The year's last, loveliest smile,— Thou comest to fill with hope the human heart, And strengthen it to bear the storms awhile, Till winter days depart. O'er the wide plains, that lie A desolate scene, the fires of autumn spread, Far in a shelter'd nook I've met, in these calm days, a smiling flower, A lonely aster, trembling by a brook, At the quiet noontide's hour. And something told my mind, That, should old age to childhood call me back, Some sunny days and flowers I still might find Along life's weary track. NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. Born at Portland, Maine, 1807-died 1867. THE ANNOYER. LOVE knoweth every form of air, He peeps into the warrior's heart From the tip of a stooping plume, And the serried spears, and the many men, May not deny him room. He'll come to his tent in the weary night, And be busy in his dream, And he'll float to his eye in the morning light, He hears the sound of the hunter's gun, And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf, The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river, He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver, The fisher hangs over the leaning boat, For Love is under the surface hid, He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet, Till the bait is gone from the crafty line, He blurs the print of the scholar's book, In the darkest night, and the bright daylight, Will Love be lurking nigh. TWO WOMEN. THE shadows lay along Broadway, Was walking in her pride. Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly, Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet, And call'd her good as fair,— For all God ever gave to her She kept with care her beauties rare For her heart was cold to all but gold, Now walking there was one more fair,— And she had unseen company To make the spirit quail, "Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn, And nothing could avail. No mercy now can clear her brow For this world's peace to pray; For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman's heart gave way! But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven By man is cursed alway! SATURDAY AFTERNOON. I LOVE to look on a scene like this, And persuade myself that I am not old, And my locks are not yet gray; For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, And makes his pulses fly, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, And the light of a pleasant eye. I have walk'd the world for fourscore years, That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, I am old, and I "bide my time; Play on! play on! I am with you there, I am willing to die when my time shall come, For the world, at best, is a weary place, But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail And it wiles my heart from its dreariness JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.* Born at Haverhill, Mass: 1807. SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE. Of all the rides since the birth of time, Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass, The strangest ride that ever was sped Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead ! Body of turkey, head of owl, Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, * With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang, Over and over the Mænads sang: 66 'Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" Small pity for him!-He sail'd away Brag of your catch of fish again!" And off he sail'd through the fog and rain! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart Tarr'd and feather'd and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead ! * See Note 13. |