Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence Came the deep murmur of its throng of men, And as its grateful odors met thy sense, They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen. Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight. At length thy pinion fluttered in Broadway,-- Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray Shone through the snowy veils like stars through mist; And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin, Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin. Sure these were sights to tempt an anchorite! What! do I hear thy slender voice complain? Thou wailest when I talk of beauty's light, As if it brought the memory of pain. Thou art a wayward being--well, come near, And pour thy tale of sorrow in mine ear. What say'st thou, slanderer! rouge makes thee sick? And China Bloom at best is sorry food? And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick, Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood? Go! 'twas a just reward that met thy crime; But shun the sacrilege another time. That bloom was made to look at,--not to touch; To worship, not approach, that radiant white; And well might sudden vengeance light on such As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite. Thou shouldst have gazed at distance, and admired,-- Murmured thy admiration and retired. Thou'rt welcome to the town; but why come here To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee? Alas! the little blood I have is dear, And thin will be the banquet drawn from me. Look round: the pale-eyed sisters in my cell, Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell. Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood Enriched by generous wine and costly meat; On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud, Fix thy light pump, and press thy freckled feet. Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls, The oyster breeds and the green turtle sprawls. There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows, To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now The ruddy cheek and now the ruddier nose Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow; And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings, No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings. "TIDDLE-IDDLE-IDDLE-IDDLE-BUM! BUM!" BY WILBUR D. NESBIT When our town band gets on the square On concert night you'll find me there. I'm right beside Elijah Plumb, Who plays th' cymbals an' bass drum; An' next to him is Henry Dunn, Who taps the little tenor one. I like to hear our town band play, But, best it does, I want to say, Is when they tell a tune's to come With "Tiddle-iddle-iddle-iddle- Bum-Bum!"