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

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 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,

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,

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.

This golden month, with varied leaves,

So full of waning glories,

Adorns the groves that it bereaves,

And fills the woods with stories

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.

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,

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.

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.

The Autumn boughs are growing bare,

The leaves are changed and falling,

And dying nature everywhere

Obeys grim Winter’s calling;

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.

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.

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.

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,

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.

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

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.

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

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?

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.

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;

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 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—

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.”

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 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,

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.

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;

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 seems to some to be

A matter of economy;

To save a heavy funeral fee,

Thus cheat the undertaker.

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.

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.

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;

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.”

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,

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.

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;

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?

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;

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;

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

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;

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.

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

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.

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,

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,

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,

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;

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?

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,

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 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;

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

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

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.”

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.

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.

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,

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.

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

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;

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 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;

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,

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.

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.

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,

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.

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,

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.

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 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.

Variable, versatile, stormy, and wild,

At times we’re entranced, and then again riled

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

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.