Brother of Bacchus, later born! Or judge of thee meant: only thou Scent to match thy rich perfume For the smaller sort of boys, Stinkingest of the stinking kind! Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue ; Or in part but to express Or, as men, constrained to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow 's at the height Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing, whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce. For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, Tobacco, I Would do anything but die, THE VAGABONDS. CHARLES LAMB. WE are two travelers, Roger and I. Roger's my dog :— come here, you scamp! Jump for the gentlemen, mind your eye! Over the table, look out for the lamp!The rogue is growing a little old; Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, And slept out-doors when nights were cold, And ate and drank and starved together. We've learned what comfort is, I tell you! A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow ! (This out-door business is bad for the strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, | I'd sell out heaven for something warm And Roger and I set up for kings! There is n't another creature living To prop a horrible inward sinking. Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, She's married since, a parson's wife; So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving To such a miserable, thankless master! No, sir! - see him wag his tail and grin! By George! it makes my old eyes water! That is, there's something in this gin That chokes a fellow. But no matter! We'll have some music, if you're willing, 'T was better for her that we should part, Better the soberest, prosiest life Than a blasted home and a broken heart. I have seen her? Once I was weak and spent Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped! And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry ; It makes me wild to think of the change! I had a mother so proud of me! 'T was well she died before- Do you know If the happy spirits in heaven can see The ruin and wretchedness here below? Another glass, and strong, to deaden He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could, there! it I'm better now; that glass was warming. You rascal limber your lazy feet! Why not reform? That's easily said, We must be fiddling and performing But I've gone through such wretched treat- Not a very gay life to lead, you think? ment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, And scarce remembering what meat meant, That my poor stomach 's past reform; And there are times when, mad with thinking, But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink; The sooner the better for Roger and me! Go to a mother's side, And her crushed spirit cheer; Wipe from her cheek the tear; Go, hear, and see, and feel, and know All that my soul hath felt and known, THE HAPPY HEART. LABOR. UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree With large and sinewy hands; His hair is crisp and black and long; His brow is wet with honest sweat, And looks the whole world in the face, Week in, week out, from morn till night, And children, coming home from school, And catch the burning sparks that fly He goes on Sunday to the church, He hears the parson pray and preach; And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, He needs must think of her once more, And with his hard, rough hand he wipes Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. TO THE HARVEST MOON. PLEASING 't is, O modest Moon! Now the night is at her noon, 'Neath thy sway to musing lie, While around the zephyrs sigh, Fanning soft the sun-tanned wheat, Ripened by the summer's heat; Picturing all the rustic's joy When boundless plenty greets his eye, And thinking soon, O modest Moon! How many a female eye will roam Along the road, To see the load, The last dear load of harvest home. 'Neath yon lowly roof he lies, The husbandman, with sleep-sealed eyes: He dreams of crowded barns, and round The yard he hears the flail resound; |