Page images




The breaking waves dashed high

On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky

Their giant branches tossed;

And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and waters o’er,
When a band of exiles moored their bark

On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conquerer comes,

They, the true-hearted, came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,

And the trumpet that sings of fame:

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear;
They shook the depths of the desert gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,

And the stars heard, and the sea;
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang

To the anthem of the tree,

The ocean eagle soared
From his nest by the white wave's foam,

And the rocking pines of the forest roared,

This was their welcome home.

There were men with hoary hair

Amidst that pilgrim-band:
Why had they come to wither there,

Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye,

Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high,

And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?

They sought a faith's pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod;
They have left unstained what there they found, -

Freedom to worship God.



Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?
If there has, take him out, without making a noise.
Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite!
Old Time is a liar! We're twenty to-night!

We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more?
He's tipsy, - young jackanapes! - show him the

“Gray temples at twenty? — Yes! white, if we

please; Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing

can freeze!

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!
Look close,

you will see not a sign of a flake!
We want some new garlands for those we have shed,-
And these are white roses in place of the red.

We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been

told, Of talking (in public) as if we were old: That boy we call 'Doctor," and this

“ Judge;" It's a neat little fiction,- of course it's all fudge.


we call

That fellow's the “Speaker," — the one on the right;

Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? That's our “ Member of Congress,” we say when we

chaff: There's the Reverend What's his name?- don't

make me laugh!


That boy with the grave mathematical look
Made believe he had written a wonderful book,
And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was true !
So they chose him right in,- a good joke it was too!

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain,
That could harness a team with a logical chain;
When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire,
We called him “The Justice," but now he's “The


And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith,-
Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith,
But he shouted a song for the brave and the free,
Just read on his medal, “My country," " of thee!"

You hear that boy laughing? — You think he's all

fun; But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done; The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of


Yes, we're boys, - always playing with tongue or

with pen;

And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men? Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay, Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?

Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray!
The stars of its winter, the dews of its May!
And when we have done with our life-lasting toys,
Dear Father, take care of thy children, THE BOYS.


(Written with reference to the proposed breaking up of the famous U. S. frigate "Constitution.")


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

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!

O 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!

« PreviousContinue »