City Ballads Part 17

Look East! The Nation's castle walls Spread out in ma.s.sive beauty now; Their lofty dome and pictured halls In homage to this summit bow.

Oh, well that from these palaced lands The marble spire obeisance win; But for the one for whom it stands, This chieftain-town had never been!

Yon plot, so full of brain and will, Had staid a bleak and lonely hill!

If at five thousand dizzy feet This shaft the whirling clouds could meet, Until our gaze for miles, might be, To the uncrowned but royal sea, 'Twere not too much of honor then, To grant our crownless king of men.

You who the Nation's laws indite, Look to this summit's honest white, Where, throned on walls that must endure, Pure fame entreats you to be pure; Until our glory be increased, Like sunbeams from the dazzling East!

Look West! There lie the hilly fields Where brothers fought through days of dread, Where mothers brooded o'er their dead, And soil the thrift of carnage yields; Where cannon roared and bullets sung, Till every hillock had a tongue.

O Nation being and to be, That silent blood speaks loud to thee!

G.o.d grant, if e'er our guns again Must tear the quivering flesh of men, The leaden hail-storm may be pressed Against some foul invader's breast-- Against some alien tribe and zone-- And not, as then, to kill our own!

May all the fruitful strifes of peace The thrilling bonds of love increase; May yonder orb, in his quick change From mountain range to mountain range, From valley to rich valley o'er, From river sh.o.r.e to river sh.o.r.e, From wave to wave--may yonder sun One Nation count, and only one; Until he dips his fiery crest Into the ocean of the West!

Look up! The phantom clouds of gray-- Grim ghosts of storm--have pa.s.sed away; The veiling of the sky is done, And downward shines the welcome sun.

He kindles grand and peaceful fires Upon the city's domes and spires; He sends his strong magnetic glow Through yonder moving throngs below.

Thou art, O sky serene and clear, A symbol of our country here!

What land in all this world of pain, This earth, where millions toil in vain, Where famine, pestilence, and strife Play careless games with human life, Where Superst.i.tion clouds the soul, And heartless brains sad hearts control-- What country, framed in frost or flowers, Can see so clear a sky as ours?

Peace throws her mantle, broad and free, O'er all who peaceable will be; Plenty her sheltering flag doth wave O'er those who will but toil and save; Enlightenment each day shall rise For all who do not cloud their eyes; While Liberty from every race Has made this land a refuge-place.

Let our deep thanks forever fly Far as the reaches of the sky!

[_From Farmer Harrington's Note-book._]

NOVEMBER 5, 18--.

Went to Mount Vernon; and I wouldn't have lost That trip, for fifteen hundred times its cost!

Those farm-lands sleeping in the autumn sun; The house HE slept in when his work was done; The trees he planted with his own brave hand, That set out Freedom's trees all o'er the land: The humble tomb he lies in, which--like me-- Pilgrims from all the world have come to see: These look up in one's eyes and sadly smile, And preach a funeral sermon all the while!

Even the river-boats upon their way Toll bells, as if he'd died that very day!

And through it all this precept may be traced: The n.o.blest men are simplest in their taste.

I've read how grand, Napoleon's tomb is made, And all the surface-honors to him paid; But I don't think the people that come there Bring any heartfelt sympathy to spare; While every true-brained patriot, night and morn, Thanks G.o.d for letting Washington be born!

While I was standing, hat off, at the tomb, A youth approached, three-quarters made of bloom; And with his hat perched on his close-sheared head, And smoking a small white cigar, he said: "Sirrh, would you kindly just enlighten me As to where Gawge cut down the cherry-tree?"

Said I, "Young man, just please at once disgorge The fool-idea of calling that man 'George;'

His body, mind, and soul were firmly set Higher, no doubt, than you will ever get.

He isn't the man, though lying dead, 'tis true, When friends are near, to be half-named by you.

Take off your hat, and bow; if you rebel, I'll get a cherry switch and trounce you well."

He looked at me a moment in surprise, And mutiny stood foremost in his eyes; But I was quite indignant, and could feel The blood of Bunker Hill all through me steal.

I said, "One minute more will be allowed;"

The fine young man took off his hat, and bowed.

Irreverence is the fashion, nowadays, And shows itself in good and evil ways; Its mission is legitimate and clear In cases where there's nothing to revere; But they who use it must be judgment-fixed, And not get reverend and unreverend _mixed_.

[_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._]

Through these broad streets do I fly-- Furlongs and miles I defy, Till the "magnificent distance"

Vanishes out of existence.

Let me with pencil prolong Strains of the Bicycler's Song:

[THE SILENT WHEEL.]

Good-morning, good Pedestrian--I'm glad to see you out; The day is full of healthfulness, the birds are all about; There is a quiet breeziness in all the pleasant air-- I hope this happy exercise will drive away your care.

For I am a pedestrian-- A very good pedestrian-- And all the glowing benefit of walking I can share; Although I tread the atmosphere, and do not touch the ground, I greet you as a brother, sir, wherever you are bound.

But my impatient lady-love in yonder town doth wait; I wish you better company, and strike a swifter gait.

Good-morning, good Equestrian--a n.o.ble steed you ride; I do not seem to frighten him, so here is by your side.

It is a feast of happiness to smoothly bound along, With st.u.r.dy muscles under you, and footing swift and strong.

For I am an equestrian-- A very fair equestrian-- With bugle blast of melody and una.s.suming song; And all the thrilling ecstacy of horsemanship I feel, Although the nag I ride upon was bred of burnished steel.

But his impatience urges me to swifter gait than you, And so I wish you pleasure, sir, and bid a kind adieu.

Good-morning, Mr. Racer, you've a trotter that is fine; I never would disparage him, or say too much of mine; Your horse is full of mettle, sir, and bravely draws his load; It must be pure deliciousness to speed him on the road.

But I am quite a racing man-- A modest, humble racing man-- Though small is my solicitude upon the turf bestowed; And if you have anxiety to try a little race, I'll undertake, with courtesy, to give you second place; But if the first you take from me, and it be fairly earned, I'll hope that on some future day the tables may be turned.

Good-morning, Mr. Carriageer, you have an easy ride; Those cushions are luxurious, and pleasantly you glide!

'Tis very good and fortunate, if one be tired or ill, To calmly call his carriage out, and travel as he will.

But I, sir, keep my carriage, too-- A very pleasant carriage, too-- Though it is not the easy one that _your_ desire would fill; It carries me in comfort over many a pleasant mile, And all my best acquaintances are suited with its style.

'Tis with a blithe economy establishments are run, With driver, footman, pa.s.senger, and horses--all in one!

Good-morning, fellow Wheelmen; here's a warm, fraternal hand, As with a rush of victory we sweep across the land!

If some may be dissatisfied to view the way we ride, We only wish their majesties could wander by our side!

For we are good philanthropists-- Unqualified philanthropists-- And would not have _our_ happiness to any one denied.

We claim a great utility that daily must increase; We claim for inactivity a bright and grand release; A constant mental, physical, and moral help we feel, Which makes us turn enthusiasts, and bless the silent wheel!

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

NOVEMBER 20, 18--.

It's quite a show, and strikes me a good deal-- How many ride around here on a wheel; The streets are graded very smooth and nice, And make this town the wheelman's paradise.

A brother-farmer--neighbor, once, to me-- Who's down here, like myself, to hear and see, Told me, last night, before we "doused the glim,"

How a young wheel-chap got the start of him.

'Twould skip my memory, maybe, if I'd let it; I'll put it down here so I sha'n't forget it.

[FARMER AND WHEEL; OR, THE NEW LOCHINVAR.]

I.

I was hoein' in my corn-field, on a spring day, just at noon, An' a hearkin' in my stomach for the dinner-trumpet's tune, An' reflectin', when my daughter should be married, 'twould be best She should take Josiah Baker's son, who jines me on the west, An' consolidate our acres into one immense abode, When my hired man says, "By ginger, look a-yender down the road!"