Nor hev a feelin', ef it doosn't smack
O' wut some critter chose to feel 'way back.
This makes 'em talk o' daisies, larks, an' things,
Ez though we'd nothin' here that blows an' sings,—
(Why, I'd give more for one live bobolink 1
Than a square mile o' larks in printer's ink :)—
This makes 'em think our fust o' May is May;
Which t'ain't, for all the almanicks can say.
O little city-gals, don't never go it
Blind on the word o' noospaper or poet !
They're apt to puff, an' May-day seldom looks
Up in the country ez it doos in books:
They're no more like than hornets' nests an' hives,
Or printed sarmons be to holy lives.
I, with my trouses perched on cowhide boots,
Tuggin' my foundered feet out by the roots,
Hev seen ye come to fling on April's hearse
Your muslin nosegays from the milliner's,
Puzzlin' to find dry ground your queen to choose,
An' dance your throats sore in morocker shoes:
I've seen ye, an' felt proud, thet, come wut would,
Our Pilgrim stock wuz pithed with hardihood.
Pleasure doos make us Yankees kind o' winch,
Ez though 't wuz sunthin' paid for by the inch;
But yit we du contrive to worry thru,
Ef Dooty tells us thet the thing's to du,
An' kerry a hollerday, ef we set out,
Ez steddily ez though 't wuz a redoubt.
I, country-born an' bred, know where to find
Some blooms thet make the season suit the mind,
1 A song-bird and bird of passage. He migrates in July to the Southern States, where he is known as the rice-bird, from his depredations in the rice-fields.
An' seem to metch the doubtin' bluebird's1 notes,— Half-vent'rin' liverworts in furry coats,
Bloodroots, whose rolled-up leaves ef you oncurl,
Each on 'em 's cradle to a baby-pearl ;—
But these are jes' Spring's pickets; sure ez sin,
The rebble frosts 'll try to drive 'em in ;
For half our May's so awfully like May n't,
'Twould rile a Shaker or an ev'rige saint:
Though I own up I like our back'ard Springs
Thet kind o' haggle with their greens an' things,
An' when you 'most give up, 'ithout more words
Toss the fields full o' blossoms, leaves, an' birds :
Thet's Northern natur', slow an' apt to doubt,
But when it doos git stirred, ther's no gi'n' out!
Fust come the blackbirds clatt'rin' in tall trees,
An' settlin' things in windy Congresses,-
Queer politicians, though, for I'll be skinned
Ef all on 'em don't head against the wind.
'Fore long the trees begin to show belief;
The maple crimsons to a coral-reef,
Then saffron swarms swing off from all the willers
So plump they look like yaller caterpillars,
Then gray hossches'nuts leetle hands unfold
Softer'n a baby's be at three days old:
Thet's robin-redbreast's 2 almanick; he knows
Thet arter this ther's only blossom-snows;
So, choosin' out a handy crotch3 and spouse,
He goes to plast'rin' his adobë1 house.
1 A song-bird, with bright blue back, about the size of a chaffinch.
2 The American robin has no resemblance to ours but his red breast, and is considerably larger.
3 Angle, fork of a tree.
4 A sun-baked brick; here, clay and straw.
Then seems to come a hitch,-things lag behind,
Till some fine mornin' Spring makes up her mind,
An' ez, when snow-swelled rivers cresh their dams,
Heaped-up with ice thet dovetails in an' jams,
A leak comes spirtin' thru some pinhole cleft,
Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right an' left,
Then all the waters bow themselves an' come,
Suddin, in one gret slope o' shedderin' foam,
Jes' so our Spring gits everthin' in tune,
An' gives one leap from April into June.
Then all comes crowdin' in: afore you think,
Young oak-leaves mist the side-hill woods with
pink:
The catbird1 in the laylock2-bush is loud;
The orchards turn to heaps o' rosy cloud;
Red cedars blossom tu, though few folks know it,
An' look all dipt in sunshine like a poet;
The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o' shade
An' drows❜ly simmer with the bees' sweet trade;
In ellum-shrouds the flashin' hang-bird clings,
An' for the summer v'y'ge his hammock slings;
All down the loose-walled lanes in archin' bowers
The barb'ry droops its strings o' golden flowers,
Whose shrinkin' hearts the school-gals love to try
With pins, - they'll worry yourn so, boys,
bimeby!-
But I don't love your cat'logue style,—do you ?Ez ef to sell off Natur' by vendoo ;3
One word with blood in't 's twice ez good ez two : 'Nuff sed, June's bridesman, poet o' the year,
Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here;
1 A bird with a note like a cat's mew.
Half-hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings,
Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiverin' wings,
Or, givin' way to't in a mock despair,
Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru the air.
91.-TO ECHO
(FROM "COMUS")
SWEET Echo, sweetest Nymph, that livest unseen Within thy airy shell,
By slow Meander's margent green,
And in the violet-embroidered vale
Where the love-lorn nightingale
Nightly to thee her sad tale mourneth well:
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair
That likest thy Narcissus are?
Hid them in some flowery cave,
Tell me but where,
Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere ! So may'st thou be translated to the skies,
And give resounding grace to all Heaven's
92.-SONG OF CALLICLES
(FROM "EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA")
THROUGH the black, rushing smoke-bursts
Thick breaks the red flame;
All Etna heaves fiercely
Her forest-clothed frame.
Not here, O Apollo !
Are haunts meet for thee.
But where Helicon breaks down
In cliff to the sea,
Where the moon-silvered inlets
Send far their light voice
Up the still vale of Thisbe,
O speed, and rejoice!
On the sward at the cliff-top
Lie strewn the white flocks,
On the cliff-side the pigeons
Roost deep in the rocks.
In the moonlight the shepherds
Soft lulled by the rills,
Lie wrapt in their blankets
Asleep on the hills.
-What forms are these coming So white through the gloom? What garments out-glistening The gold-flowered broom?
What sweet-breathing presence Out-perfumes the thyme?
What voices enrapture
The night's balmy prime ?—
'Tis Apollo comes leading
His choir, the Nine.
-The leader is fairest,
But all are divine.
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