I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon.
Her health! and would on earth there stood
Some more of such a frame,
That life might be all poetry,
And weariness a name.
ALBERT GORTON GREENE.
Born at Providence, Rhode Island, 1802-died 1868.
OLD GRIMES is dead! that good old man
We never shall see more:
He used to wear a long black coat,
All button'd down before.
His heart was open as the day,
His feelings all were true;
His hair was some inclined to gray,—
He wore it in a queue.
Whene'er he heard the voice of pain,
His breast with pity burn'd;
The large, round head upon his cane
From ivory was turn'd.
Kind words he ever had for all,
He knew no base design;
His eyes were dark and rather small,
His nose was aquiline.
He lived at peace with all mankind,
In friendship he was true;
His coat had pocket-holes behind,
His pantaloons were blue.
Unharm'd, the sin which earth pollutes
He pass'd securely o'er;
And never wore a pair of boots
For thirty years or more.
But good old GRIMES is now at rest,
Nor fears Misfortune's frown;
He wore a double-breasted vest,—
The stripes ran up and down.
He modest merit sought to find,
And pay it its desert;
He had no malice in his mind,
No ruffles on his shirt.
His neighbours he did not abuse,
Was sociable and gay ;
He wore large buckles on his shoes,
And changed them every day.
His knowledge, hid from public gaze,
He did not bring to view;
Nor make a noise town-meeting days,
As many people do.
His worldly goods he never threw
In trust to Fortune's chances;
But lived (as all his brothers do)
In easy circumstances.
Thus undisturb'd by anxious cares,
His peaceful moments ran;
And everybody said he was
A fine old gentleman.
Born at Boston, Mass: 1803.
THE POET.
FOR this present, hard
Is the fortune of the bard
Born out of time;
All his accomplishment,
From nature's utmost treasure spent, Booteth not him.
When the pine tosses its cones
To the song of its waterfall tones,
He speeds to the woodland walks,
To birds and trees he talks:
Cæsar of his leafy Rome,
Where the poet is at home.
He goes to the river side,-
Not hook nor line hath he:
He stands in the meadows wide,—
Nor gun nor scythe to see.
With none has he to do,
And none seek him,
Nor men below,
Nor spirits dim.
What he knows nobody wants:
What he knows, he hides, not vaunts.
Knowledge this man prizes best
Seems fantastic to the rest;
Pondering shadows, colours, clouds,
Grass buds, and caterpillars' shrouds,
Boughs on which the wild bees settle,
Tints that spot the violet's petal,
Why nature loves the number five,
And why the star-form she repeats ;-
Lover of all things alive,
Wonderer at all he meets,
Wonderer chiefly at himself,-
Who can tell him what he is;
Or how meet in human elf
Coming and past eternities!
And such I knew, a forest seer,
A minstrel of the natural year,
Foreteller of the vernal ides,
Wise harbinger of spheres and tides,
A lover true, who knew by heart
Each joy the mountain dales impart;
It seem'd that nature could not raise
A plant in any secret place,
In quaking bog, on snowy hill,
Beneath the grass that shades the rill,
Under the snow, between the rocks,
In damp fields known to bird and fox,
But he would come in the very hour
It open'd in its virgin bower,
As if a sunbeam show'd the place,
And tell its long-descended race.
It seem'd as if the breezes brought him,
It seem'd as if the sparrows taught him,
As if by secret sight he knew
Where in far fields the orchis grew.
There are many events in the field,
Which are not shown to common eyes, But all her shows did nature yield
To please and win this pilgrim wise. He saw the partridge drum in the woods, He heard the woodcock's evening hymn, He found the tawny thrush's broods,
And the shy hawk did wait for him. What others did at distance hear,
And guess'd within the thicket's gloom, Was show'd to this philosopher, And at his bidding seem'd to come.
TO THE HUMBLE BEE.
FINE humble bee! fine humble bee!
Where thou art is clime for me;
Let them sail for Porto Rique,
Far-off heats through seas to seek,-
I will follow thee alone,
- Thou animated torrid zone !
Zig-zag steerer, desert cheerer,
Let me chase thy waving lines;
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,
Singing over shrubs and vines.
Flower-bells,
Honey'd cells,—
These the tents
Which he frequents.
Insect lover of the sun!
Joy of thy dominion!
Sailor of the atmosphere!
Swimmer through the waves of air!
Voyager of light and noon!
Epicurean of June!
Wait, I prithee, till I come
Within earshot of thy hum,-
All without is martyrdom.
When the south wind, in May days,
With a net of shining haze
Silvers the horizon wall;
And, with softness touching all,
Tints the human countenance
With a colour of romance,
And infusing subtle heats
Turns the sod to violets,-
Thou in sunny solitudes,
Rover of the underwoods!
The green silence dost displace.
With thy mellow breezy bass.
Hot Midsummer's petted crone !
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone,
Telling of countless sunny hours,
Long days, and solid banks of flowers;
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound,
In Indian wildernesses found;
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.
Aught unsavoury or unclean
Hath my insect never seen;
But violets, and bilberry bells,
Maple sap, and daffodels,
Clover, catchfly, adder's tongue,
And brier-roses, dwelt among:
All beside was unknown waste,
All was picture as he pass'd.
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