of smiles when you've nothing to tell; You hand us a nosegay of milliner's roses, And we cry with delight, "Oh, how sweet they do smell!" Perhaps you will answer all needful conditions For winning the laurels to which you aspire, By docking the tails of the two prepositions I' the style o' the bards you so greatly admire.
As for subjects of verse, they are only too plenty For ringing the changes on metrical chimes; A maiden, a moonbeam, a lover of twenty Have filled that great basket with bushels of rhymes.
Let me show you a picture--'tis far from irrelevant-- By a famous old hand in the arts of design; 'T is only a photographed sketch of an elephant,-- The name of the draughtsman was Rembrandt of Rhine.
How easy! no troublesome colors to lay on, It can't have fatigued him,--no, not in the least,-- A dash here and there with a hap-hazard crayon, And there stands the wrinkled-skinned, baggy-limbed beast.
Just so with your verse,--'t is as easy as sketching,-- You--can reel off a song without knitting your brow, As lightly as Rembrandt a drawing or etching; It is nothing at all, if you only know how.
Well; imagine you've printed your volume of verses: Your forehead is wreathed with the garland of fame, Your poems the eloquent school-boy rehearses, Her album the school-girl presents for your name; Each morning the post brings you autograph letters; You'll answer them promptly,--an hour is n't much For the honor of sharing a page with your betters, With magistrates, members of Congress, and such.
Of course you're delighted to serve the committees That come with requests from the country all round, You would grace the occasion with poems and ditties When they've got a new schoolhouse, or poor-house, or pound.
With a hymn for the saints and a song for the sinners, You go and are welcome wherever you please; You're a privileged guest at all manner of dinners, You've a seat on the platform among the grandees.
At length your mere presence becomes a sensation, Your cup of enjoyment is filled to its brim With the pleasure Horatian of digitmonstration, As the whisper runs round of "That's he!" or "That Is him!" But remember, O dealer in phrases sonorous, So daintily chosen, so tunefully matched, Though you soar with the wings of the cherubim o'er us, The ovum was human from which you were hatched.
No will of your own with its puny compulsion Can summon the spirit that quickens the lyre; It comes, if at all, like the Sibyl's convulsion And touches the brain with a finger of fire.
So perhaps, after all, it's as well to be quiet, If you've nothing you think is worth saying in prose, As to furnish a meal of their cannibal diet To the critics, by publishing, as you propose.
But it's all of no use, and I 'm sorry I've written,-- I shall see your thin volume some day on my shelf; For the rhyming tarantula surely has bitten, And music must cure you, so pipe it yourself.
UNSATISFIED "ONLY a housemaid!" She looked from the kitchen,-- Neat was the kitchen and tidy was she; There at her window a sempstress sat stitching; "Were I a sempstress, how happy I'd be!" "Only a Queen!" She looked over the waters,-- Fair was her kingdom and mighty was she; There sat an Empress, with Queens for her daughters; "Were I an Empress, how happy I'd be!" Still the old frailty they all of them trip in! Eve in her daughters is ever the same; Give her all Eden, she sighs for a pippin; Give her an Empire, she pines for a name! May 8, 1876.
HOW THE OLD HORSE WON THE BET DEDICATED BY A CONTRIBUTOR TO THE COLLEGIAN, 1830, TO THE EDITORS OF THE HARVARD ADVOCATE, 1876.
'T WAS on the famous trotting-ground, The betting men were gathered round From far and near; the "cracks" were there Whose deeds the sporting prints declare The swift g.m., Old Hiram's nag, The fleet s.h., Dan Pfeiffer's brag, With these a third--and who is he That stands beside his fast b.