Over the sea-ribbed land of the fleet-footed Norsemen,
Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens,--
Ursa, the noblest of all Vikings and horsemen.
Musing he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon,
Where the Aurora lapt stars in a north-polar manner:
Wildly he started,--for there in the heavens before him
Fluttered and flew the original star-spangled banner.
Two objections are in the way of the acceptance of this
anthem by the committee: in the first place, it is not an
anthem at all; secondly, it is a gross plagiarism from an
old Sclavonic war-song of the primeval ages.
Next we quote from a
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY THE HON. EDWARD E----, OF BOSTON.
Ponderous projectiles, hurled by heavy hands,
Fell on our Liberty's poor infant head,
Ere she a stadium had well advanced
On the great path that to her greatness led;
Her temple's propylon, was shatter-ed;
Yet, thanks to saving Grace and Washington,
Her incubus was from her bosom hurled;
And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun,
She took the oil with which her hair was curled
To grease the "hub" round which revolves the world.
This fine production is rather heavy for an "anthem,"
and contains too much of Boston to be considered strictly
national. To set such an "anthem" to music would require
a Wagner; and even were it really accommodated to
a tune, it could only be whistled by the populace.
We now come to a
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY JOHN GREENLEAF W----.
My native land, thy Puritanic stock
Still finds its roots firm bound in Plymouth Rock;
And all thy sons unite in one grand wish,--
To keep the virtues of Preserv-ed Fish.
Preserv-ed Fish, the Deacon stern and true,
Told our New England what her sons should do;
And, should they swerve from loyalty and right,
Then the whole land were lost indeed in night.
The sectional bias of this "anthem" renders it unsuitable
for use in that small margin of the world situated outside
of New England. Hence the above must be rejected.
Here we have a very curious
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY DR. OLIVER WENDELL H----.
A diagnosis of our history proves
Our native land a land its native loves:
Its birth a deed obstetric without peer,
Its growth a source of wonder far and near.
To love it more, behold how foreign shores
Sink into nothingness beside its stores.
Hyde Park at best--though counted ultra grand--
The "Boston Common" of Victoria's land--
The committee must not be blamed for rejecting the above after
reading thus far, for such an "anthem" could only be sung by a
college of surgeons or a Beacon Street tea-party.
Turn we now to a
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY WILLIAM CULLEN B----.
The sun sinks softly to his evening post,
The sun swells grandly to his morning crown;
Yet not a star our flag of heaven has lost,
And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.
So thrones may fall; and from the dust of those
New thrones may rise, to totter like the last;
But still our country's noble planet glows,
While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.
Upon finding that this does not go well to the air of "Yankee Doodle,"
the committee feel justified in declining it; it being furthermore
prejudiced against it by a suspicion that the poet has crowded an
advertisement of a paper which he edits into the first line.
Next we quote from a
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY GENERAL GEORGE P. M----.
In the days that tried our fathers,
Many years ago,
Our fair land achieved her freedom
Blood-bought, you know.
Shall we not defend her ever,
As we'd defend
That fair maiden, kind and tender,
Calling us friend?
Yes! Let all the echoes answer,
From hill and vale;
Yes! Let other nations hearing,
Joy in the tale.
Our Columbia is a lady,
High born and fair,
We have sworn allegiance to her,--
Touch her who dare.
The tone of this "anthem" not being devotional enough to suit the
committee, it should be printed on an edition of linen-cambric
hankerchiefs for ladies especially.
Observe this
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY N. P. W----.
One hue of our flag is taken
From the cheeks of my blushing pet,
And its stars beat time and sparkle
Like the studs on her chemisette.
Its blue is the ocean shadow
That hides in her dreamy eyes,
And it conquers all men, like her,
And still for a Union flies.
Several members of the committee find that this "anthem" has too much of
the Anacreon spice to suit them.
We next peruse a
NATIONAL ANTHEM.
BY THOMAS BAILEY A----.
The little brown squirrel hops in the corn,
The cricket quaintly sings;
The emerald pigeon nods his head,
And the shad in the river springs;
The dainty sunflower hangs its head
On the shore of the summer sea;
And better far that I were dead,
If Maud did not love me.
I love the squirrel that hops in the corn,
And the cricket that quaintly sings;
And the emerald pigeon that nods his head,
And the shad that gayly springs.
I love the dainty sunflower, too,
And Maud with her snowy breast;
I love them all; but I love--I love--
I love my country best.
This is certainly very beautiful, and sounds somewhat like Tennyson.
Though it may be rejected by the committee, it can never lose its value
as a piece of excellent reading for children. It is calculated to fill
the youthful mind with patriotism and natural history, beside touching
the youthful heart with an emotion palpitating for all.
ROBERT H. NEWELL (_Orpheus C. Kerr_).
BELAGCHOLLY DAYS.
Chilly Dovebber with its boadigg blast
Dow cubs add strips the beddow add the lawd,
Eved October's suddy days are past--
Add Subber's gawd!
I kdow dot what it is to which I cligg
That stirs to sogg add sorrow, yet I trust
That still I sigg, but as the liddets sigg--
Because I bust.
Dear leaves that rustle sadly 'death by feet--
By liggerigg feet--add fill by eyes with tears,
Ye bake be sad, add oh! it gars be greet
That ye are sear!
The sud id sulled skies too early sigks;
Do trees are greed but evergreeds add ferds;
Gawd are the orioles add bobligks--
Those Robert Burds!
Add dow, farewell to roses add to birds,
To larded fields and tigkligg streablets eke;
Farewell to all articulated words
I faid would speak.
Farewell, by cherished strolliggs od the sward,
Greed glades add forest shades, farewell to you;
With sorrowigg heart I, wretched add forlord,
Bid you--_achew!!!_
ANONYMOUS.
SNEEZING.
What a moment, what a doubt!
All my nose is inside out,--
All my thrilling, tickling caustic,
Pyramid rhinocerostic,
Wants to sneeze and cannot do it!
How it yearns me, thrills me, stings me,
How with rapturous torment wrings me!
Now says, "Sneeze, you fool,--get through it."
Shee--shee--oh! 'tis most del-ishi--
Ishi--ishi--most del-ishi!
(Hang it, I shall sneeze till spring!)
Snuff is a delicious thing.
LEIGH HUNT.
TO MY NOSE.
Knows he that never took a pinch,
Nosey, the pleasure thence which flows?
Knows he the titillating joys
Which my nose knows?
O nose, I am as proud of thee
As any mountain of its snows;
I gaze on thee, and feel that pride
A Roman knows!
ALFRED A. FORRESTER (_Alfred Crowquill_).
LAPSUS CALAMI.
TO R. K.
Will there never come a season
Which shall rid us from the curse
Of a prose which knows no reason
And an unmelodious verse:
When the world shall cease to wonder
At the genius of an ass,
And a boy's eccentric blunder
Shall not bring success to pass:
When mankind shall be delivered
From the clash of magazines,
And the inkstand shall be shivered
Into countless smithereens:
When there stands a muzzled stripling,
Mute, beside a muzzled bore:
When the Rudyards cease from Kipling
And the Haggards ride no more?
JAMES KENNETH STEPHEN.
A CONSERVATIVE.
The garden beds I wandered by
One bright and cheerful morn,
When I found a new-fledged butterfly,
A-sitting on a thorn,
A black and crimson butterfly,
All doleful and forlorn.
I thought that life could have no sting,
To infant butterflies,
So I gazed on this unhappy thing
With wonder and surprise,
While sadly with his waving wing
He wiped his weeping eyes.
Said I, "What can the matter be?
Why weepest thou so sore?
With garden fair and sunlight free
And flowers in goodly store:"--
But he only turned away from me
And burst into a roar.
Cried he, "My legs are thin and few
Where once I had a swarm!
Soft fuzzy fur--a joy to view--
Once kept my body warm,
Before these flapping wing-things grew,
To hamper and deform!"
At that outrageous bug I shot
The fury of mine eye;
Said I, in scorn all burning hot,
In rage and anger high,
"You ignominious idiot!
Those wings are made to fly!"
"I do not want to fly," said he,
"I only want to squirm!"
And he drooped his wings dejectedly,
But still his voice was firm:
"I do not want to be a fly!
I want to be a worm!"
O yesterday of unknown lack!
To-day of unknown bliss!
I left my fool in red and black,
The last I saw was this,--
The creature madly climbing back
Into his chrysalis.
CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN.
"FOREVER."
Forever! 'T is a single word!
Our rude forefathers deemed it two;
Can you imagine so absurd
A view?
Forever! What abysms of woe
The word reveals, what frenzy, what
Despair! For ever (printed so)
Did not.
It looks, ah me! how trite and tame;
It fails to sadden or appall
Or solace--it is not the same
At all.
O thou to whom it first occurred
To solder the disjoined, and dower
Thy native language with a word
Of power:
We bless thee! Whether far or near
Thy dwelling, whether dark or fair
Thy kingly brow, is neither here
Nor there.
But in men's hearts shall be thy throne,
While the great pulse of England beats:
Thou coiner of a word unknown
To Keats!
And nevermore must printer do
As men did long ago; but run
"For" into "ever," bidding two
Be one.
Forever! passion-fraught, it throws
O'er the dim page a gloom, a glamour:
It's sweet, it's strange; and I suppose
It's grammar.
Forever! 'T is a single word!
And yet our fathers deemed it two:
Nor am I confident they erred;--
Are you?
CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
IV.
INGENUITIES: ODDITIES.
SIEGE OF BELGRADE.
An Austrian army, awfully arrayed,
Boldly by battery besieged Belgrade.
Cossack commanders cannonading come,
Dealing destruction's devastating doom.
Every endeavor engineers essay,
For fame, for fortune fighting,--furious fray!
Generals 'gainst generals grapple--gracious God!
How honors Heaven heroic hardihood!
Infuriate, indiscriminate in ill,
Kindred kill kinsmen, kinsmen kindred kill.
Labor low levels longest loftiest lines;
Men march mid mounds, mid moles, mid murderous mines;
Now noxious, noisy numbers nothing, naught
Of outward obstacles, opposing ought;
Poor patriots, partly purchased, partly pressed,
Quite quaking, quickly "Quarter! Quarter!" quest.
Reason returns, religious right redounds,
Suwarrow stops such sanguinary sounds.
Truce to thee, Turkey! Triumph to thy train,
Unwise, unjust, unmerciful Ukraine!
Vanish, vain victory! vanish, victory vain!
Why wish we warfare? Wherefore welcome were
Xerxes, Ximenes, Xanthus, Xavier?
Yield, yield, ye youths! ye yeomen, yield your yell!
Zeus's, Zarpater's, Zoroaster's zeal,
Attracting all, arms against acts appeal!
ANONYMOUS.
MY LOVE.
I only knew she came and went _Lowell._
Like troutlets in a pool; _Hood._
She was a phantom of delight, _Wordsworth._
And I was like a fool. _Eastman._
One kiss, dear maid, I said, and sighed, _Coleridge._
Out of those lips unshorn: _Longfellow._
She shook her ringlets round her head, _Stoddard._
And laughed in merry scorn. _Tennyson._
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, _Tennyson._
You heard them, O my heart; _Alice Carey._
'T is twelve at night by the castle clock, _Coleridge._
Belovèd, we must part. _Alice Carey._
"Come back, come back!" she cried in grief, _Campbell._
"My eyes are dim with tears, _Bayard Taylor._
How shall I live through all the days? _Osgood._
All through a hundred years?" _T. S. Perry._
'T was in the prime of summer time _Hood._
She blessed me with her hand; _Hoyt._
We strayed together, deeply blest, _Edwards._
Into the dreaming land. _Cornwall._
The laughing bridal roses blow, _Patmore._
To dress her dark-brown hair; _Bayard Taylor._
My heart is breaking with my woe, _Tennyson._
Most beautiful! most rare! _Read._
I clasped it on her sweet, cold hand, _Browning._
The precious golden link! _Smith._
I calmed her fears, and she was calm, _Coleridge._
"Drink, pretty creature, drink." _Wordsworth._
And so I won my Genevieve, _Coleridge._
And walked in Paradise; _Hervey._
The fairest thing that ever grew _Wordsworth._
Atween me and the skies. _Osgood._
ANONYMOUS.
ODE TO THE HUMAN HEART.
Blind Thamyris, and Blind Mæonides, _Milton._
Pursue the triumph and partake the gale! _Pope._
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees, _Shakespeare._
To point a moral or adorn a tale. _Johnson._
Full many a gem of purest ray serene, _Gray._
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears, _Tennyson._
Like angels' visits, few and far between, _Campbell._
Deck the long vista of departed years. _?_
Man never is, but always to be blessed; _Pope._
The tenth transmitter of a foolish face, _Savage._
Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest, _Pope._
And makes a sunshine in the shady place. _Spenser._
For man the hermit sighed, till the woman smiled, _Campbell._
To waft a feather or to drown a fly, _Young._
(In wit a man, simplicity a child,) _Pope._
With silent finger pointing to the sky. _?_
But fools rush in where angels fear to tread, _Pope._
Far out amid the melancholy main; _Thomson._
As when a vulture on Imaus bred, _?_
Dies of a rose in aromatic pain. _Pope._
LAMAN BLANCHARD.
METRICAL FEET.
Trochee trips from long to short;
From long to long in solemn sort
Slow Spondee stalks; strong foot! yet ill able
Ever to come up with dactyl trisyllable.
Iambics march from short to long;--
With a leap and a bound the swift Anapæsts throng;
One syllable long, with one short at each side,
Amphibrachys hastes with a stately stride;--
First and last being long, middle short, Amphimacer
Strikes his thundering hoofs like a proud high-bred racer.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
NOCTURNAL SKETCH.
BLANK VERSE IN RHYME.
Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark,
The signal of the setting sun--one gun!
And six is sounding from the chime, prime time
To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,--
Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,--
Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,
Denying to his frantic clutch much touch;
Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride
Four horses as no other man can span;
Or in the small Olympic pit sit split
Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.
Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things
Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;
The gas upblazes with its bright white light,
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl
About the streets, and take up Pall-Mall Sal,
Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.
Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash,
Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,
But, frightened by Policeman B. 3, flee,
And while they're going, whisper low, "No go!"
Now puss, when folks are in their beds, treads leads,
And sleepers, waking, grumble, "Drat that cat!"
Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls
Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.
Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise
In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor
Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;--
But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed,
Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games,
And that she hears--what faith is man's!--Ann's banns
And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice;
White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out,
That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes!
THOMAS HOOD.
RAILROAD RHYME.
Singing through the forests,
Rattling over ridges;
Shooting under arches,
Rumbling over bridges;
Whizzing through the mountains,
Buzzing o'er the vale,--
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Riding on the rail!
Men of different "stations"
In the eye of fame,
Here are very quickly
Coming to the same;
High and lowly people,
Birds of every feather,
On a common level,
Travelling together.
Gentleman in shorts,
Looming very tall;
Gentleman at large
Talking very small;
Gentleman in tights,
With a loose-ish mien;
Gentleman in gray,
Looking rather green;
Gentleman quite old,
Asking for the news,
Gentleman in black,
In a fit of blues;
Gentleman in claret,
Sober as a vicar;
Gentleman in tweed,
Dreadfully in liquor!
Stranger on the right
Looking very sunny,
Obviously reading
Something rather funny.
Now the smiles are thicker,--
Wonder what they mean!
Faith, he's got the Knicker-
Bocker Magazine!
Stranger on the left
Closing up his peepers;
Now he snores amain,
Like the Seven Sleepers;
At his feet a volume
Gives the explanation,
How the man grew stupid
From "Association"!
Ancient maiden lady
Anxiously remarks,
That there must be peril
'Mong so many sparks;
Roguish-looking fellow,
Turning to the stranger,
Says it's his opinion
_She_ is out of danger!
Woman with her baby,
Sitting _vis-à-vis_;
Baby keeps a-squalling,
Woman looks at me;
Asks about the distance,
Says it 's tiresome talking,
Noises of the cars
Are so very shocking!
Market-woman, careful
Of the precious casket,
Knowing eggs are eggs,
Tightly holds her basket;
Feeling that a smash,
If it came, would surely
Send her eggs to pot,
Rather prematurely.
Singing through the forests,
Rattling over ridges;
Shooting under arches,
Rumbling over bridges;
Whizzing through the mountains,
Buzzing o'er the vale,--
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Riding on the rail!
JOHN GODFREY SAXE.
PHYSICS.
(THE UNCONSCIOUS POETIZING OF A PHILOSOPHER.)
There is no force however great
Can stretch a cord however fine
Into a horizontal line
That shall be accurately straight.
WILLIAM WHEWELL.
THE COLLEGIAN TO HIS BRIDE:
BEING A MATHEMATICAL MADRIGAL IN THE
SIMPLEST FORM.
Charmer, on a given straight line,
And which we will call B C,
Meeting at a common point A,
Draw the lines A C, A B.
But, my sweetest, so arrange it
That they're equal, all the three;
Then you'll find that, in the sequel,
All their angles, too are equal.
Equal angles, so to term them,
Each one opposite its brother!
Equal joys and equal sorrows,
Equal hopes, 'twere sin to smother,
Equal,--O, divine ecstatics,--
Based on Hutton's mathematics!
PUNCH.
THE LAWYER'S INVOCATION TO SPRING.
Whereas, on certain boughs and sprays
Now divers birds are heard to sing,
And sundry flowers their heads upraise,
Hail to the coming on of spring!
The songs of those said birds arouse
The memory of our youthful hours,
As green as those said sprays and boughs,
As fresh and sweet as those said flowers.
The birds aforesaid,--happy pairs,--
Love, mid the aforesaid boughs, inshrines
In freehold nests; themselves, their heirs,
Administrators, and assigns.
O busiest term of Cupid's Court,
Where tender plaintiffs actions bring,--
Season of frolic and of sport,
Hail, as aforesaid, coming spring!
HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.
THE COSMIC EGG.
Upon a rock yet uncreate,
Amid a chaos inchoate,
An uncreated being sate;
Beneath him, rock,
Above him, cloud.
And the cloud was rock,
And the rock was cloud.
The rock then growing soft and warm,
The cloud began to take a form,
A form chaotic, vast, and vague,
Which issued in the cosmic egg.
Then the Being uncreate
On the egg did incubate,
And thus became the incubator;
And of the egg did allegate,
And thus became the alligator;
And the incubator was potentate,
But the alligator was potentator.
ANONYMOUS.
THE HEN.
A famous hen's my story's theme,
Which ne'er was known to tire
Of laying eggs, but then she'd scream
So loud o'er every egg, 't would seem
The house must be on fire.
A turkey-cock, who ruled the walk,
A wiser bird and older,
Could bear 't no more, so off did stalk
Right to the hen, and told her:
"Madam, that scream, I apprehend,
Adds nothing to the matter;
It surely helps the egg no whit;
Then lay your egg, and done with it!
I pray you, madam, as a friend,
Cease that superfluous clatter!
You know not how 't goes through my head."
"Humph! very likely!" madam said,
Then proudly putting forth a leg,--
"Uneducated barnyard fowl!
You know, no more than any owl,
The noble privilege and praise
Of authorship in modern days--
I'll tell you why I do it:
First, you perceive, I lay the egg,
And then--review it."
From the German of MATTHAIAS CLAUDIUS.
ODE--TO THE ROC.
O unhatched Bird, so high preferred,
As porter of the Pole,
Of beakless things, who have no wings,
Exact no heavy toll.
If this my song its theme should wrong,
The theme itself is sweet;
Let others rhyme the unborn time,
I sing the Obsolete.
And first, I praise the nobler traits
Of birds preceding Noah,
The giant clan, whose meat was Man,
Dinornis, Apteryx, Moa.
These, by hints we get from prints
Of feathers and of feet,
Excelled in wits the later tits,
And so are obsolete.
I sing each race whom we displace
In their primeval woods,
While Gospel Aid inspires Free-Trade
To traffic with their goods.
With Norman Dukes the still Sioux
In breeding might compete;
But where men talk the tomahawk
Will soon grow obsolete.
I celebrate each perished State;
Great cities ploughed to loam;
Chaldæan kings; the Bulls with wings;
Dead Greece, and dying Rome.
The Druids' shrine may shelter swine,
Or stack the farmer's peat;
'Tis thus mean moths treat finest cloths,
Mean men the obsolete.
Shall nought be said of theories dead?
The Ptolemaic system?
Figure and phrase, that bent all ways
Duns Scotus liked to twist 'em?
Averrhoes' thought? and what was taught,
In Salamanca's seat?
Sihons and Ogs? and showers of frogs?
Sea-serpents obsolete?
Pillion and pack have left their track;
Dead is "the Tally-ho;"
Steam rails cut down each festive crown
Of the old world and slow;
Jack-in-the-Green no more is seen,
Nor Maypole in the street;
No mummers play on Christmas-day;
St. George is obsolete.
O fancy, why hast thou let die
So many a frolic fashion?
Doublet and hose, and powdered beaux?
Where are thy songs whose passion
Turned thought to fire in knight and squire,
While hearts of ladies beat?
Where thy sweet style, ours, ours erewhile?
All this is obsolete.
In Auvergne low potatoes grow
Upon volcanoes old;
The moon, they say, had her young day,
Though now her heart is cold;
Even so our earth, sorrow and mirth,
Seasons of snow and heat,
Checked by her tides in silence glides
To become obsolete.
The astrolabe of every babe
Reads, in its fatal sky,
"Man's largest room is the low tomb--
Ye all are born to die."
Therefore this theme, O Bird, I deem
The noblest we may treat;
The final cause of Nature's laws
Is to grow obsolete.
WILLIAM JOHN COURTHOPE.
MOTHERHOOD.
She laid it where the sunbeams fall
Unscanned upon the broken wall.
Without a tear, without a groan,
She laid it near a mighty stone,
Which some rude swain had haply cast
Thither in sport, long ages past,
And time with mosses had o'erlaid,
And fenced with many a tall grass-blade,
And all about bid roses bloom
And violets shed their soft perfume.
There, in its cool and quiet bed,
She set her burden down and fled:
Nor flung, all eager to escape,
One glance upon the perfect shape,
That lay, still warm and fresh and fair,
But motionless and soundless there.
No human eye had marked her pass
Across the linden-shadowed grass
Ere yet the minster clock chimed seven:
Only the innocent birds of heaven--
The magpie, and the rook whose nest
Swings as the elm-tree waves his crest--
And the lithe cricket, and the hoar
And huge-limbed hound that guards the door,
Looked on when, as a summer wind
That, passing, leaves no trace behind,
All unapparelled, barefoot all,
She ran to that old ruined wall,
To leave upon the chill dank earth
(For ah! she never knew its worth),
Mid hemlock rank, and fern and ling,
And dews of night, that precious thing!
And then it might have lain forlorn
From morn to eve, from eve to morn:
But, that, by some wild impulse led,
The mother, ere she turned and fled,
One moment stood erect and high;
Then poured into the silent sky
A cry so jubilant, so strange,
That Alice--as she strove to range
Her rebel ringlets at her glass--
Sprang up and gazed across the grass;
Shook back those curls so fair to see,
Clapped her soft hands in childish glee;
And shrieked--her sweet face all aglow,
Her very limbs with rapture shaking--
"My hen has laid an egg, I know;
And only hear the noise she's making!"
CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
DISASTER.
'Twas ever thus from childhood's hour
My fondest hopes would not decay:
I never loved a tree or flower
Which was the first to fade away!
The garden, where I used to delve
Short-frocked, still yields me pinks in plenty;
The pear-tree that I climbed at twelve,
I see still blossoming, at twenty.