Some village Hampden here by night may bawl, Some unknown Milton, but by no means mute; Some David that may soothe a savage Saul, As yet entirely guiltless of a lute. The applause of gaping urchins to command, The darkies’ laughter at their quaint disguise, A few short words from some one to the band, This is their sole reward, their hard-earned prize. But who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, Would start to nip with dry and husky throttle? Whene’er they march along the Devil’s way, They take his own peculiar seal, the bottle. Amid the madding crowd that gathers thick, A moving pandemonium they stray, And down those much frequented walks of brick They hold the noisy tenor of their way. THE EPIGRAM Here go at last, all yelling to the town, A band of youths to Judson’s too well known; Fair science ever met their darkest frown, And foul intemperance marked them for her own. Small is their bounty, but “a drink” they chime, As round the crowded counter many jam; Each gives to Judson (all he has) a dime, Each gets from him (’tis all he wants) a dram. _January, 1868._ FIRE EYES Hast thou on summer’s eve ere marked The storm on cloud wings soaring high, And spreading far his pinions black, Across the blue good-natured sky? And hast thou seen from ’neath his brow The lightning’s eye gleam fiercely bright, As if to pierce a thousand foes With daggers of his living light? As flash the lightnings in the skies, So gleam, when angry, “Fire Eyes.” Hast thou on autumn eve e’er seen The sun just nestling on his pillow, While sapphire clouds were silver-fringed, As seafoam crests the surging billow? And hast thou seen the golden gaze The sun bestows on Nature fair, That dyes the gorgeous landscape o’er And almost melts the amber air? As beams the sun on autumn skies So smile, when pleased, bright “Fire Eyes.” MY DARLING’S JESSAMINE ’Twas only a sprig of white jessamine, That came in a letter she wrote; But I value it more than the costliest vine Whose tendrils o’er marble-carved trellis-work twine: _’Twas worn at my darling one’s throat_. A throat that encages the nightingale’s trill, And sweetens each silvery note, And I think as I hear, in a rapturous thrill, Her voice, whose volume can heaven’s dome fill, That the _angels have lent her a throat_. More sweet than exotics that Fashion dupes wear As through the gay ballroom they float! In the leaves of my Bible I laid it with care, More _sacredly dear_ than a _buried friend’s hair_ Since worn at my darling one’s throat! _July, 1870._ THE PARTING SHIP