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-Project Gutenberg's A-Naughty-Biography and other poems, by Mrs. Enoch Taylor
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
-other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
-the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
-
-Title: A-Naughty-Biography and other poems
-
-Author: Mrs. Enoch Taylor
-
-Release Date: October 16, 2019 [EBook #60504]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A NAUGHTY BIOGRAPHY AND OTHER POEMS ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by MFR, John Campbell and the Online Distributed
-Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
-produced from images generously made available by The
-Internet Archive)
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-  TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
-
-  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
-
-  Some minor changes to the text are noted at the end of the book.
-
-
-
-
-  A-NAUGHTY-BIOGRAPHY
-
-  AND
-
-  OTHER POEMS.
-
-
-  BY
-
-  MRS. ENOCH TAYLOR.
-
-
-  CINCINNATI:
-
-  ROBERT CLARKE & CO., PRINT.
-
-  1878.
-
-
-
-
-COPYRIGHTED.
-
-MRS. ENOCH TAYLOR.
-
-1878.
-
-
-
-
-TO
-
-“MY DEAR FIVE HUNDRED.”
-
-
-
-
-CONTENTS.
-
-
-                                             PAGE.
-
-  A-NAUGHTY-BIOGRAPHY,                           7
-
-      My Infancy,                                7
-
-      School Life,                              20
-
-      Girlhood,                                 38
-
-      A “Good-Bye”-ography,                     56
-
-
-  MISCELLANEOUS.
-
-  THE VILLAGE BELLE,                            61
-
-  ST. VALENTINE’S DAY,                          65
-
-  THE RAINY DAY,                                67
-
-  AUTUMN,                                       68
-
-  OCTOBER,                                      69
-
-  LOVE’S LONGINGS,                              70
-
-  SHE SLEEPS BENEATH THE ROSES,                 72
-
-  NOVEMBER,                                     73
-
-  GONE BLIND,                                   75
-
-  LINES WRITTEN BY THE SEASIDE,                 77
-
-  TWENTY SUMMERS,                               80
-
-  CHIDING “LOVE’S CHIDINGS,”                    81
-
-  FOUND DROWNED,                                83
-
-  THE DARK DAYS OF WINTER,                      87
-
-  THE SONG OF THE SLUSH,                        89
-
-  BETRAYED,                                     91
-
-  SUMMER SIGHINGS,                              96
-
-  OUR BABY,                                     97
-
-  CREMATION,                                    98
-
-      Response by Cindrella,                   100
-
-      Answer by Author,                        100
-
-  ALONE,                                       102
-
-  A CRITIQUE ON THE MORRIS LYCEUM,             105
-
-  NIGHT’S PHASES,                              114
-
-  THE FOUNDLING,                               116
-
-  THE NEW YEAR,                                121
-
-  SPRING SPECIALTIES,                          123
-
-  MUSIC,                                       124
-
-  THE FAIR APE OF PHILA.,                      126
-
-  DECORATION ODE,                              128
-
-  THE HONEYMOON,                               130
-
-  THE MODEL MAN,                               131
-
-  THE STRICKEN SOUTH,                          137
-
-  “IF EVER I CEASE TO LOVE”,                   139
-
-  AN APPEAL FOR THE MEMPHIS ORPHANS,           141
-
-  WAITING FOR FROST,                           143
-
-  OCTOBER,                                     145
-
-  GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN,                        146
-
-  WASHINGTON’S BIRTHDAY,                       149
-
-  ADIEU TO “MY DEAR FIVE HUNDRED,”             152
-
-
-
-
-A-NAUGHTY-BIOGRAPHY.
-
-
-MY INFANCY.
-
-      Full forty years have passed and gone,
-      Since early on a winter’s morn,
-      My infant eyes first struck the light.
-      At once I showed my baby-spite,
-      To find my new abode so plain,
-      And half resolved I’d not remain.
-      If I had unexpected come,
-      And found this unpretending home,
-      I might the negligence excused,
-      But now I felt I was abused.
-
-      For half a year the fact was known
-      That I was on the road to town,
-      And all the neighbors, far and near,
-      Said, “Doctor’d bring a baby here.”
-      And so I came at dawn of day,
-      A-crying, too, I’ve heard them say,
-      And found few preparations made--
-      I’ve often wondered that I stayed.
-
-      Plain petticoats and untrimmed slips,
-      Pewter spoons that scratched my lips,
-      A cradle made of painted pine,
-      That rocked so rough it made me whine;
-      Then three long hours every day
-      The colic checked my baby play;
-      For months this griping kept me riled,
-      And nearly set my mother wild.
-
-      At last our troubles seemed to wane,
-      I thought I’d bid adieu to pain,
-      When teething time, with all its pangs,
-      Commenced its course with piercing twangs;
-      My mother’d walk the floor by day--
-      My pa by night, I’ve heard them say.
-
-      My father, jolly, good, and kind,
-      Would often half make up his mind
-      To slap me soundly if I cried,
-      But his heart would fail him when he tried,
-      And as he tossed and dandled me
-      In drowsiness upon his knee,
-      They say the more he nursed and tried,
-      The more I always screamed and cried,
-      And often would each soul alarm
-      Upon our little one-horse farm.
-
-      These trials lasted just a year,
-      The coast again seemed getting-clear,
-      When all at once the whooping-cough
-      Attacked and nearly took me off.
-      For nine long weeks I whooped and choked,
-      While mother nursed and father joked--
-      He was always great to jest and pun,
-      And turn all troubles into fun--
-      He said the _crisis_ now was here,
-      And we had nothing worse to fear.
-
-      Alas! his jesting hopes were vain,
-      The whooping-cough did not remain,
-      But measles next came breaking out,
-      The pimples showing, little doubt,
-      Another siege was mine to bear.
-      “To all the ills that flesh was heir,”
-      I felt my infant lot was given,
-      And really wished I was in heaven.
-
-      But quiet comfort did arrive,
-      And I began to grow and thrive,
-      And ma and pa could take their rest,
-      And thought themselves supremely blest.
-      Just then I first began to talk;
-      At later date, I learned to walk;
-      But stammered out my early say,
-      And stumbled on my infant way,
-      Till one bright morn in early June,
-      A baby “brought in a balloon,”
-      Unjoints my little Grecian nose,
-      My infant ire at once arose.
-
-      Our family now was much too large,
-      And then it was a fearful charge
-      For mother, who had much to do.
-      I’d try to put the baby through.
-      I’d feel its tiny foot, and sly
-      Would pinch or scratch, and make it cry,
-      Or rub its head, with look so meek,
-      And pull its hair or pinch its cheek;
-      And mother would at once begin
-      To look for the offending pin,
-      That made the “baby waby” shriek,
-      Ne’er dreaming it was Bessie’s freak.
-
-      So, at the early age of three,
-      Being bad as bad could be,
-      I never was a minute mute,
-      And people thought me smart and cute;
-      The baby was, I’m glad to say,
-      More good and quiet in its way--
-      Not half the trouble I had been--
-      Unless I stuck it with a pin,
-      Or rocked it hard, and made it cry,
-      You scarce would know the babe was by.
-
-      So time rolled on, and I intent
-      On infant mischief, came and went,
-      Till little sister learned to talk.
-      ’Twas I that taught her first to walk;
-      She’d tumble down--I’d pull her through
-      And scold her well, and shake her too.
-      Then she would totter on and cry,
-      While I would chase a butterfly,
-      And leave her standing in the lane,
-      A-wondering when I’d come again.
-
-      Around the barn we used to roam,
-      Or any place away from home;
-      We hand-in-hand would tramp and play,
-      From early morn till close of day,
-      Upsetting all the honest nests
-      That enterprising hens possessed,
-      And loving little ducks to death,
-      And out of chickens squeeze the breath,
-      Till mother’d come and frown and fuss,
-      And father, too, to save a muss.
-
-      Then homeward bound you’d see us go,
-      The family party in a row,
-      But I was nearly always last,
-      For when my penitence was past,
-      I stopped at times upon the way,
-      To finish my neglected play;
-      And father laughed and mother’d scold
-      About the black sheep of the fold.
-
-      Thus matters stood when I was five,
-      The hardest little case alive.
-      We spent the hottest summer days
-      Working hard at baby-plays,
-      Making pies of mud and clay,
-      Hauling sand and dirt away;
-      Through grass and puddles we would wade,
-      Till we a hill or ditch had made.
-      With muddy dresses, tousled hair,
-      And dirty faces, we’d repair
-      From lane to road, from road to lane,
-      Through dirt and dust, through sun and rain.
-
-      Our infant lives were passing by,
-      When all at once, we scarce knew why,
-      A shadow came upon our home,
-      And all our household filled with gloom.
-      Our father, ever good and kind,
-      Was taken from our midst, to find
-      A better home beyond the skies,
-      Which lasting happiness supplies,
-      And mother and five little ones
-      Were left to tread the world alone.
-
-      But blessings came from every friend
-      That could a kind assistance lend;
-      Our lot, though lonely, sad, and scant,
-      Was brightened and relieved from want
-      For kindred hearts, with willing hand,
-      Gave shelter to our orphan band.
-      Our home, of course, must scattered be
-      To suit the sad emergency.
-      Our little circle’s severed ties
-      Dimmed my mother’s loving eyes,
-      But still her grateful heart was glad
-      To know the help and hope we had.
-
-      I thought in this extremity,
-      There’d be a wondrous rush for me,
-      That I’d be claimed by all our kin,
-      But found myself quite taken in.
-      My country aunts took all the rest,
-      Though, after all, we fared the best.
-      The oldest boy, my brother Joe,
-      Who helped my father plough and hoe,
-      Was my especial pet and pride,
-      Now, since brother Sam had died.
-
-      So, when my city aunt arrived
-      To take her pick, at once, I strived
-      To be selected as her choice,
-      For Joe was pet among the boys,
-      And then we could together go,
-      The city sights each other show.
-
-      So, sure enough, our aunty came
-      A-riding grandly up the lane,
-      And caught me in my dishabille,
-      Much against my wayward will;
-      For I had hoped she’d find me clean,
-      That she might then and there have seen
-      How well I’d look in city guise.
-      Why did she take me by surprise?
-
-      The Diamond State was then our home,
-      And aunty came from Quakerdom,
-      A-looking prim and quite severe,
-      But still, I felt I needn’t fear,
-      For I had much to recommend
-      My ladyship, you may depend.
-      I dressed myself with special care,
-      And put on quite a company air;
-      And, strutting past my maiden aunt,
-      I wondered what more she could want;
-      She put her specs upon her nose,
-      And closely scanned my country clothes,
-      And asked if I was always good;
-      Never naughty, pert, or rude.
-      I shunned her kind but searching eye,
-      And half resolved, I’d not reply,
-      As I had nothing good to tell,
-      My silence might do just as well.
-      I thought she’d find out, soon enough,
-      My manners were a little rough,
-      And did not want to disenchant
-      My new-made friend, and city aunt.
-
-      So, looking meek and kind of shy,
-      I paused, before I made reply;
-      Then told her sometimes I was bad,
-      But blamed the company that I had;
-      ’Twas never any fault of mine,
-      If ever I cut up a shine,
-      And any mischief that was done
-      Was nearly always just for fun.
-
-      So aunty smiled, and hoped I’d be
-      A little lady, and she’d see
-      If she could take me up to town,
-      And try to tone my manners down.
-      I then, at once, desired to know,
-      If she couldn’t take my brother, Joe.
-      She said she rather thought she would,
-      If both would promise to be good.
-      So off, in haste, I quickly ran,
-      To tell of aunty’s pleasant plan,
-      To dream of city’s new delights,
-      And think of all the wondrous sights
-      That soon would greet our verdant eyes
-      And fill our hearts with glad surprise.
-      So, then we soon began to pack--
-      Our outfit most was on our back--
-      Our trunks and traps were small and few,
-      Which, fortunately, aunty knew.
-
-      So, on a balmy, summer day,
-      We all prepared to start away
-      To leave our home and mother, kind,
-      And in the world our lot to find;
-      When will life ever seem as bright
-      As that receding from our sight?
-      So, slowly riding down the lane
-      We ne’er could call our own again,
-      Poor mother wept in silent woe,
-      But thought it best for us to go.
-
-      So, next you’ll see the orphan pair
-      In the midst of city’s stifled air;
-      No fields, no lanes, no trees to climb,
-      A-wondering how we’d kill the time.
-      What earthly goods we’d gladly give,
-      To get back home again to live!
-      Our aunty, sensible and kind,
-      Told us to leave regrets behind,
-      And, in her wise and pleasant way,
-      Informed us, life was not all play.
-
-      But childhood’s troubles seldom last
-      Much longer than the cause is past.
-      The city soon began to be
-      A wonder and a joy to me;
-      My aunty got me pretty clothes
-      And taught me how to turn my toes;
-      She’d dress me up so clean and sweet
-      And send me out into the street.
-      I’d miss the “pies” and “puddles” there
-      And to the gutters I’d repair,
-      And play and paddle there in glee,
-      Till I was summoned in to tea.
-
-      My vixen spirit, as of old,
-      New mischief daily would unfold,
-      And aunty shuddered, as she saw
-      How little I respected law;
-      So, wishing me to live by rule,
-      She entered me, at once, in school.
-
-
-SCHOOL LIFE.
-
-      One Monday morn in early Fall
-      We made the nearest school a call,
-      To ascertain if they would take
-      A pupil willing to forsake
-      All mischief and frivolity,
-      And strictly stick to A, B, C.
-
-      The teacher showed a little doubt--
-      She saw how I began to pout;
-      I did not like the busy looks
-      Of slates and pencils, chalk and books--
-      I felt I’d much prefer to be
-      A stranger to my A, B, C.
-
-      I knew more now, at any rate,
-      Than many children did at eight,
-      Then why should I, that was so smart,
-      Go learning lessons all by heart?
-      I showed my feelings in my face,
-      And aunty, vexed at my disgrace,
-      At once enrolled my naughty name
-      Upon the future book of fame.
-
-      I then and there began to climb
-      The hill of science; oh! the time
-      It took to teach me how to do;
-      But I fought it out, and struggled through.
-      The teacher seldom suited me--
-      Indeed, we never could agree;
-      Her notions always seem so queer,
-      I wondered why they put her there;
-      And aunty, too, was odd as she,
-      Both seemed to be opposed to me.
-      I felt if ever I grew big,
-      I’d love to give them both a dig.
-
-      At times my patience would give out;
-      You couldn’t play a bit without
-      At once, she’d raise an awful fuss--
-      A little laugh would make a muss.
-      You couldn’t talk in any peace,
-      But you’d be told at once to cease,
-      And look upon your book or slate,
-      Or be kept in till awful late,
-      You even couldn’t turn around,
-      No matter what the sight or sound
-      That made you want to look behind--
-      You might have just as well been blind,
-      Or deaf and dumb, for all she cared--
-      She always kept you kind of scared.
-
-      No matter what you had to say,
-      She’d surely look another way,
-      And talk and teach, and teach and talk;
-      Slate and pencil, book and chalk;
-      Were ever at her finger ends--
-      I wonder she had any friends.
-      Indeed, she hadn’t many there,
-      Except the good girls round her chair.
-      They seemed to think her very nice;
-      I wished they’d taken my advice,
-      And never mind a word she said;
-      They soon would found, what motive led
-      Her to appear so sweet to them,
-      And that she wasn’t such a gem.
-
-      She had a special spite at me,
-      The reason why I couldn’t see;
-      She’d scold me soundly every day,
-      Whether I would work or play;
-      And then she’d often keep me in,
-      For just a little bit of sin,
-      That no one else would scarcely see--
-      She was just as mean as mean could be.
-
-      If it hadn’t been for family pride,
-      I think I’d left that school or died;
-      But aunty thought it best to stay,
-      And she nearly always had her way.
-      So there I was for one long year,
-      And then I left without a tear.
-      I’d learned to read and write and spell,
-      Indeed, they said I studied well.
-      My failing was behaving bad,
-      At least that’s what the teacher said;
-      But she was always saying things,
-      And telling tales that trouble brings.
-      I’ve left her class, I’m glad to say--
-      I’ll try a new one now to-day.
-
-      Alas, a-lack-a-day--ah! me,
-      I fear we too will disagree;
-      There’s much that’s new I want to know,
-      And ask the girls if they will show
-      Exactly how the things are done,
-      Besides we want a little fun,
-      Just to cheer us as we learn--
-      The teachers are so stiff and stern,
-      I wouldn’t be one for a farm--
-      They do the children so much harm;
-      Though aunty said to-night at tea
-      That’s what she’s going to make of me.
-      I don’t know what I’ve ever done
-      To her, indeed to any one,
-      That I should suffer such a fate,
-      Or learn a trade I love to hate.
-
-      I tell you what, when I get big,
-      You’ll see me dance a different jig;
-      I won’t be sober, staid, and stern,
-      And try to make the children learn.
-      Poor little things, I’ll let them be,
-      Remembering how it was with me.
-      Just worry, lecture, preach, and scold,
-      Enough to make a young one old.
-      At school and home I had no rest,
-      Was always getting blamed or blest,
-      And mostly too without a cause,
-      Just for breaking little laws,
-      That never should, by rights, been made,
-      Nor never would by Bessie’s aid.
-
-      So, thus my early life was spent,
-      From class to class I yearly went;
-      Each teacher seemed to be my foe,
-      And quite content to have me go;
-      But still I had my share of fun,
-      In spite of all the scolding done.
-      In tricks and pranks I took delight,
-      And misbehaved with all my might;
-      In tact and lessons I excelled,
-      Or I should long since been expelled.
-      The merits that I got to-day
-      To-morrow’s marks would wipe away.
-
-      But, at the end of every term,
-      Remorse and resolution firm
-      Would fill me with a new desire;
-      But “all the fat was in the fire”
-      The minute mischief crossed my way,
-      Which it, alas! did every day.
-
-      Thus school life, with its hopes and fears--
-      At least the first short seven years--
-      Was drawing nearly to a close,
-      When, all at once, the question rose--
-      What should next be done with me.
-      The teachers gladly did agree,
-      That I should try my luck and leave--
-      The high-school might my name retrieve.
-      So I studied hard, both night and day,
-      (But leisure took for fun and play),
-      Till testing time, with questions hard,
-      Brought me my happy hope’s reward.
-      I did not pass with honors high--
-      I guess you know the reason why;
-      But still I passed, and was content,
-      And to my laurels proudly went,
-      And talked as big and looked as wise
-      As those that got the highest prize;
-      And felt it was a happy school,
-      Possessing such a precious jewel.
-
-      So, at the age of green fourteen,
-      I felt as proud as any queen.
-      A new leaf I resolved to turn,
-      And study hard and laurels earn;
-      I stood quite high for one so young,
-      And could I only held my tongue
-      I might have been almost a star,
-      But mischief would my merits mar;
-      For what I gained by work and tact,
-      I’d loose by some rebellious act:
-      I sacrificed myself to fun--
-      My ablest efforts were undone
-      By some wild freak or fractured rule,
-      That put me down a dot in school.
-
-      I soon began, as heretofore,
-      To find the teachers quite a bore,
-      In interfering all the time--
-      Indeed it seems a chronic crime,
-      To be officious and prevent
-      The pleasures that were my intent.
-      They so delight in being dry
-      And dull and stiff. I wonder why?
-      They looked with frowning doubt and dread
-      On every thing I did and said.
-      At times they’d give a sickly smile
-      At my peculiar wayward style;
-      But in a moment they would be
-      A-pointing morals all at me.
-
-      As we were taught full forty things,
-      With names as long as corset strings,
-      And teachers stern and dignified,
-      I future punishment denied.
-      I felt we had our troubles here,
-      And naught to come was aught to fear.
-
-      Away into the quiet night
-      I’d pore and ponder by the light
-      That poets call the “midnight oil,”
-      Some crooked problem to uncoil,
-      Or draw a map, or parse a verse,
-      Or write an essay, which was worse,
-      Or worry with celestial globes--
-      The very thought my bosom probes
-      With recollections full of woe.
-      What good is it for us to know
-      That Mars has belts or Saturn rings--
-      A thousand other different things?
-      That don’t concern this world at all,
-      Nor never have since Adam’s fall.
-
-      Then scanning Milton through and through
-      Is what I did despise to do;
-      Nor did I care a single dime
-      If all his blank verse had been rhyme,
-      Or was awry or wrong in rhythm,
-      Or had it been with him--in Heaven.
-      That Paradise was lost I knew--
-      I never doubted it was true;
-      Then why extend the dreary tale,
-      To worry pupils--maid and male?
-      Mythology and classic lore
-      Is such an everlasting bore.
-
-      The other poets we’d dissect,
-      And try their metre to correct--
-      And murder many of their lays
-      So sadly that it would amaze
-      The sainted soul, could it but know
-      The scandalous scanning done below!
-
-      Then algebra, with _x_ and _z_,
-      Would always vex and puzzle me,
-      And make me wish that each equation
-      Was in the sea, with mensuration.
-      I’d sigh and cipher for an hour,
-      And long for calculating power
-      To get the cube root or the square,
-      Or puzzle out the proper share
-      That A and B would have to get
-      In value either gross or net.
-
-      Then hunting rivers, lakes, and bays,
-      And telling all their different ways
-      Of rising, flowing, and their end,
-      Or with what waters they may blend;
-      And all their lengths and widths and size,
-      And what each state or town supplies,
-      Of products, imports, exports, ores
-      That yearly pass its special shores.
-
-      Ah me! the mountains I would climb
-      To find the height, and what a time
-      I’ve had with longitudes and poles,
-      Enough to try poor pupils’ souls--
-      And tropics, latitudes, and zones,
-      That gave me geographic groans.
-      And then we had to daily tell
-      The capitals and towns as well,
-      Of territories and of states,
-      And give in full the different dates
-      Of settlements and civil wars,
-      And then we’d have five minutes pause,
-      Before our history began.
-      Thus our daily duties ran.
-
-      We never knew an hour’s peace;
-      For if we weren’t in Rome or Greece,
-      Discussing troubles old and stale,
-      Some insurrection to bewail,
-      We’d have our massacres at home,
-      To fill our hearts with bygone gloom,
-      Rebellions, riots, rows, and wars,
-      Breaking all the country’s laws;
-      But then that was so long ago,
-      I hardly think we need to know
-      All those troubles that are past,
-      It’s bad enough to know the last.
-
-      And then I think it’s really vile
-      To take us through the British isle,
-      And worry o’er her wars and woes,
-      Her usurpations, overthrows,
-      Her kings and queens both killed and crowned.
-      We’ll never get a single pound,
-      For all our interest in their fate,
-      No matter how large their estate.
-
-      I’m tired now of history.
-      I’ve learned it all, and can not see
-      Why we have to know so much
-      About the English, French, and Dutch,
-      And all these men of ancient times,
-      Their virtue, valor, and their crimes.
-      We have as many of to-day
-      As we can well their traits portray.
-      Then why go back to ages past
-      To get our heroes for a cast?
-      Or worry o’er the wars of yore,
-      When we can have them at our door,
-      Green and fresh, of recent date,
-      In our own land, indeed our state?
-
-      What trials teachers do invent.
-      They never seem to be content
-      Without a torture of some kind
-      To agitate the pupil’s mind.
-      And as for rest or idle hours,
-      The very thought their temper sours.
-      But study early, study late,
-      Things you like and things you hate;
-      Study hard and study long,
-      Whether you are weak or strong.
-
-      I tried my best to keep my brain
-      Healthy, sound, and free from pain;
-      I never had it suffer aught
-      From exercise of weighty thought.
-      All extra care and overwork,
-      My great ambition was to shirk;
-      To save the tissues of my mind,
-      I’ve always been somewhat inclined!
-      I’d study just to struggle through,
-      But not enough to make me blue,
-      Nor any recreation miss,
-      Which now I think accounts for this
-      Entire health which is my boast,
-      That over study might have lost.
-
-      In moderation thus I went
-      From grade to grade, and was content.
-      In tricks and trifling, mirth and fun,
-      Was always passing number one.
-      The teachers vexed at every turn,
-      And wanting me to leave or learn,
-      Would often help me gladly through
-      Their special class into a new,
-      Thus hoping then and there to find
-      More occupation for my mind,
-      And for themselves relief and rest.
-      How little my adieus distressed;
-      For those bereft of such a prize
-      Looked coolly on with driest eyes!
-
-      Once or twice I skipped a grade,
-      And cast the good girls in the shade,
-      Thus rid that teacher most entire
-      Of all the mischief I’d inspire;
-      ’Twas less in learning than in luck,
-      Together with my tact and pluck,
-      That helped me prematurely through,
-      But that is nothing odd or new.
-
-      I gushed as much at my advance
-      As though it was no game of chance,
-      And never hinted in the least,
-      As honors on me so increased,
-      ’Twas troubled teachers pushing me
-      To get me through thus rapidly.
-
-      So thus, for two years and a half--
-      I think of it, and have to laugh--
-      I spent the chequered, closing days
-      Of school life, with its blame and praise,
-      Till all at once the president,
-      On my departure firmly bent,
-      Informed me I must now begin
-      My graduating bays to win.
-      He seemed quite glad to have me leave,
-      Indeed, there’s no one seemed to grieve
-      About my going at this date,
-      So I resolved to graduate.
-
-      My parting essay now I write,
-      And try sad feelings to excite.
-      I use the most pathetic strain,
-      As though I’d willingly remain
-      To share those sweet scholastic joys
-      That leaving school at once destroys.
-      I tried to make their bosoms sigh
-      For blessings now about to fly.
-
-      But, ah! alas, what cool content
-      My phrases to their faces lent!
-      I sadly spoke of happy scenes
-      Of school life, with its hopes and dreams,
-      Of patient teachers, just and kind,
-      And wondered if we’d ever find
-      In life again, such friends as these,
-      (And, aside, I thought) as hard to please.
-
-      I really felt it was a time
-      When I should utter thoughts sublime,
-      But no one seemed to be disposed
-      To feel the slightest discomposed;
-      Nor could I hear a sob or sigh,
-      Or see a single moistened eye!
-
-      Each teacher that I left behind
-      Seemed reconciled and well resigned
-      To hear my valedictory read,
-      And every parting word I said
-      Gave pleasure, I could plainly see,
-      To all the high-school faculty.
-
-      That day in June I’ll ne’er forget,
-      Their happy faces haunt me yet.
-      So eager, anxious, and content,
-      To lose a light, ’twas only lent.
-      I felt their hearts were made of stone,
-      To be so glad when I was gone.
-      Our president, so mild and meek,
-      So happy was, he scarce could speak;
-      He said my _welfare_ was his aim,
-      But now my _farewell_ was the same!
-      So I hurriedly my parchment drew,
-      And bid the _happy_ school adieu.
-
-
-GIRLHOOD.
-
-      Thus I left those hallowed halls,
-      Its blackboards and its pictured walls,
-      With maps and charts of every size,
-      To torture brain and tease the eyes;
-      And fondly fancied I was through;
-      I knew twice now what others knew,
-      And all I had to do was show
-      My talents off, and catch a beau.
-
-      What consternation then was mine,
-      When aunt’s original design
-      Was carried out, to have me teach--
-      I’d almost rather beg or preach;
-      But as it was her great desire,
-      And as I had no wealthy sire,
-      My talents must my banker be--
-      So I took a class in A, B, C.
-
-      Again I must divide my time,
-      between a share of prose and rhyme;
-      I taught all day which was my prose--
-      The rhyme in evening, was my beau.
-      My daily duties never flagged,
-      But evening callers often lagged;
-      I’d wonder too how they could know
-      My many charms and tarry so!
-
-      How often evenings I have sat,
-      Impromptu welcomes all so pat;
-      I’d tell the girl to say “I’m home,”
-      Alas the callers never come!
-      And I would sit and read a book,
-      I’d read before, and never look
-      Disconcerted or annoyed,
-      Till evening hopes were all destroyed.
-      Then, disappointed, I’d retire,
-      And try to think of something higher,
-      But bitter pangs would rend my heart,
-      And dreams and nightmares make me start.
-
-      Sometimes a beau would happen in,
-      And make me most commit a sin,
-      By seeming very much surprised,
-      When really I had half surmised
-      That he was coming for a week--
-      But this was just a girlish freak.
-
-      They really ought to like to come,
-      I made them feel so much at home;
-      They seemed so happy while they stayed,
-      And left reluctantly, they said;
-      And I would often think it true,
-      And show my sorrow--wouldn’t you?
-
-      But, ah, alas! I soon began
-      To see the sad deceit of man;
-      I’d sit and watch and wait in vain,
-      My nose against the window-pane,
-      Or listen with an anxious spell,
-      To hear the ringing of the bell,
-      And bless the beggar that would dare,
-      To waken hope and bring despair!
-
-      Thus matters stood at seventeen--
-      An age that’s always noted been
-      For sunny happiness and joys--
-      And so would mine, but for the boys;
-      The very ones that suited me,
-      My aunty never seemed to see
-      With loving eyes as I desired,
-      And those she liked I ne’er admired;
-      And when we did on one agree
-      He hardly ever fancied me!
-
-      The scrapes and troubles I have had,
-      Enough to make a martyr sad;
-      These sorrows didn’t happen once,
-      But worried me for weeks and months.
-      At last becoming better known,
-      New suitors I began to own,
-      And having more, had bitter choice
-      And had occasion to rejoice
-      That I was blest with lots of beaus,
-      But none seemed anxious to propose.
-      They’d come and go with thoughtless air,
-      And I, pretending not to care,
-      Would bid them welcome and adieu,
-      As sweet and kind as if I knew
-      Their very heart-throb was for me--
-      Their lives one line of constancy!
-
-      How many sorry sighs I’ve had
-      About a wayward truant lad,
-      How oft “unwisely but too well,”
-      Would love assert its magic spell,
-      And hold my heart so tight and strong--
-      I’m glad it never lasted long!
-
-      I’ve thought at times I couldn’t live,
-      Unless Augustus would forgive
-      The little pique I showed last night,
-      Done really more in love than spite.
-      I’ve gone to bed and tried to weep
-      Myself into a troubled sleep;
-      But oft the sorrow I’d forget,
-      Before I found my eyes were wet!
-      Or Morpheus would my senses blind,
-      And leave love’s trials all behind.
-
-      How kind in Nature to prepare
-      A heart elastic, that can bear
-      The miseries and weighty woes
-      That must attend the age of beaus.
-      For, with so many different kind,
-      You couldn’t well make up your mind,
-      Especially when you didn’t know
-      Which was destined for your beau.
-      To wait and wait, and then to find
-      The wrong one is the one inclined
-      To breathe his hopes into your ears,
-      A nuisance is that seldom cheers.
-
-      Just after such a blow as this,
-      I thought I saw much future bliss,
-      In a student of the “nobby” kind,
-      So rich and handsome and refined.
-      But, oh, dear me! my brief delight
-      Was shattered by his getting tight,
-      And a love of fully thirty days
-      Was checked by aunt in many ways.
-      I thought at last it might be best
-      To let my student lover rest.
-
-      My next, an artist proud and poor,
-      By chance then living in next door,
-      Was always at my beck and call,
-      Which aunty didn’t like at all--
-      She said he was a fop and dandy.
-      To me he was so nice and handy,
-      And then so pleasant and polite,
-      We had engagements every night;
-      Till all at once my artist beau
-      Was told by aunt ’twas best to go--
-      The love that lasted three long months
-      Was crushed and killed by her at once.
-
-      And then I had an interval
-      Of several weeks in which to fill
-      The place of lovers I had lost--
-      But no one knew the pain it cost,
-      And nothing but a handsome clerk
-      I chanced to meet while at his work,
-      Could make amends for all my woes;
-      But he, alas! did not propose.
-      I think he would, but times were hard,
-      Which often happy hopes retard.
-      I, knowing this, would not allow
-      Him any chance to make a vow,
-      For poverty, though not a crime,
-      Has always been a dread of mine.
-      His handsome eyes and wavy hair,
-      Were great temptations I declare;
-      And then his love was firm and true
-      But he hadn’t cash enough for two.
-      So we sighed in silence o’er our fate,
-      And wisely thought it best to wait--
-      The other callers too seemed slow,
-      I’ve often wondered why ’twas so.
-
-      I had no wealth, or charms to praise;
-      But, then, I had such “winning ways,”
-      That ought to take, and may-be will--
-      At least I won’t give up until
-      I hear from some more hopeful source,
-      All true love has a crooked course.
-      I know the chap I’d like to catch--
-      I think ’twould be a splendid match--
-      I wonder what he thinks of me?
-      I’ll wait a while and we will see;
-      He has a tender sort of way
-      When he wishes me to sing or play;
-      And, when the hour comes to leave,
-      He often looks disposed to grieve.
-
-      He’s handsome, too, but awful shy,
-      Has such a melting, mellow eye,
-      It makes me reconciled to wait
-      If just to see, at any rate,
-      If time won’t ripen his desire,
-      And sparks of love for me inspire;
-      And while I wait he’ll never know
-      I ever wished to have a beau.
-
-      Here twice this week, I do declare,
-      And took me out once to the fair;
-      I really think he’s coming round,
-      So I’ll keep cool and hold my ground;
-      Should he propose, I’ll show surprise,
-      And stammer, No, with drooping eyes:
-      That’s the way they do in books,
-      Nor show their haste by eager looks;
-      I hope he won’t discover mine,
-      Nor take in earnest my decline,
-      It really wasn’t _final_, nay,
-      It only meant a slight delay
-      In making up my maiden mind,
-      And, in repeating he will find
-      That after the surprise was o’er,
-      I’d “love and honor and adore.”
-
-      But blessed luck, and happy fate,
-      That didn’t give me long to wait.
-      One quiet eve, in early fall,
-      He came, and made a lovely call;
-      No other beaus that night appeared,
-      As both of us at first had feared;
-      And aunty being out of town,
-      We didn’t dread her maiden frown.
-      So being favored thus by fate,
-      His smothered love he did relate.
-      Our happiness and new-made bliss
-      Was sanctioned by the sealing kiss.
-
-      I quite forgot the sighs and looks
-      So recommended in the books,
-      And answered, Yes, without delay
-      Or looking once another way.
-      He found I wasn’t hard to woo,
-      My answer came so frank and true;
-      For when you’re suited, what’s the sense
-      Of being kept in such suspense,
-      Till silly rules of etiquette
-      Love’s happy longings all upset?
-
-      That evening Cupid’s capers thrived,
-      Till all at once my aunt arrived;
-      I fear we guilty look and feel,
-      Our awkward actions can’t conceal
-      How matters stand, but I will try
-      By tact detection to defy.
-      We treat each other calmly cool,
-      Talk carelessly of church and school,
-      Or any subject but the one
-      That we have just agreed upon.
-      To please my aunty’s prudish ear,
-      We shunned the theme to us so dear,
-      Till passing hours in hasty flight,
-      Suggest to us a sad good-night.
-
-      Now he is gone--how queer I feel!
-      I wish I only dared reveal
-      My pent up joy unto my aunt;
-      I want to, but I really can’t.
-      She always seemed to like this beau
-      As well as any that I know,
-      But then she never thought that he
-      Would ever care a fig for me;
-      And now I fear that when she finds
-      He really loves and has designs,
-      She might at once discover flaws
-      To cause her to object or pause,
-      And then what misery would be mine
-      No heart could know or tongue define.
-
-      The fearful Rubicon is past;
-      I’ve told her all--her sanction asked,
-      And she consents--most strange to tell,
-      I find my suitor suits her well;
-      But wonders what he e’er could see
-      In such a wayward girl as me.
-      Indeed, I’ve often wondered too,
-      Though other people never knew,
-      But what I thought I was a prize;
-      Nor did my suitor e’er surmise--
-      He thought me all that he desired;
-      That trait in him I so admired!
-
-      For total blindness in a beau
-      Is one the best gifts that I know;
-      So, feeling so secure in this,
-      We might have lived a life of bliss,
-      But for a couple other beau,
-      Who thought at once that they’d propose;
-      They never dreamed of it before,
-      Nor would till they had been four score.
-      If I had still kept “fancy free,”
-      They never would have fancied me.
-      “It seldom rains but what it pours”--
-      Too many beaus are often bores.
-      I cutely kept my matters mum,
-      But found it truly troublesome;
-      I told them I was nothing loth
-      To love, indeed to marry, both--
-      For still on mischief I was bent,
-      And seldom said a word I meant;
-      Must ever have my share of fun
-      At sad expense of “number one.”
-
-      I really felt, I blush to tell,
-      That I was getting quite a “belle,”
-      And could afford to put on airs,
-      When offers tackled me in pairs!
-      And then, too, I had been so fast
-      In saying yes, that I would blast
-      Those tender hopes I lately made--
-      Two lovers cast one in the shade.
-
-      I timed my hours to see them all,
-      Preventing, thus, a lover’s squall,
-      And thought my wits were working fine,
-      When, all at once, that aunt of mine
-      Commenced, she said, “to smell a rat,”
-      And then we had a lively spat.
-      I hardly need to tell the rest--
-      For aunty always came out best--
-      And I was then obliged to be
-      Content with one, instead of three,
-      And though I loved the first one well,
-      I missed the two, I blush to tell.
-      If aunty hadn’t been so queer,
-      I’d had three lovers all the year,
-      But now I stuck to number one,
-      And left the other two undone.
-
-      And neither of them seemed to die,
-      I can not tell the reason why;
-      They nearly always do in books,
-      Or turn out bad, which I think looks
-      More in keeping with their grief.
-      I wonder how they got relief?
-      Indeed, I hear they’re living yet,
-      And doing well, and their regret
-      Lasted but a little while,
-      And terminated in _a smile_
-      That they had missed the happy chance--
-      That wasn’t my fault, but my aunt’s.
-
-      But dear devoted number one
-      Forgave the flirting I had done,
-      And now, as always, I could see
-      How much too good he was for me.
-      At once I thought, with aunty’s aid,
-      I’d try to settle, and be staid,
-      Becoming worthy of so fine
-      And noble-hearted beau as mine.
-
-      How easy ’tis for folks to talk,
-      But oh! how hard to walk the chalk.
-      The only hope that I could find
-      Was keeping my beloved blind,
-      An easy task, I’m glad to say.
-      Till he wanted me to “name the day,”
-      So what’s the use of waiting now
-      For consummation of our vow,
-      When heart and hand and ready will
-      Are longing for us to fulfill
-      That little form and loving rite
-      That permanently hearts unite?
-      So I shall name an early day,
-      And wed at once, without delay.
-      My trousseau won’t be much to get;
-      Indeed, I’m never one to fret
-      About apparel new and fine,
-      Or try my neighbors to outshine.
-      And then, too, meaning no offense,
-      To teachers in the abstract sense,
-      Light and slender was my purse.
-      To some, I know, that’s quite a curse;
-      To me, it being nothing new,
-      My wants were rather small and few.
-
-      My preparations soon were done,
-      Interspersed with lots of fun;
-      My wedding day was near at hand
-      And I was feeling mighty grand.
-      And each of my “five hundred friends”
-      Got tickets, and the fête attends;
-      I, robed in white, with fleecy veil,
-      With orange wreath and courtly trail,
-      Fancied that, at my levee
-      They’d all admire and envy me;
-      But strange to say, I never heard
-      The very first admiring word!
-
-      But then the guests, the gifts, the ring,
-      And all the joys that weddings bring--
-      A sweetish scare, I must confess,
-      Was mingled with my happiness.
-      I could not see the sense of tears,
-      When I had been, for several years,
-      Just waiting for this happy day,
-      To give my willing self away;
-      Yet still I trembled as I swore,
-      “To love and honor and adore.”
-
-      My single friends, that disbelieve
-      My statements, I will give them leave
-      To marry for themselves, and see
-      How scared and happy they will be;
-      My married ones already know
-      That what I’ve said is really so.
-
-      The altar often ends the tale--
-      The fair one then, that we assail,
-      Is shelved at once, and cast aside
-      As soon as she is made a bride;
-      Now, twenty years of merry life
-      Is passed--I became a wife.
-      The “Naughty” heroine, you see,
-      Has finished her “Biography.”
-
-
-A “GOOD BYE”-OGRAPHY.
-
-      I’ll say a few words at the close,
-      In case discussions ever rose
-      About my traits in after life--
-      I mean when I became a wife.
-      A lenient husband’s charity,
-      In trust and boundless love for me,
-      O’erlooked my early erring ways,
-      And filled my ear with daily praise.
-      Indulgent friends would kindly say
-      Such pleasant things most every day,
-      And looked so mildly on my mirth,
-      It made me overrate my worth,
-      And feel reformed, as aunty quotes,
-      “That I have sown my wildest oats.”
-      The stern realities of life
-      Will sober down the gayest wife.
-      The cares and crosses surely come
-      To cloud, at times, the brightest home;
-      And mine was not exempt from these,
-      For sighs and sorrows and disease
-      Were all, in turn, my painful lot--
-      ’Twere better though they were forgot.
-      I’ll finish in the brightest strain,
-      Nor have my friends peruse, with pain,
-      A _clouded_ page, when my intent
-      Was solely for their merriment;
-      They’ll see how short _these_ twenty years,
-      Beside the first, in print appears.
-      The reason ’s easy understood:
-      The traits depicted here are _good_,
-      And occupy a smaller space
-      Than _wicked_ ones I had to trace.
-      I wanting quite a good sized book,
-      My sinnings and short comings took
-      The other side, I do engage,
-      Would hardly fill the second page.
-      I’ll say, for fear my friends deplore,
-      These vixen traits are mine no more;
-      The heroine, once known as “Naughty,”
-      Is now reformed--“fair, fat, and forty.”
-
-
-[Illustration: The heroine, once known as “Naughty,” Is now
-reformed--“fair, fat, and forty.”]
-
-
-
-
-MISCELLANEOUS.
-
-
-THE VILLAGE BELLE.
-
-      A verdant youth of modest mien
-      Fell in love with the village queen,
-        When strolling through the clover;
-      And in his homely honest way
-      Rudely coined what he would say,
-        And how he’d always love her.
-
-      He looked in her coquettish eye,
-      With hope and fear for her reply;
-        But she so careless seeming,
-      Scarce listened to his honeyed words,
-      But turned their sweetness into curds,
-        And woke him from his dreaming.
-
-      She laughed aloud, with merry glee,
-      At the very thought of such as he
-        Presuming to the honor
-      Of loving her, the village belle;
-      Indeed, his feelings he must quell,
-        Nor force his love upon her.
-
-      There were a dozen love-sick swains
-      Awaiting to blow out their brains
-        When she refused affection;
-      Which, of course, she would to all but one,
-      And when the others’ fates were known,
-        They’d die of deep dejection.
-
-      She would not wed a _country_ lad,
-      Did she want a husband e’er so bad--
-        She sighed for _city_ suitors;
-      Uriah’s hopes were sadly crushed,
-      His tender words at once were hushed,
-        Her wishes were his tutors.
-
-      There’s Harry Banks just fresh from Yale,
-      Who’s apt and easy at the tale
-        That Cupid first invented;
-      He doesn’t blush or stammer through,
-      As though the art were strange and new,
-        Act awkward or demented;
-
-      But takes the favored fair one’s hand,
-      With melting looks and accents bland,
-        He tells his heart’s emotion;
-      And though he’s often tight, they say,
-      I like his jovial, genial way,
-        His lover-like devotion.
-
-      I really think my choice is made
-      In favor of the college blade;
-        And, though a reckless rover,
-      I vow his wild and winning ways
-      Would any maiden’s fancy daze
-        That craved a dashing lover.
-
-      He’ll sow his “wild oats” soon, I know,
-      And then he’s such a “nobby” beau,
-        I feel I’m blest to get him;
-      And Oh, the gay, bright city life,
-      That will be mine, when I’m his wife,
-        And the girls that will regret him.
-
-      So argued our fair village belle,
-      And wed the dashing college swell,
-        And left our poor Uriah,
-      And all the other sighing swains,
-      Whose hearts had turned their youthful brains.
-        And set their souls on fire.
-
-      But ah, alas! one little year,
-      Has changed her happiness to care,
-        And time too soon discloses,
-      By sunken cheek and saddened eye,
-      Her heavy heart and stifled sigh,
-        Her bed is not of roses.
-
-      The dashing beau of other days,
-      Has lost his soft persuasive ways;
-        Her city life and lover
-      Are but a myth to what they seemed,
-      As she in girlish fancy dreamed,
-        When strolling ’midst the clover.
-
-
-ST. VALENTINE DAY.
-
-      This season of old,
-      We’ve often been told,
-      Was the time of all others
-        For youth to be bold;
-      So the brave and the fair
-      May venture to dare,
-      Like the birds of the air,
-        Their feelings unfold.
-
-      This day of the year,
-      To the young very dear,
-      Suggests to the heart
-        A sweet happiness near;
-      And a hope bright and gay,
-      May tempt them to say,
-      On St. Valentine’s Day,
-        Words tender and queer.
-
-      Shy lovers, begin,
-      Faint hearts never win,
-      Nor is it a sin
-        To love wisely and well;
-      And the coy and the fair
-      May be yearning to hear,
-      At least once a year,
-        What a lover might tell.
-
-      So, gents, your attention;
-      I beg you will mention
-      To the fair of your choice
-        Your honest intention;
-      And should she reject you,
-      Don’t let it deject you,
-      But think it an ounce
-        Of healthy prevention.
-
-      They say Cupid’s arrows
-      Pierce even the sparrows;
-      The thought surely harrows
-        The youth of to-day;
-      For who with right reason,
-      In love-making season,
-      Would like by the birds
-        To be “given away?”
-
-
-THE RAINY DAY.
-
-      The gentle rain that softly falls,
-        Befriending earth and ocean,
-      Awakens many a happy thought,
-        As well as sad emotion.
-      It tells of changing Nature’s tears,
-        That fall to freshen beauty;
-      It teaches us that gloomy hours
-        May darken pleasant duty.
-
-      Tearful times must come to all,
-        And joy be mixed with sadness;
-      Our years are not one summer dream,
-        Our hearts one glow of gladness;
-      But like the gentle rain to earth,
-        Bereaving while it brightens,
-      A few dark days, in every life,
-        Each coming blessing heightens.
-
-      We greet the golden sunshine more,
-        That follows after showers,
-      Just as we welcome happiness
-        Succeeding dreary hours;
-      Were years continued summer time,
-        Or filled with constant glory,
-      Were Nature always in her prime,
-        And life one cloudless story,
-      We’d poorly prize the blessings sent--
-        No contrast to create content.
-
-
-AUTUMN.
-
-      I love to live in autumn days,
-      To linger in their balmy haze,
-      To ponder in a dreamy maze,
-          Upon their many glories.
-      I love to watch the setting sun,
-      To see the stars come one by one,
-      And fade away when they are done,
-          Telling their nightly story.
-
-      I love sweet autumn’s golden hours,
-      Though chilling winds and fading flowers,
-      Tell of Nature’s waning powers,
-          Still I love the season;
-      They speak of ripeness, ere decay
-      Has swept their beauties all away;
-      The change of leaf from green to gray
-          Must charm the dullest reason.
-
-      The garnered grain, the golden sheaf,
-      The varied bough, the yellow leaf,
-      Teem with beauties, all too brief,
-          That vanish as we view them.
-      I’d have the autumn’s gentle sway
-      Control the year from June to May;
-      I’d have its glories ne’er decay,
-          Nor winter snows to strew them.
-
-
-OCTOBER.
-
-      This golden month, with varied leaves,
-        So full of waning glories,
-      Adorns the groves that it bereaves,
-        And fills the woods with stories
-      Of fleeting verdure, fading flowers--
-      Dying Nature’s empty bowers.
-
-      It stills the birds and chills the air,
-      It scatters roses here and there,
-      Making bush and branches bare
-          Of foliage and beauty.
-      The verdant leaves of summer lie
-      Seared, beneath an autumn sky,
-      Left to wither and to die,
-          As Nature’s latest duty.
-
-
-LOVE’S LONGINGS.
-
-      I dream of thee in dewy hours,
-        I think of thee by day,
-      I muse upon thy winning powers,
-        When thou art far away.
-      I love to live in love with thee,
-        To watch thy pensive eye,
-      To linger in thy memory,
-        To soothe thy bosom’s sigh.
-      I fain would have thy love-lit face
-        Forever turned on me,
-      Oh, may we not in future trace
-        One common destiny?
-      And then together we could tread
-        Life’s flowery fields as one,
-      Dependent on each other’s love,
-        As earth is on the sun.
-
-      Each joy in life would brighter be,
-        If thou wert always near,
-      And every sorrow lighter be,
-        If thou wert there to cheer.
-      So let me linger by thy side,
-        In love with thee alone,
-      Should fortune frown or ills betide,
-        Thy presence would atone.
-
-      And blest and happy in thy smiles,
-        Despite of cross or care,
-      I’d pray for rare longevity,
-        Thy holy love to share.
-      And then when life should cease to be,
-        And _earthly_ love grow cold,
-      My songs throughout eternity
-        Should _angel_ love unfold.
-
-
-SHE SLEEPS BENEATH THE ROSES.
-
-      We bore our Bessie’s angel form,
-        Which now in death reposes,
-      To the silent grave, in summer days,
-      When earth was bathed in sunny rays,
-      When June birds sang their summer lays,
-        We laid her ’neath the roses.
-
-      We watched the form we loved so well,
-        As the grave so greedy closes,
-      We heard the sod as it sadly fell,
-      A heartless tale it seemed to tell,
-      Its echo like a funeral knell,
-        Was heard among the roses.
-
-      We turned away and left her there,
-        With flowers around, above her,
-      We breathed the soothing summer air,
-      Which bade us hope and hush despair,
-      We gave our child to angel care,
-        And trust to God to love her.
-
-      We sought our sorrow-stricken home,
-        Which naught but grief discloses,
-      Each echo there repeats a groan,
-      Each merry laugh is now a moan,
-      For angel Bessie sleeps alone,
-        Beneath the summer roses.
-
-
-NOVEMBER.
-
-      The Autumn boughs are growing bare,
-        The leaves are changed and falling,
-      And dying nature everywhere
-        Obeys grim Winter’s calling;
-      The fields bereft of grass and grain,
-        The waving woods deserted,
-      The fountains gush, the songsters strain,
-        To wailing winds converted.
-      All nature frowns in drear dismay,
-      As Autumn beauties pass away.
-
-      We see them all decay and die,
-        Each bud and tree and flower,
-      The trailing vines neglected lie,
-        Around the summer bower;
-      O’er slopes so lately pleasure’s haunts,
-        The withered leaves are blowing,
-      The broken branch, the barren bough
-        The sterile grounds are strewing;
-      Earth’s beauties vanish one by one,
-      As nature’s yearly race is run.
-
-      November’s winds are bleak and cold,
-        Its skies are gray and dreary,
-      Its landscapes no delights unfold,
-        To rest the eye that’s weary.
-      There’s naught around, beneath, above,
-        But tells of fading glory,
-      Each lonely lawn, and leafless grove
-        Confirms the saddened story;
-      Earth sobs her grief, and Boreas sighs,
-      As changing Nature droops and dies.
-
-
-GONE BLIND.
-
-      An early friend, of brilliant mind,
-      In manhood’s summer stricken blind;
-      Earth’s beauties faded day by day,
-      Till views and visions passed away,
-      And left a blank in the midst of bloom--
-      A spirit crushed in a life of gloom.
-      A heart bowed down in manly grief,
-      No hope of light to bring relief.
-
-      His sun is set at early noon,
-      His rayless night ’s without a moon;
-      His life’s bright zenith ’s clouded o’er,
-      To him the stars will rise no more.
-      No sunny scenes illume his way,
-      The flowers bloom and then decay,
-      The planets daily set and rise
-      Before those yearning, sightless eyes.
-
-      To him, all life is one long night,
-      The season’s change brings no delight;
-      His vacant orbs scan nothing new,
-      But stare in vain for one dim view
-      Of sights and scenes of other days,
-      When life was full of sunny rays;
-      He’d freely give all earthly gold
-      For one glad glimpse of scenes of old.
-
-      Familiar faces, favorite friends,
-      That by his side in love attends;
-      What priceless gift ’twould be for him
-      To see those forms, though faint and dim;
-      To trace the features, watch the eye
-      Of loved ones, flitting fondly by,
-      And gaze upon her gentle face,
-      Whose charms e’en darkness can’t efface.
-
-      Oh, could this dreary winter dream
-      Be gladdened by one golden gleam,
-      One sunbeam’s blessed brightening ray
-      Could turn this darkness into day.
-      But this eclipse, this sunless gloom,
-      That now makes life a living tomb,
-      May know no dawn till earthly night
-      Gives place to heaven’s eternal light.
-
-
-LINES WRITTEN BY THE SEASIDE.
-
-          As I sit by the seaside,
-          And watch the blue waves
-      On the boundless bright bosom of ocean,
-          The roar of the billows,
-          The sea as it raves,
-      Awaken ecstatic emotion.
-
-          I long for the leisure
-          To stay by its side,
-      To linger in love by its beauties,
-          To listen entranced,
-          To gaze with delight,
-      And regret that I have other duties.
-
-          I regret that dull life,
-          With its prosy routine,
-      Must claim my attention to-morrow;
-          That I must awake
-          From my bright ocean dream,
-      And leave the cool seaside in sorrow.
-
-          This world of delight,
-          This home by the sea,
-      This hour so full of enjoyment,
-          How I wish that the future
-          Had nothing for me
-      But just such happy employment.
-
-          I’d live by the sea,
-          All these long summer days
-      I’d watch the bright breakers at even,
-          I’d wander at twilight,
-          And silently gaze
-      On the beauties of ocean and heaven.
-
-          Till Luna lends light
-          To the billowy scene,
-      That sparkles like gems in its glory;
-          As tipping the waves
-          With her silvery sheen.
-      She nightly renews her bright story.
-
-          I’d gaze at the stars
-          In the heavens on high,
-      And list to the music of ocean,
-          Till the moan of the sea
-          And the zephyr’s soft sigh
-      Would turn my delight to devotion.
-
-          I could muse on those orbs,
-          Thus mirrored by waves,
-      In revery live by the hour
-          By the side of the sea,
-          As it sighs or it raves,
-      And dream of Omnipotent power.
-
-
-TWENTY SUMMERS.
-
-On our Daughter’s Birthday.
-
-      Thy first bright twenty years have past,
-      And left an impress that will last
-        A lifetime on thy brow;
-      May the moulding of thy gentle face,
-      Which all the kindly feelings grace,
-        Be always calm as now!
-
-      All nature’s noble gifts are thine,
-      So carry out her sweet design
-        In every new career;
-      Thus radiate delight around,
-      Make sunny happiness abound,
-        And bless each future sphere.
-
-      Let every grace that now is thine
-      Be ripened by the hand of time,
-        Enriched by coming years;
-      Ennobled and refined by art,
-      That only culture can impart,
-        And moral worth endears.
-
-      No idle ease nor empty hours
-      Should dwarf thy mind’s improving powers,
-        But live with earnest aim;
-      And strive each happy trait to woo,
-      Do nobly what thou hast to do,
-        And grace thy future name.
-
-
-CHIDING “LOVE’S CHIDINGS.”
-
-      The cruel word in anger spoken,
-      Has oft the loving heart near broken,
-      And left its sting for hours behind,
-      Upon some dear one’s troubled mind.
-      How many a day is clouded o’er,
-      And many a heart made sad and sore,
-      By thoughtless words that give us pain,
-      That ne’er can be recalled again!
-
-      Our dearest friends should surely be
-      The ones the last our faults to see,
-      And then, all leniency and love,
-      Should by its blind devotion prove
-      How far above all other ties
-      In life, our home-hearts we should prize;
-      Our wedded love’s responsive thrill
-      Should be the same through good and ill.
-
-      Away with love that’s only lent
-      Till all the summer hours are spent,
-      That fades and cools as cares increase,
-      That comes and goes with each caprice.
-      Ah! no, the love for which we yearn
-      Will through all age and error burn,
-      Will live and light our winter days,
-      And be the same in blame and praise.
-
-      True love is trusting, patient, pure,
-      Is constant, kind, and will endure;
-      It never chides, but soothes the breast
-      That sighs for sympathy and rest.
-      One broken chord may wreck a life,
-      One angry word may start a strife,
-      And chill the love that early won,
-      That should be life’s domestic sun.
-
-
-FOUND DROWNED.
-
-      There drifted a form on the banks of a stream,
-      As pretty and fair as poet’s young dream;
-      With her worn, draggled dress and her small tattered shoes,
-      Her golden hair floating dishevelled and loose;
-      Her pale, haggard face, so sad in repose,
-      Told tales of a life beclouded by woes;
-      Her small dimpled hands lay listless and cold
-      Across her fair breast, where sorrows untold
-      Had made her young heart in misery old.
-
-      Her poor glassy eyes, now death dimmed and blue,
-      Looked vacantly out, as if bidding adieu
-      To a world that had shunned her, to friends that denied
-      Love, kindness, and pity in self-righteous pride:
-      Who can she be, this fair one unknown,
-      Has she a history, has she a home?
-      Was life ever bright to her, friends ever kind?
-      Why did she seek thus oblivion to find--
-      This blankness and Lethe for body and mind?
-
-      Did nobody love her, did nobody wait
-      In crazy anxiety as to her fate?
-      Had she no father, no husband, no brother,
-      Had she no dear, tender sister or mother,
-      To watch for her coming and wonder and wait,
-      Impatient and anxious, because she’s so late?
-      And when she comes not, is there no one to miss her,
-      No one to seek her, to love her or kiss her?
-      Will nobody come to claim the fair clay,
-      Will friends all forsake her in doubt and dismay?
-      Must this disappointed, mistaken young life,
-      Gone out in its misery, not end the strife?
-      Will forgiveness not come, even if error were there,
-      To the clay of this victim of hopeless despair?
-
-      Did life in its springtime to her seem so sad,
-      That living was sorrow? Ah, mayhap she had
-      Crushed hopes and affections too heavy to bear,
-      So she seeks dissolution in crazy despair.
-      To live would need courage, to die would end all,
-      So she leaps in the dark, e’er her Maker doth call.
-      “Found Drowned” is the verdict too sad to believe,
-      No kindred to sorrow, no loved ones to grieve,
-      Doomed to desertion, both living and dead,
-      No mourners to follow to the place she is laid;
-      By strangers she’s buried, unwept and unknown,
-      Thus ends a brief life, misery marked for its own.
-
-
-THE DARK DAYS OF WINTER.
-
-      As gloom gathers round, the dark days of winter,
-        And the season of shadows, beclouds the bright skies,
-      The heart becomes tinged with pensive emotions
-        As Nature, in mourning, thus withers and dies.
-
-      We recall the sweet hours of retrospect pleasure,
-        Of green haunts of happiness--lately our own--
-      Of gay, joyous scenes, and sweet summer fancies,
-        Engendered by beauty and brightness alone.
-
-      Adieu to the charms of summer and autumn,
-        That each, in their turn, fill life with delight;
-      We love Nature, budding or blooming or ripened,
-        We cherish its beauties--regretting their flight.
-
-      But the dark days of winter must come to the seasons,
-        That change, in their rounds, from the bright to the drear;
-      And, though we deplore their cold dullness and darkness,
-        We can’t hope for springtime all thro’ the year.
-
-      These dull, dreary days, these clouds, gray and heavy,
-        That hang, like a pall, over Nature’s fair face,
-      But serve to enhance each gleam of gold sunshine,
-        When new-waking Nature its beauties retrace.
-
-
-THE SONG OF THE SLUSH.
-
-      The slush, the slush, the terrible slush,
-      That streams from each pore of the earth with a gush;
-      Impeding the travel, making walking a woe;
-      All on account of the “Beautiful Snow.”
-
-      From each roof and tree, great drippings we see,
-      Making gutters and crossings quite up to the knee;
-      The sidewalks so icy, the pavements a show;
-      All on account of the “Beautiful Snow.”
-
-      From the time that we leave the sill of the door,
-      “Eaves-droppings,” in torrents, all over us pour--
-      Such splashing above, such slushing below;
-      All on account of the “Beautiful Snow.”
-
-      Then we slip and we slide, as we try to proceed;
-      Tottering and trembling, like a wind-waving reed.
-      This icy mud-mixture makes traveling so slow;
-      All on account of the “Beautiful Snow.”
-
-      The soot and the slush, the mud and the smoke,
-      Make that pure, pretty poem a dark, dirty joke;
-      With a nature poetic, we certainly know
-      No “Queen City” bard wrote “Beautiful Snow.”
-
-
-BETRAYED.
-
-      I knew a rustic beauty once,
-        A happy-hearted maiden,
-      Whose life seemed bright as summer days,
-      And as she watched the autumn rays,
-      With love of nature’s works and ways,
-        Her heart seemed always laden.
-
-      She loved her quiet, rural home,
-        In all its sweet sedateness,
-      She’d stroll along with happy air,
-      Regardless of a coming care,
-      Supposing joy was everywhere,
-        And dream of future greatness.
-
-      Her bright, blue eyes would seek the skies,
-        In wondering admiration,
-      She’d roam at will, from wood to hill,
-      Or sit and dream by rock and rill,
-      As if she yearned her soul to fill
-        With love of God’s creation.
-
-      Could her young life ne’er known of strife,
-        Nor seen but rural beauties,
-      That happiness might still be hers,
-      Where anguish now her bosom stirs,
-      That always follows each that errs
-        Against life’s hallowed duties.
-
-      A suitor came, in city guise,
-        A gay and dashing lover,
-      He woos this simple-hearted girl,
-      He tells her of the city’s whirl,
-      Where fascinations all unfurl,
-        And pleasure’s cup runs over.
-
-      She soon would scorn these rustic scenes,
-        So tame to riper vision,
-      Her beauty buried out of sight,
-      Her love spent on some country wight,
-      Her life without one gay delight,
-        Would mark her future mission.
-
-      She loving heard his dangerous words,
-        And, with fond trust believing,
-      She listened by her favorite stream
-      To tales of love that made life seem
-      Enchanting as a fairy dream,
-        Nor thought of his deceiving.
-
-      She quit her happy, rural home,
-        To share his boasted pleasures.
-      Alas, her love was soon despised,
-      He left her e’er she had surmised
-      That he, bereft of all she prized,
-        Was least among her treasures.
-
-      Crushed beneath that heavy blow,
-        She sank in deep dejection;
-      Her happiness is changed to tears,
-      Her purity to guilty fears,
-      Estranged each friendly face appears,
-        And dead each fond affection.
-
-      His broken vows near drove her mad,
-        His treacherous desertion
-      Made desperate every hope she had,
-      To her the rest of life was sad,
-      Not even innocence to glad
-        Or shield her from aspersion.
-
-      She, broken-hearted, crush’d and wrong’d,
-        Who erred through blind devotion,
-      Could ne’er regain her home and friends,
-      Nor could a lifetime make amends,
-      Nor dull the pang her bosom rends;
-        She’d die and end emotion.
-
-      She seeks the brook that once she loved,
-        By stealth in twilight hour,
-      And, musing on that peaceful scene,
-      She sadly thought “what might have been,”
-      Had traitors love, with gilded mien,
-        Not charmed with subtle power.
-
-      Then came the flood of bitter tears,
-        Heart-chiding and misgiving,
-      When stilling all her future fears,
-      As she a fancied footstep hears,
-      She takes a leap and disappears,
-        And ends the pain of living.
-
-      Despairing death her early doom,
-        Young, wretched, and mistaken,
-      Her innocence and beauty gone,
-      Her life cut off in early morn,
-      Her broken heart in anguish torn,
-        Deserted and forsaken.
-
-      And where is he whose treach’rous wiles
-        Have driven her to madness?
-      Whose hollow heart and sinful soul
-      Betrayed, while under love’s control,
-      The trusting heart we here enroll
-        Upon life’s book of sadness?
-
-      Her icy form drifts down the stream,
-        While he pursues his pleasures;
-      The world looks on his murd’rous deeds
-      With leniency, and scarcely heeds
-      The ruin wrought, or wrong that pleads
-        For justice in God’s measures.
-
-
-SUMMER SIGHINGS.
-
-      We want to go to “Iceland,”
-        Or to the “polar seas;”
-      We want to hug an “iceberg,”
-        Or raise a “family breeze;”
-      We want to see a white frost
-        All o’er our grassy earth;
-      We want to have a snow storm
-        Give winter early birth;
-      A “cold” would be a godsend,
-        Indeed, we’d like a “chill;”
-      A “coolness” with our dearest friend
-        Would help to “fill the bill.”
-      A “cool reception” we’d enjoy,
-        Also, a “freezing” bow,
-      And “frosted feet” we’d think a treat
-        If we could have them now.
-      We’d like our home an “ice house,”
-        Our bed a bank of snow,
-      We’d have “refrigerator” cars
-        To take us to and fro;
-      We’d love to live in Lapland,
-        For reasons of our own,
-      Or spend our summer holidays
-        Within the “frigid zone.”
-      Why they call this world a “cold world”
-        We surely cannot tell,
-      We think this summer proves it
-        Almost as hot as “Hades.”
-
-
-OUR BABY.
-
-      Our precious babe, our household pet,
-        “The well spring of our pleasure,”
-      Each hour welcomes some new art
-        Endearing this our treasure;
-      Its many little winning ways,
-      Its cunning tricks and baby plays
-        Bewitches beyond measure.
-
-      We watch it bud from day to day,
-        Developing new beauties;
-      A wonder in precociousness,
-        Performing baby duties;
-
-      It laughs, and coos, and “patty cakes,”
-        And plays with rings and rattles,
-      And reaches out its dimpled hands.
-        For all the goods and chattels
-      That tend to brighten babyhood.
-        And for them begs and battles;
-
-      Then laughs and leaps in gay delight;
-        And kicks and crows its pleasure,
-      Rejuvenates our quiet home
-        And fills our hours of leisure,
-      Till “tired nature” claims the sway
-      And gives the household holiday.
-
-
-CREMATION.
-
-      Cremation seems to some to be
-      A matter of economy;
-      To save a heavy funeral fee,
-        Thus cheat the undertaker.
-      It has always been our great desire
-      To wholly shun _post mortem_ fire;
-      We’d hate to roast a son or sire,
-        Or be a body baker.
-
-      How those that like this novel plan
-      To inflamate the corpse of man,
-      May use the funeral frying pan,
-        And gather up the ashes.
-      But we truly trust that our friends,
-      When our demise their bosom rends,
-      Will in their sorrow make amends,
-        Omitting cinder hashes.
-
-      No matter if the freight is low,
-      Or if we were a deadhead through,
-      Who’d want to be a broil or stew--
-        Thus to the turkey leveled?
-      Oh, no! we hope that our fate
-      Will be postponed till it’s so late
-      The fashion will be out of date,
-        And then we can’t be _deviled_.
-
-
-RESPONSE, BY CINDER-ELLA.
-
-      Not for you cremating pyre,
-      Because “it’s been your great desire
-      To wholly shun _post mortem_ fire,”
-        And thus to save your “bakin’.”
-      Because you have this hope behind you,
-      Don’t think your master will not find you,
-      Tho’ deep in earth they have consigned you,
-        Beneath a lying stone.
-      When earthly things do fade from view,
-      And all the chances you’ve run through,
-      Then will the devil have his due,
-        And he will claim his own.
-
-
-ANSWER BY MRS. TAYLOR.
-
-      There is, we find, a class of folks
-      Opposed to our cremation jokes:
-      ’Twere vain for us to try to coax
-        Them out of cinder-ation;
-      For furnace heat they sigh at heart,
-      They’d ape the goose or gander part,
-      Or baked like pudding, pie, or tart,
-        Be _dessert_ of creation.
-
-      To such we would sincerely say,
-      Their fiery instincts should obey,
-      We would not have our wishes weigh
-        Against incendiaries;
-      But let them burn or bake by rule,
-      As suits the taste of sage or fool,
-      Our greatest aim is to keep cool,
-        Nor cross the Stygian ferries.
-
-      Cremators seem to pine for fire,
-      Nor would we quench their warm desire,
-      Though our hope is something higher,
-        We here would mildly mention:
-      If they their loved ones would ignite,
-      And think a burning bier is right,
-      Why let them take a fiery flight
-        “Where they pave with good intention.”
-
-
-ALONE.
-
-      Hers is a rayless night;
-      No star or gleam of light
-      Beams o’er the widow’s blight,
-        As she sits alone.
-      Oh! could her tears that flow,
-      Wash out her woman’s woe,
-      Brown every sorrow’s throe
-        And misery’s moan.
-
-      She has a sunless sky,
-      Sadly to sit and sigh,
-      Her hope is but to die
-        And end the pain;
-      She thinks of other days
-      When life had sunny rays,
-      Such thoughts as nearly craze
-        Her busy brain.
-
-      Crushed hopes crowding come,
-      Dead joys, in a darkened home,
-      Lost love so lately known,
-        Make life so drear;
-      What is there left her now?
-      What peace has earth to show?
-      What bliss can life bestow
-        That once was dear?
-
-      She sits in twilight dim,
-      Vainly awaiting him,
-      Watching the shadows grim
-        Go faintly past;
-      Till night, lone and still,
-      Veils earth, dark and chill,
-      How kind could sorrow kill
-        By one cold blast.
-
-      But there she sits alone,
-      Lists for that tender tone,
-      Lately it was her own,
-        Fondly to hear;
-      How all is still and cold,
-      No ray can hope unfold,
-      Her young heart has grown old
-        In one short year.
-
-      Life’s early winter ’s come,
-      Clouded her happy home,
-      Made grief and woe her own,
-        Heartsore and sad;
-      Who could existence crave?
-      Her love is in the grave;
-      Would she die and save
-        Her going mad!
-
-      Heart bowed in deep despair,
-      Oh, God! hear thou her prayer;
-      Let time her loss repair,
-        And spring once more
-      Smile o’er her clouded years;
-      Give her the hope that cheers,
-      Wipe out her widow’s tears
-        And peace restore.
-
-
-A CRITIQUE ON THE MORRIS LYCEUM.
-
-      The first on the list is President Boyce,
-      “The head of the heap,” and the Lyceum’s choice,
-      Whose seeming set habits in bachelor ways
-      Is all that robs him of womanly praise.
-
-      The next that comes under my critical pen,
-      At the president’s table sits fair Mrs. Glenn,
-      A lady so rich in pleasing pen powers
-      That we oftentimes wish her minutes were hours.
-
-      And then Mr. Cole, so sober and sage,
-      Whose late recitations have been quite the rage;
-      He, too, ’s in the market--I beg you won’t tell,
-      For the girls will pursue him and find it a “sell.”
-
-      Now dear Mrs. Goodrich, our matron of mind,
-      Who can be both Biddy and Lady combined;
-      With much versatility, logic and fun,
-      We welcome her always as “A Number one.”
-
-      In _strides_ Mr. Hollister, tall and profound,
-      Who refuses to see when a laugh may be found;
-      Who relishes Bennett’s rejecting Miss May,
-      As though the stale tidings were fresh of to-day.
-
-      Then chimes the “sweet singer,” Miss Huston--Ah, me!
-      What would the Lyceum do without thee?
-      With her silverest tones and dreamiest look,
-      To recite the sad “Bells” and sing the sweet “Brook.”
-
-      In _trips_ Enoch Taylor with humor and fun,
-      As “Dundreary,” or “Paddy,” or “George Washington;”
-      He has a strong weakness for “Widow Bedotte,”
-      Indeed, for all widows a weakness he’s got.
-
-      See the bright star, May Donally, rise,
-      Whose musical voice and luminous eyes
-      Make her so brilliant in reading and song,
-      We wish we could teach her refusing was wrong.
-
-      Boyd, the “tall barrister,” drawls out his say
-      In his sensible, lazy, lack-a-daisical way;
-      He declaims or debates, according to choice;
-      He’s a bachelor, having no partner but Boyce.
-
-      Then Mrs. Thorne, whose husband is Joe,
-      Smilingly reads, in tones soft and low,
-      Good articles, essays, poems or prose--
-      She’s happy at any you choose to propose.
-
-      Now comes Col. Finch, so jolly and jocose,
-      Who lately, I think, got slightly morose
-      Because “Brother Watkins” fell flat on our ears,
-      And failed to bring any spectators to tears.
-
-      Mr. Babbitt’s a name suggestive of soap,
-      Clean records and linen, and giving a scope
-      For a lawyer of merit, who’s modest and shy,
-      To make him a mixture to “concentrate lye.”
-
-      Then Mrs. Jones and Coffin come in,
-      Gentle, sweet readers as ever have been;
-      Selected to serve in meter or prose,
-      They recite “ready made” or sweetly compose.
-
-      Mr. Baker, who next breaks out in debate,
-      Is a favorite here, and I think I may state
-      Our friends will find it instructive delight
-      Attending his lecture here, next Friday night.
-
-      Welcome Miss Fish and Miss Boyd, in their turn,
-      Who know so much now they have little to learn;
-      They give us at times an essay or two,
-      Well written and read, and then they are through.
-
-      Now pretty dame Stone is a _hard_ name to puff,
-      And to stick to the truth would be very rough;
-      For the gents, as she reads, the author defies,
-      And lose their ideas in the light of her eyes.
-
-      Col. Taylor, the “chronic debater,” appears,
-      Who argues regardless of scruples or fear;
-      Our “smiling attorney” don’t fret about sin,
-      But espouses the cause that’s surest to win.
-
-      The sensible, cynical Simpson Glenn,
-      Scares us and scathes us with critical pen;
-      He’s not over pious, I’ve heard people say,
-      But would be a Christian, were the Tempter away.
-
-      McLaughlin, why will you persistently part
-      Your hair in the middle, thus touching the heart
-      Of the girls of our church? I think it is wrong;
-      For forgiveness you’ll have to sing us a song.
-
-      Now sweet Mrs. Worth, our directress and guide,
-      Her name and her nature so closely allied;
-      Her gay, happy face and her laughing, bright eyes,
-      Are a light in the Lyceum the male members prize.
-
-      Mr. Goodrich writes quaintly, a style of his own,
-      But favors us seldom, if we let him alone;
-      His smiling refusals don’t quite fill the bill,
-      Though he fancies the sugar will cover the pill.
-
-      See, brilliant and bright as an evening star,
-      Our “brunette contralto,” Lucebia LeBarr;
-      With Miss Mary Taylor, whose talent is fine,
-      Executes harmonies almost divine.
-
-      In _stalks_ Frederick Peer, the “tragedian knight,”
-      So happy in “Hamlet,” so good to recite
-      The “Wreck” or the “Richards” either one, two or three--
-      A Booth in the future I think I foresee.
-
-      Now gentle Miss Conkling, of rustic renown,
-      Has kindly consented to honor the town
-      And favor our meetings, in spite of the trains,
-      And cheer us and charm us with musical strains.
-
-      The next new delight we wish to impart
-      Will be in the person of Johnny B. Hart;
-      So modest in manner, so earnest in mind,
-      Has piety, talent, good nature combined.
-
-      By the way, he will lecture on the 10th of this May
-      Concerning Victoria’s blest reign of to-day;
-      With so fine a speaker and pleasant a theme,
-      The church will be filled with “_la crème de la crème_.”
-
-      In _pops_ pungent Pape, with his poem from Poe,
-      Distorted, dissected till you hardly would know
-      How it could of all grace be so thoroughly shaven,
-      Could the poet arise I know he’d be “Raven.”
-
-      Last though not _least_, is Mrs. E. Taylor,
-      Of fair ones of forty, I think I’ve seen _frailer_!
-      But she’s blest with _one_ beauty, she never gets blue--
-      Not even in bidding the Lyceum adieu.
-
-
-NIGHT’S PHASES.
-
-      In sable mantle wrapt at rest,
-        Behold the glorious, gorgeous night,
-      Its firmament in splendor dressed
-        Its canopy the starry height,
-      Whose sparks illume and light the land,
-      And make e’en darkness bright and grand.
-
-      Then comes the moon with silver glow,
-        Whose mellow rays both charm and cheer,
-      Benignly blessing all below,
-        Before whose brightness disappear
-      Clouds and shadows, mists and shades,
-      Till silver sheen all earth pervades.
-
-      And then the mild, soft summer night,
-        With genial zephyrs, gentle dews,
-      Whose balmy breath wafts rich delight
-        O’er summer slopes where nightly strews
-      The ripened roses’ perfumed leaves,
-      Nor _robs_ the flower that it bereaves.
-
-      Then comes the frosty winter night,
-        With crystal boughs and icy brooks,
-      With snow-capped hills, afar and white,
-        A-lending light to earth’s dark nooks,
-      Diffusing rays and borrowed gleams
-      O’er darkened woods and shaded streams.
-
-      And then behold the dreary night,
-        Without the spell of moon or stars,
-      Whose somber silence seems to blight
-        Earth’s finest phase, and chills and mars
-      The lonesome landscape, crowds the mind
-      With weird, wild fancies undefined;
-
-      And gives each form a phantom shape,
-        Creating visions gaunt and grim,
-      And, as a pall that mourners drape,
-        The clouds surround the shadows dim,
-      Filling the heart with nameless fears,
-      Till night’s dull darkness disappears.
-
-
-THE FOUNDLING.
-
-      As I sat by my window one cool autumn eve,
-        And watched the dim shades on the opposite lawn,
-      From my silent surroundings sweet fancies I weave,
-        Unmindful of time and the approach of the dawn.
-      There I sat in the quiet and beauty of night,
-      Till the sentinel stars grew dim with the light.
-
-      When recalled to myself from the silence around,
-        While Nature was sleeping in peaceful repose,
-      By the meager approach of a weak, wailing sound,
-        Which on the night air at intervals rose,
-      Growing faint and fainter as the evening chill
-      Crept over the landscape so somber and still.
-
-      Whence comes that faint cry so plaintive and thrilling,
-        That dies on the air at each waft of the breeze?
-      Why creeps o’er my heart this sensation so chilling,
-        As I listen enchained ’mid the rustle of trees?
-      At length all is quiet but the night-watch’s tread,
-      So I hasten beside him, and tell him my dread.
-
-      Together we seek in the dimness of dawn,
-        ’Mid grass and dead leaves becovered with dew,
-      To unravel the mystery heard on the lawn;
-        And the darkness dispelling, we find it too true,
-      That a babe, sweet and chubby, but a week or two old,
-      Is lying neglected alone in the cold.
-
-      In a coarse blanket-shawl, soiled, ragged, and old,
-        Lay the poor little sleeper, the picture of grief,
-      Aweary with weeping and hunger and cold,
-        Kind nature had brought it this happy relief,
-      Its downy cheeks wet with the cold evening dew,
-      Its chubby fists doubled and dimpled and blue.
-
-      A moment we gazed on its rude little bed,
-        And wondered what misery it must atone,
-      Why it was left there--what mystery led
-        To expose it to perish, forsaken, alone,
-      Was it treachery, wickedness, want, or woe,
-      That tempted the mother to abandon it so?
-
-      I lifted the babe from the damp, chilly ground,
-        Which awakened the sleeper from its sobbing repose,
-      And casting a startled and wild look around,
-        It nestled again in an infantile doze,
-      While I carried it home to fire and food,
-      Dressed it more cleanly, less common and rude.
-
-      A sweet little girl, fat, rosy, and fair,
-        By Nature’s endowments all any could crave,
-      With gentle blue eyes and light downy hair
-        (On a snowy broad brow), inclining to wave;
-      In form sweetly perfect, in face near divine;
-      For such do our wealthy ones daily repine.
-
-      This poor little waif, unwelcomed has come,
-        Been rescued by chance from hunger and cold,
-      How early life’s trials for it have begun,
-        How many new fears may its future unfold!
-      Left helpless and homeless to strangers alone,
-      With not even a name to claim as its own.
-
-      Now the watchman returns for his foundling care.
-        I resign it reluctantly into his arms,
-      The babe is adrift again--O whither and where?
-        Will it find security from life’s alarms?
-      It may never know father nor mother nor home,
-      Kind heaven protect it from evils to come.
-
-
-THE NEW YEAR.
-
-      The year is an infant, new-born and pure-hearted,
-        No blur on its beauty, no tear on its cheek;
-      How long will it last, when the calendar ’s started,
-        In innocent purity? How soon will it reek
-      With sorrow and sinfulness, woe and unkindness,
-      Till the whole year is blotted with error and blindness?
-
-      Each happy new year brings good resolutions,
-        Which wane and wear out ere the change of the moon;
-      We picture new plans at each revolution,
-        Which we find, when to late, have failed us too soon,
-      And our visions of happiness, pleasure, and cheerfulness
-      Are changed, ere the end, to sorrow and tearfulness.
-
-      Oh, would that this year, unlike all preceding,
-        Could show a clean record of well-kept resolves--
-      Good plans well perfected, fair promises heeding--
-        Instead of a picture that daily dissolves;
-      Then, indeed, would our future be free from all care,
-      Were our pledges and vows kept all through the year.
-
-
-SPRING SPECIALTIES.
-
-      Spring smacks of lamb and peas and eggs,
-        Of rural trips and pleasure,
-      New jaunty hats, and pants with legs
-        A yard around would measure;
-      Of light cloth suits for gents to wear,
-        And kilted skirts for ladies,
-      Who sally out to get the air
-        When the house is hot as Hades;
-      It tells of times when overcoats
-        Are being pawned for summer,
-      When furs are in the camphor chest,
-        And each officious drummer
-      Commences sale of china glue
-        And extra patent polish,
-      When heads of houses gladly would
-        Each canvasser demolish;
-      When brush and broom, and soap and sand
-        Are order of the season;
-      When cleaning paint and scrubbing floors
-        Would rob you of your reason;
-      When home looks damp, and smells of suds,
-        And dust and dirt are plenty;
-      There’s not a happy husband then--
-        I’m sure not one in twenty--
-      And the only hope they have to cheer,
-      The season comes but once a year.
-
-
-MUSIC.
-
-      Music, blest of all the arts,
-        We prize thy melting measures,
-      What other power so imparts
-      The magic to awaken hearts?
-      We’d have a line of crowned Mozarts
-        To tune our lives to pleasures.
-
-      Music soothes the infant’s sighs,
-        And lulls its baby slumbers;
-      Its charms cement domestic ties,
-      Each home its mellow measures prize;
-      It kindred hearts will harmonize
-        And chain by tuneful numbers.
-
-      Music cheers the bridal hours,
-        Each happiness it heightens;
-      It stirs, it animates, empowers
-      The love and hope that may be ours,
-      And ripens buds of bliss to flowers,
-        And every blessing brightens.
-
-      Music stirs the warrior’s fire,
-        And goads him on to glory;
-      It kindles every brave desire
-      That love of country can inspire,
-      And makes the hero’s heart beat higher
-        To ’dorn a patriot story.
-
-      The church’s choicest gift and best;
-        Its harmony and gladness,
-      Music’s strains, religion’s zest,
-      The Christian’s cheering balm and rest,
-      When hope seems dark, and heart depressed
-        It charms away the sadness.
-
-      Last, music of the funeral train,
-        So slowly, sweetly sighing;
-      It softens weeping mourners’ pain;
-      It tells of rapture we’ll regain
-      When heavenly transports we attain,
-        And soothes the dread of dying.
-
-
-THE FAIR APE OF PHILA.
-
-          We have just read the news,
-          Which gave us the blues,
-      That a monkey was born in that city;
-          An honor so rare
-          We wanted to share,
-      So jealousy seasoned our pity.
-
-          To have the fair ape
-          Show its infantile shape
-      First out in that public garden,
-          So far away from
-          Her country and kind,
-          Aloof from her comrades
-          She never may find,
-          Nor the trees of the tropics,
-          For which she has pined,
-      Her case is truly a hard one.
-
-          This young kangaroo
-          Born out at the Zoo,
-      Made a ripple in public feeling,
-          Which gushes and glows,
-          And clamors and crows,
-          Unjointing at once,
-          Each Darwinian nose,
-      All love from _foreign_ apes stealing.
-
-          A Quakeress monkey
-          Is a curious thing,
-      A grave and gay combination;
-          Its infantile antics
-          ’Twill have to bring
-          Into sober sedateness;
-          And, poor little thing,
-          Away all its native
-          Amusements must fling
-      To claim its Quaker relation.
-
-          We can’t help thinking
-          ’Twould have been for the best,
-          Could this fair young ape
-          Been born out West,
-          Though the Darwin theory goes to prove
-      Its _right_ to the city of “_Brotherly Love_.”
-
-
-DECORATION ODE.
-
-      Bring fragrant flowers, rich and rare,
-      Let wreathes and roses scent the air.
-      Go strew them freely o’er the graves
-      Of buried heroes, sainted braves.
-      The noisy din of war is o’er,
-      The battle drum shall wake no more.
-      Now quietly their bosoms rest,
-      Those silent hearts by valor blest.
-      On sacred soil their ashes lie,
-      Blest beneath a summer sky;
-      Their deeds of glory, brave and bold,
-      Their valiant will, their dying told,
-      Their honest hearts were in the strife,
-      For liberty they gave their life.
-      May every patriot in our land
-      Beside those sainted heroes stand,
-      And fill their names with warrior praise,
-      And deck their graves with lasting bays.
-      May woman’s gentle, soothing voice
-      Now sing sweet anthems and rejoice,
-      That, as she wreathes the flowers o’er
-      The mounds of loved ones, now no more,
-      Their names and deeds will ever bloom,
-      While flowers fade upon their tomb.
-      They’ve fought their earthly battles well,
-      We’d crown them all with immortelle.
-
-
-THE HONEYMOON.
-
-          With “loves” and “doves”
-          And white kid gloves
-      The “honeymoon” will wane away;
-          Each turn ’s a kiss,
-          This new-born bliss
-      Will last for thirty days, they say.
-
-          With gifts and glances
-          And wedding dances,
-      The time speeds onward far too fast;
-          Such blushing, sighing,
-          There’s no denying
-      This novel love ’s too sweet to last.
-
-          They love and languish
-          In blissful anguish,
-      Till all around swims with delight;
-          Their vows and pledges
-          Set your teeth on edges,
-      And they “bill and coo” till it dims your sight.
-
-          They seem so spooney
-          They’re almost luny,
-      This pair so lately joined in one.
-          They loll and linger,
-          Toy with hand and finger,
-      And think life’s pleasures just begun.
-
-          Mistaken mortals!
-          Life’s opening portals
-      Admit a glare too bright too last;
-          And “loves young dream,”
-          Which now may seem
-      Elysian joy, will soon be past.
-
-
-THE MODEL MAN.
-
-      I have an ambition to try to portray
-        In rhythm a masculine model;
-      So seldom such rarities brighten my way
-      To the fields of wild fancy I’m driven to stray,
-      And to paint my ideal in a rhyming array
-        Will force me the muses to coddle.
-
-      Well, this model of mine is married, of course,
-        For how could a bachelor be one?
-      So I gauge him by marital morals and force;
-      As a husband, he merits a crown for a cross,
-      For he acts as a beau instead of a boss--
-        I’d go to the moon to see one.
-
-      He seldom or never goes out after night,
-        As other men do, less devoted.
-      To lodges and clubs, and to see every sight,
-      Whether it be wrong or whether it be right;
-      He never comes home either cranky or tight--
-        A fact which should be duly noted.
-
-      He never comes in from the office and cowls
-        If dinner is late or not ready,
-      Nor frowns nor feazes, nor fusses nor howls,
-      Nor goes round the house and grumbles and growls,
-      Nor blesses the knife as he cuts up the fowls,
-        But always seems happy and steady.
-
-      He’s a model, indeed--content on a crust.
-        No sighing for honor or riches;
-      He’s as blind as a bat to cob-webs and dust;
-      Nor any domestic derangement or rust
-      Would he notice for worlds, for fear of a muss--
-        His thoughtfulness truly bewitches.
-
-      A buttonless shirt, or a hole in his hose,
-        He views with happy contentment.
-      Nor savagely scowls if his best Sunday clothes
-      Get mussed in the closet; nor blusters nor blows,
-      Nor curses the rocker for stumping his toes;
-        My model is free from resentment.
-
-      He never keeps letters for days in his hat
-        That I give him to mail in the morning,
-      But mails them at once, so punctual and pat.
-      Whether it’s from duty or fear of a spat,
-      I’m prepared not to say; I only know that
-        He mails them without further warning.
-
-      He never complains of long dry goods bills,
-        Nor squirms when the shoe bill ’s presented;
-      Nor scolds nor scowls when the milliner fills
-      A long sheet of foolscap with bonnets and frills,
-      But pays like a _man_, if it breaks him or kills,
-        With an air that’s resigned and contented.
-
-      And then too, he’s ever so ready to go,
-        At the sound of the slightest suggestion,
-      To the opera, theater, lecture, or show;
-      Consenting at once, he never says no,
-      Nor looks bored and cross if it’s stupid or slow,
-        But retains the same happy expression.
-
-      He does not complain, in our travels, of trunks,
-        Or baskets, or bundles, or boxes,
-      But smilingly looks at the over-stored bunks
-      In happy complacence--never worries or spunks;
-      This model of mine ’s no cross, surly lunks,
-        But a martyr quite equal to Fox’s.
-
-      My ideal man don’t growl for a week,
-        Should I get a few duds for my travels,
-      But gives money and time, to sew and to seek
-      New dresses and wraps, too many to speak,
-      And seems to enjoy each extravagant freak
-        That the mystery of toilet unravels.
-
-      Some men will forget in their every-day lives
-        The courtesies due to their spouses;
-      They get kind of used to their homes and their wives,
-      Neglecting the walks, the chats, and the drives,
-      Upon which connubial happiness thrives;
-        But devotion in mine never drowses.
-
-      Now, gents, stop your blushing; I did not intend
-      To step on the toes of a single male friend.
-      Your modesty might personalities dread,
-      So I will say that this model depicted--_is dead_.
-
-
-THE STRICKEN SOUTH.
-
-[SUMMER OF 1878.]
-
-      The pestilence that gaunt and grim
-        Stalks through our sunny land,
-      Leaves traces marked with misery
-        In many a broken band;
-      It scatters friends and severs ties,
-        And makes whole cities wail,
-      Neglected dead unburied lies
-        To tell the mournful tale.
-
-      One fickle moon has scarcely passed
-        Since first that blighting blow
-      Crushed hopes of years--all aims of life
-        Seemed paralyzed with woe;
-      Bereavement, blight, and bitterness
-        Reign o’er our stricken land,
-      And leave the lone and desolate
-        Beside their dead to stand.
-
-      Their sunny skies in beauty smile
-        O’er scores of scenes of woe,
-      And seem to mock the misery
-        The fatal records show;
-      Dread burdens every waft of breeze
-        Which pestilence imparts;
-      The very balmy air they breathe
-        Brings poison to their hearts.
-
-      Their streets deserted, kindred fled,
-        All busy life is still;
-      Their household gods all scattered lie
-        Before death’s dauntless will;
-      A grave-like silence reigns supreme,
-        No sound but moans and sighs
-      That echoes on the quiet air
-        As some new victim dies.
-
-      Fond lips that prayed but yesterday
-        Around the social hearth,
-      Are closed in death’s oblivion
-        And mute to sounds of earth;
-      Babes and mothers rest as one
-        Beneath the silent sod,
-      Together summoned sire and son
-        Before the bar of God.
-
-      For bleeding hearts and stricken homes
-        We plead thy pitying care,
-      And beg for mercy at thy will,
-        Oh, God! hear thou our prayer;
-      Relent, and stay the messenger
-        That lurks at every door;
-      Retard his ruthless ravages
-        And health and hope restore.
-
-
-“IF EVER I CEASE TO LOVE.”
-
-      Then let the sun with rosy light
-      No longer shine, nor moon by night
-      Her mellow rays around, above,
-      Illume--if I should cease to love.
-
-      May starry heights grow dim and dark,
-      In absence of that heavenly spark,
-      All Nature’s gems in skies above
-      Suspend--if I should cease to love.
-
-      May dancing rills and crystal brooks
-      Rejoice no more mid shady nooks,
-      Nor wind in glee through moonlit grove
-      Or glen--if I should cease to love.
-
-      Without this magic spark divine
-      To warm and cheer this heart of mine,
-      Nor earth beneath nor heaven above,
-      Could compensate for loss of love.
-
-      The moon and stars, the sun and air,
-      The joyous birds and flowers rare,
-      All to me would worthless prove,
-      If ever I should cease to love.
-
-      This lovely land, these sunny skies,
-      No charm would have for loveless eyes,
-      No song from hall or sight from grove
-      Enchant--if I should cease to love.
-
-
-AN APPEAL FOR THE MEMPHIS ORPHANS.
-
-[_Recited at the St. Paul’s Children’s Social by Joe. E. Young,
-1878._]
-
-      We are happy to meet you,
-      In gladness we greet you,
-        A welcome to all we extend;
-      Your happy, bright faces
-      Show nothing but traces
-        Which kindness and charity lend.
-
-      While we revel in pleasure,
-      Let’s try in a measure
-        To remember our brothers abroad,
-      Who are suffering and sighing,
-      And in misery crying,
-        For comforts they can not afford.
-
-      One short, fatal season
-      Has given them reason
-        For deploring their sorrows for years;
-      Taken father and mother,
-      And sister and brother,
-        And left them alone in their tears.
-
-      With no one to love them
-      But the Father above them,
-        No home but the one in the skies;
-      No hope for the morrow
-      To soften their sorrow,
-        No mother to quiet their cries.
-
-      To the cold care of strangers,
-      And the world’s many dangers,
-        Their lot in the future is cast:
-      They will miss every hour
-      The sweet, soothing power
-        Of the love that now lives in the past.
-
-      So, comrades, we pray you,
-      Let no motive stay you
-        From helping the orphans in need;
-      Their friends are all taken,
-      Their homes all forsaken,
-        Their childhood’s a desert indeed.
-
-
-WAITING FOR FROST.
-
-      In the silence of night,
-        In the dullness of day,
-      When disease and distress
-        Hold pre-eminent sway;
-      The sad, stricken souls
-        In their misery tossed,
-      Now yearningly sigh
-        For the coming of frost.
-
-      The friends and afflicted
-        Watch evening and morn,
-      For a waft of cool breeze,
-        That a hope may be borne
-      To the souls of the sighing,
-        Whose life it may cost,
-      This continued and fatal
-        Delay of the frost.
-
-      Their hopes still deferred
-        Each day brings regret,
-      While the suffering die,
-        And the end is not yet.
-      Fond wish of the weary,
-        Chilled, blighted, and crossed,
-      Each day disappointed,
-        In the coming of frost.
-
-      By the bed of the dying,
-        By the side of the bier,
-      The bereaved ones sit sighing
-        In sorrow and fear;
-      And others, deserted,
-        In agony tossed
-      On their feverish couch
-        Are praying for frost.
-
-      Oh, who can half measure
-        The sorrow and gloom
-      That enshrouds our fair land
-        Like a dark, dreary tomb.
-      May God in his mercy,
-        Ere hope is all lost,
-      Relentingly hasten
-        The coming of frost.
-
-  MEMPHIS, _Oct. 1878_.
-
-
-OCTOBER.
-
-      October winds are softly sighing
-        Through the stately oaks and pines,
-      Autumn leaves are wildly flying
-        As all nature now declines;
-      Brightly through the varied branches
-        Breaks the slanting autumn sun,
-      And chirping through the thinning bushes
-        See the swallows homeward come.
-
-      As I watch decaying nature
-        That surrounds our rural home,
-      Revel in these autumn glories,
-        Listen to the soft wind’s moan.
-      See the leaves from green to golden
-        Change their summer hue and fall,
-      The flowers fade, the branches wither,
-        It seems the “common lot of all.”
-
-      In life we find a fleeting springtime,
-        Rife with fancy’s wildest dream,
-      But giving early place to summer,
-        Which with ripened beauties teem;
-      Then comes autumn, sober autumn,
-        Roses scattered, hopes decayed,
-      When spring dreams and summer beauty
-        With life’s flowery fancies fade.
-
-      But the pensive, sad reflections,
-        Musing on those autumn days,
-      Imparts to us a saddened pleasure,
-        Surrounds our life with gentle haze;
-      Takes us through the faded flowers,
-        Crushed and scattered ’neath our tread;
-      Leads us through forsaken bowers,
-        Shows us nature withered--dead.
-
-  “OAKLAWN,” Memphis, Tenn.
-
-
-GEO. FRANCIS TRAIN,
-
-THE WILD WIT OF THE DAY.
-
-      Variable, versatile, stormy, and wild,
-      At times we’re entranced, and then again riled
-      At his wayward remarks and blustering strain,
-      Peculiar alone to Geo. Francis Train.
-
-      Original ever his words and his ways,
-      But orthodox seldom in aught that he says;
-      His fancy, so fertile, takes many a flight,
-      But leaves Truth and Religion quite out of sight.
-
-      Ambitious, progressive, political scion,
-      Reminding us oft of a wild, roaring lion,
-      Uncaged and untamed in a woody domain,
-      A manner peculiar to Geo. Francis Train.
-
-      His lectures all seem so wild and erratic,
-      His manner, at times, so raving, dramatic,
-      In a whirlwind of passion he prances and strides,
-      Then subdues--and his rage into poetry glides.
-
-      A perfect enigma, and a genius as well,
-      A tornado, a storm, and then comes a spell
-      Of brightness and sunshine, ’mid thunder and rain,
-      Peculiar alone to Geo. Francis Train.
-
-      Ambitious of honors, position and fame,
-      Determined to win a notorious name,
-      His wish, you will see, in every oration,
-      Is deathless desire to govern the nation!
-
-      To help on his cause, he solicits the aid
-      Of all colors and sexes and sorts ever made;
-      Generous indeed--he’s the workingman’s friend!
-      To hear him--he has only a dollar to spend!
-
-      Glorious republic! If the prophecy ’s true,
-      When Train is elected--we’ll have nothing to do
-      But enjoy perfect peace abroad and at home,
-      The nation will think the millennium ’s come!
-
-
-WASHINGTON’S BIRTHDAY.
-
-      As years roll on and ages pass,
-        This name of martial glory
-      Leaves traces on the calendar,
-        Which tell the yearly story
-      Of this our “prince of patriots’” birth,
-      The bravest, boldest, best of earth,
-      Whose mighty will and warrior worth
-        Won battles great and gory.
-
-      It tells of valor long since gone,
-        Of victories commended,
-      Of wonders seen and wonders told,
-      Of buried braves and heroes bold,
-      Cast in nature’s choicest mold,
-        Now on earth’s bosom blended.
-
-      We sigh in sadness o’er the wreck
-        Of this historic season,
-      We’d have its pleasures all return,
-      We’d have its patriot bosoms burn,
-      We’d have our nation ever spurn
-        The slightest trace of treason.
-
-      We’d wander through memorial halls
-        In quest of antique treasures,
-      We’d linger round those storied walls,
-        Renewing bygone pleasures,
-      And wishing for that olden time,
-      When our dead hero, in his prime,
-        Contested unjust measures.
-
-      We’d hear of battles lost and won,
-        Of dangers braved and ended,
-      We’d hear of patriots, long since gone,
-        Whom nature most intended
-      To live in fame and memory
-      Throughout a long eternity.
-
-      We’d have our sainted warrior’s name,
-        So famed in song and story,
-      And rendered to our memories dear
-        By records of its glory,
-      Kept green on history’s sacred pages,
-      From now throughout the lapse of ages.
-
-
-
-
-ADIEU TO “MY DEAR FIVE HUNDRED.”
-
-
-We seldom see a preface in the back of a book, or a frontispiece
-in the middle, but as I have always been considered a little
-eccentric, I will make a new departure, and thank my indulgent
-readers here for their patient perusal of these pages. I locate
-these honeyed words in the rear as a reward of merit to any one
-that is martyr enough to reach them by the regular route, and those
-that have not energy and endurance enough to do so deserve to lose
-these chunks of wisdom and words of cheer. In the preceding poems
-are depicted sentiments to suit my changing moods; streaks of
-mirth and wails of misery; childhood’s mischief and woman’s woe; a
-mixture of ecstasy and agony, to suit “the gay or the grave, the
-lively or severe.” Now, should they fail to find a responsive echo
-in my readers’ hearts, then is “Othello’s occupation gone,” and I
-will fold my hands, dry my quill, dismiss my muse, and write no
-more.
-
-
-
-
-  TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
-
-  Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
-  corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
-  the text and consultation of external sources.
-
-  Poetic contractions have been treated consistently. Common
-  contractions with is or has [such as she’s, there’s, that’s] have
-  no space, but less common ones have retained the space usually but
-  not always found in the original book [such as night ’s, turn ’s,
-  mine ’s].
-
-  The space has been removed from other common phrases with
-  contractions, for example ’T was has been changed to ’Twas,
-  can ’t has been changed to can’t.
-
-  Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,
-  and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.
-
-  Table of Contents: ‘My Childhood’ replaced by ‘My Infancy’.
-  Pg 10: ‘Another seige was’ replaced by ‘Another siege was’.
-  Pg 13: ‘towsled hair’ replaced by ‘tousled hair’.
-  Pg 53: ‘My trosseau’ replaced by ‘My trousseau’.
-  Pg 55: ‘A could not see’ replaced by ‘I could not see’.
-  Pg 56: ‘It made be overrate’ replaced by ‘It made me overrate’.
-  Pg 92: ‘He wooes this’ replaced by ‘He woos this’.
-  Pg 94: ‘with gilded mein’ replaced by ‘with gilded mien’.
-  Pg 109: ‘pretty dame Stone’s is’ replaced by ‘pretty dame Stone is’.
-  Pg 128: ‘sober sedatenees’ replaced by ‘sober sedateness’.
-  Pg 140: ‘In absense of that’ replaced by ‘In absence of that’.
-
-
-
-
-
-End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A-Naughty-Biography and other poems, by 
-Mrs. Enoch Taylor
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