The moon shone high above the Atlantic seas,
      Bright stars like courtiers, round her throne attending.
The waves in ripples seemed to court the breeze,
      Another charm to the grand stillness lending;
And all was lovely as a vision bright,
            On that October night.

And all was still; save when the hungry shark
      Broke his clear "wake," while on his midnight rambles,
Or tiny flying-fish left his shining mark,
      Chased by the bright Bonita in his gambols;
The sparkling eddies o'er the surface play,
            Glimmer and fade away.

The ocean, far outspread in beauty grand.
      Was like a lake of molten silver shining.
As some invisible, Almighty hand
      Had placed it there, to show his power designing;
Seemed endless as the rolling course of time,
            In majesty sublime.

Three ships were there, upon that glassy main.
      Their snow-white canvas in the moonlight gleaming.
They bore on high the gorgeous flag of Spain,
      Its massive folds of late so proudly streaming,
Now hung, as if ashamed to show a feature,
            Amid the calm of nature.

One seemed the chief; the royal standard wears,
      And looms more proudly than her consorts; here
The sacred cross upon her prow she bears,
      And on the poop her name, "Santa Maria,"
A holy name; as though from Spain she went,
            On holy purpose bent.

Gold was her object, aye, and fame likewise;
Behold her swarthy crew, but few in number;
Some scan the deep with eager, straining eyes,
Some stretched upon the deck in dreamy slumber;
Adventurers they are, for golden spoil
            Bartering a life of toil.

And on the poop, the mate, the chief in rank,
      Monarch of all that little watch around him,
Now walks with hasty steps the yielding plank,
      Now stands, as if some hidden spell had bound him,
Strains his dim sight upon the moonlit main,
            Then turns, and walks again.

He's thinking of the sunny hills of Spain,
      Its olive groves and his dark-eyed Isora,
Now counts his beads, again and yet again,
      Now for a breeze prays to the good Senora,
Now rouses up his watch, gives the command,
            "A sharp lookout for land!"

Columbus lay within his narrow berth,
      His stalwart form upon a couch reclining–
As bold a soul as e'er had dwelt on earth–
      The hanging lamp, dim through the cabin shining,
Threw out his noble limbs in bold relief,
            The Admiral and chief.

He slept not; but upraising on his arm,
      He spoke aloud, as with his thoughts conversing:
"The Virgin send a breeze! and end this calm,
      Or by to-morrow's sun, our course reversing,
We must, although 'twill cost me bitter pain,
            Return again to Spain.

"For two months have I tossed in unknown seas,
      My compass failed me when I most did fear it,
In search of land courted the fickle breeze,
      And yesterday saw signs that we were near it.
Must we turn back? must this night be our last,
            With wealth so near our grasp?

"No mortal e'er has ventured, before me,
      Beyond the goal of the far west Canaries;
My followers, though nurtured to the sea,
      Are muttering o'er my head their Ave Marys;
There's none but me their drooping souls to cheer,
            Shall I show sights of fear?

"I've toiled for years in fruitless labors vain,
      To obtain support to tit this expedition,
And shall I not the summit yet attain?
      Are all my cherished hopes dashed to perdition?
Shall all be lost? and for Columbus' name
            No trumpet note of fame?

"It cannot be; and yet I fear 'tis true;
      Here blank dismay in every face is painted,
And bold sedition stalks among my crew,
      The bravest hearts by others' fears are tainted,
And mut'nous oaths, and threats of open riot,
            Where late was all so quiet.

"But two clays since, T told the cowardly hinds–
      Wishing to keep them in subordination.
Not stir the ire within their dastard minds–
      In three days, if we saw no indication Of land,
I'd yield without resort to force,
            We'd then retrace our course.

"I half repent me that I told them so;
      What! turn back thus to our queen Isabella,
To whom I've stied for this assistance? No!
      What a base tale of cowardice to tell her!
We've used 'her gold, we've sought for land in vain!
            Back in disgrace to Spain?

"No! there's a remedy ! 'tis hard to die,
      And leave this glorious enterprise to others,
But here's my trusty sword; a thrust, a cry,
      No marble, but the sea my body covers;
"T'were better thus, than to appear at court,
            Of fawning fools the sport.

"I'll do it, if to-morrow's sun reveals
      No signs of land; but if we should discover
The long-sought Indies, and thus break the seals
      Of untold wealth, our cares will then be over;
And Colon will become a glorious name,
            With bright halo of fame."

A breeze is coming from the eastern board,
      Curling and rippling o'er the tranquil waters,
Columbus goes on deck; the hell has toll'd
      The hour of eleven: "Call all hands to quarters!"
The swarthy Spaniards, late in slumber drowned,
                  Appear, and stand around.

"Let no man leave the deck!" Columbus said,
"Now to your stations, for the land is near us.
A rich reward shall settle on his head,
      Who first shall raise the cry 'Land ho!' to cheer us."
He spoke; they to their several stations went,
            On golden thoughts intent.

An hour Is past; and still is seen no land,
      The breeze has freshened, and the moon's obscured,
And still that group of men in silence stand,
      Peering through the darkness far to leeward;
The rush of waters, as they onward bound,
            Is still the only sound.

"A light! a light!" is cried from off the bow,
      'Tis gone again, and vanished in the gloom;
They stand like spectres round their comrade now,
      Anxious as criminals awaiting doom;
He's sure he saw it, but it is not there,
            Lost in the misty air.

"Tis seen again! 'tis seen by several now;
      Anxious they strain their eyes; the word is, "where?"
Now see the eager faces on the prow,
      And hear their shouts ring on the midnight air,
"Luff to the wind!" slowly her head swings round,
            The promised land is found.

With shortened sail the ships lay head off shore,
      The impatient mariners in silence waiting
The break of daylight to reveal yet more;
      The light is still in sight, the breeze abating;
Again 'tis calm; the night its course is run,
            They hail the rising sun.

The land lies stretched before their wondering eyes,
      It's lovely range of hill and dale displaying,
Their shouts of triumph swell unto the skies,
      Some are for pardon to their chieftain praying,
That they should have rebelled against his will,
            Distrusting thus his skill.

"What lovely isle is this? behold it's trees,
      The cocoanut and palm; from the far west
What spicy odors float on the land breeze,
      As from the shores of Araby the Blest;
The Virgin smiles upon our voyage! raise
            The glorious song of praise!"

The boats are hoisted out; as quickly manned;
      They bore on high the Cross, the holy banner;
The astonished throng surround them as they land,
      Their admiration show in their rude manner;
Beings they seemed, to the untutored minds,
            Of a superior kind.

Here hoary age and stripling youth were met,
      And beauteous maidens in the garb of nature;
Around the Spaniards on the ground they sat,
      As fairies beautiful in form and feature,
`or dreamed they that these "strangers from the moon"
            Would them enslave so soon.

They kneeled; they kissed the ground; they raised the song;
      In concert their Te Deum to the skies;
The hills, the groves, re-echo loud and long,
      "From Nature's altars let the incense rise!
And hail our patron, in the sacred paean,
            Queen of Castile and Leon!

"Behold, the Pope of Home, the Holy See,
      Have granted to our gracious lord and sire
The right of lands thus found beyond the sea,
      We, by this right, establish our Empire!
The Saviour's name, we give this favored shore,
            Hail to San Salvador !"

They sought no object here, but sordid gold,
      And this they found, and to Old Spain brought over;
For blood-stained wealth they bartered their base souls,
      As richly laden they, as those from Ophir,
With lust and avarice beyond all bound,
            Profaned that lovely ground.

And more adventurers cane, to seek more land,
      More bloody yet than they who went before them;
The children of the soil felt the strong hand
      Of iron tyranny and murder o'er them,
And broken-hearted sank into their graves,
            A wretched race of slaves.

The Holy Cross became a badge of death,
      Served as a cloak to murderous proceedings,
The broken captive yielded up his breath,
      From lash or knife of stern assassin bleeding;
But o'er his children's cries, his widow's wail.
            We'll draw oblivion's veil.

And time rolls on; and they have passed away,
      And mighty nations sprung up in their train;
Dawns o'er the western wilds a brighter day!
      Turn we and ask, "Where now is haughty Spain?"

The winter storm roars madly on the coast
Of stern Long Island; and the breakers dash
Alike on shelving beach and ragged rock,
Eager for prey; and, spent in seething foam,
Give place to others as they.thundering rush
To fill the gap, and, fruitless, waste their force
In vain encounter with the unyielding shore.

And far at sea old Ocean feels the power
Of the night storm, and wild the billows rise
As though upheaving from unfathomed depths,
By some volcanic agency below,
Far down, exulting in its latent strength;
And threaten to engulf the struggling bark
That dares to brave them in a night like this,
And show how vain are human power and skill
'Gainst God contending on the troubled sea.

A giant ship looms through the murky sky,
Her shortened canvas straining in the gale,
Her lofty spars and beauteous tracery
Piercing the gloom of night, as proud she rides,
Seeming to bid defiance to the storm,
Plunging triumphant through the angry seas,
That lash her sides in vain, impotent wrath.
She's homeward hound! the goal is almost reached,
And merry hearts are there; they heed not storms;
With seamen's confidence they talk of home,
And loved ones that so soon they are to meet,
Of toils to be forgotten soon as past,

Of mothers, sisters, wives! as on they drive,
A plank between them and eternity:
The plank is staunch and strong, they feel not fear.
But all unconscious rush to meet their doom.
Oh! could they but unclasp the book of Fate,
How many a cheek would blanch to see the page!
How many a careless laugh be checked in dread!
How many A reckless oath be changed to prayer!

The wind has hauled to Northeast, and the mists
Of Heaven grow thicker; still the storm howls on;
Though daylight reigns again, 'tis no relief;
The seaman's eye is strained in vain to pierce
The gloom. The giant ship is hid from view.

A solitary man on Montauk shore
Is gazing, spell-hound, at the awful scene
Of wild destruction that has met his view!
The massive timbers, riven and cleft like reeds,
The splintered spars, the stout, firm canvas rent
And torn to ribbons, tangled cordage, casks,
Fragments of boats, deck beams of massive strength.
Wrenched from their fastenings, sturdy planks of oak.
Shattered and split, all in wild chaos thrown
And strewed o'er miles of beach, hurled here and there
By the relentless surf, are all that's left
Of what was late the Milton in her pride,
Breasting the waves in glorious symmetry,
And hearing noble hearts who found a tomb,
Home and its joys almost within their grasp!

None left to tell the story? No, not one;
Imagination is left free to roam,
To create pictures of the dreadful truth,
The startling shock, the crash of fulling masts,
The cry for help where no help could avail,
The final sundering of the massive hull,
The breakers, merciless, o'erwhehning all!
The struggles of exhausted mariners,
Striving in vain for life! The veil is drawn.
Nought remains of them all, save here and there

A stalwart, manly form, stiffened in death,
Inertly floating, hurled upon the strand
By the remorseless surge!

                                                       And where is he,
The dauntless spirit who commanded them;
The veteran whaler, who for years had dared
The perils of the deep, through storm and calm,
Whose venturous keel had ploughed the Arctic seas,
Had scoured from far Kamschatka to Cape Horn.
Who midst the "thick-ribbed ice" had sought his prey,
And oft returned victorious?

                                                       Gone at last;
Life's battle's o'er; the Genius of the storm
Chants his wild requiem o'er the sailor's grave.

Ships have been famed in story, and their names
      Been handed down to unborn generations,
With tales of battles won, and deeds of Paine,
      Of fire, and wreck, and various dire narrations,
Even from the days of old "Argo," of Greece,
            That brought the golden fleece.

Of Cleopatra's barge we've read fine tales,
      In which that famous queen sailed down the Cydnus!
Will Shakspeare tells us she had purple sails,
      (In the descriptive sketch that he has given us,)
And silver oars! and how that artful woman
            Bewitched the noble Roman.

The English chroniclers have well described
      "Great Harrv" from her clumsy truck to kelson;
The name of "Agamemnon" will survive,
      And "Vanguard" – both immortalized by Nelson;
His "Victory," too, that ne'er belied her name,
            Forever lives in fame.

The noted circumnavigator, Cook,
      Shed lustre on the name of "Resolution;"
And later still, upon the record book,
      Our "Ironsides" proved her stout "Constitution."
By sixty years' hard service and hard knocks,
            Since first she left the stocks.

McKay, in eighteen hundred fifty-three,
      His "Great Republic" launched, the monster clipper:
The noblest ship that e'er had graced the sea,
      'Twas thought that nothing ever built could whip her;
But fire "curtailed her of her fair proportion,"
            E'er yet she'd crossed the ocean.

The present year has put the climax to
      The nonpareil of naval architecture;
As every season gives us something new,
      So this has furnished us a mammoth structure;
A miracle for seamen's eyes to feast on,
            The wonderful "Great Eastern."

"Ye little stars, hide your diminished heads!"
      Ye little "Great Republics" stand from under!
Prepare, ye Yankees, to be struck with dread!
      Ye small snakes, make room for the Anaconda!
The great "Leviathan" that's coming o'er,
            Eclipses all before.

The age of miracles is here restored,
      Elisha's art of making iron float;
With steam and electricity on board,
      All orders issued and obeyed by note!
For trumpets "pale their ineffectual tires"
            To telegraphic wires.

Two common steamers, ninety feet in length,
      Slung at her sides for boats, six engines straining,
Propellers, paddle-wheels of ponderous strength,
      And masts beyond a sailor's power of naming;
"Fore, main and mizzen," runs his stock all through,
            The rest are something new.

There's little doubt the snorting monster may
      Surprise the universal Yankee nation,
But Jonathan will ask "if it will pay?"
      "Whether the stock be a safe speculation?"
And if lie's answered no, "ill luck befall her,
            I won't invest A dollar."

But in this age of progress, who shall say,
      Where human skill shall find its butt and limit?
Whether our children may not see the day
      When winged couriers through the air shall skim it?
And trans-Atlantic immigrants come o'er
            From Europe's distant shore.

In cars aerial, soaring with the lark.
      Running on wires, driven by galvanic shocks,
Packet balloons take out letters of marque,
      And run aground on comets, 'stead of rocks,
And men complain "No tidings from the moon,
            No mail this afternoon?"

The men of nineteen hundred fifty-eight,
      May see all this, and think it no great wonder;
May tread a bridge from England to the States.
      May even cross through tunnels carried under
The broad Atlantic, and in furious race.
            Make nought of time and space.

Equally strange to those of the past age
      Would seem our every day realities;
The railroad's taken the place of lumbering stage,
      The steamship stays not for head winds or seas.
The telegraph, swift as thoughts through the mind,
            Leaves mail bags far behind.

A century hence "Leviathan" may be
      But as a slight landmark on history's page,
Connecting past and present, e'en as we
      Regard the war-ships of a by-gone age,
The Spanish Armada, or those of Jervis
            Too clumsy now for service.

Now, all the "fancy" world is "up and dressed,"
      To get the news by the next foreign steamers;
Not of the price of stocks; that's lost its zest;
      Those interested are but idle dreamers;
And politics are dry, be it confessed,
      Who cares for any patriotic schemers?
Kossuth and Garibaldi are old stories,
So let them rest contented with past glories.

We want no details of Italian war,
      We've done with Solferino and Magenta;
We know there's been a row in Rome; what for
      We don't care; if Napoleon has sent a
Grand army of his troops to enforce the law,
      That's all that's necessary; when they've spent a
Sufficiency of blood, with ball and powder,
They'll "hold up" for a while; then break out louder.

What is it, then, that agitates all ranks?
      The fierce encounter of the champions fistic,
Heenan and Sayers; have they played of their pranks
      And dodges in the grand ring pugilistic;
Or, have they been too soon arrested? (thanks
      To police force, with discipline artistic,
Instructed to compel all fighting ring-dom
To keep the peace of the United Kingdom.)

It seems one Thomas, of the tribe of Sayers,
      Is quite notorious as a "shoulder-hitter,"
Has whipped his dozen men, and puts on airs,
      Which naturally breeds a feeling bitter
Among his rivals in those past "affairs."
      And they have ever anxious been to get a
Man who could match him at hard knocks: Good gracious!
That any fellow could be so pugnacious

As dare to face the "English Champion!" so
      He styles himself: (our school books used to tell us

That was St. George; but then, what did they know
      Of regular "knock-down-and-drag-out" fellows?
St. George was well enough, for aught we know,
      For those slow-moving times; we won't be jealous
Of an old chap who only licked a dragon,
Which, now-a-days, would not be much to brag on.)

The gauntlet's taken up by one Jack Heenan,
      Called the "Benicia Boy," who wants to star it;
Though novice in the ring, he's called a keen 'un,
      And thinks he may contrive to "draw Tom's claret;"
Having superior weight and strength to lean on,
      He's quite made up his mind to "grin and bear it."
And "take the starch out" of this famous bruiser,
Or sink with flying colors, if the loser.

To this arrangement Tom makes no objection,
      And both the heroes have gone into training,
To bring themselves to physical perfection
      And give and take dry knocks without complaining.
Doubtless they will be models for inspection
      At rise of that day's sun; but e'er its waning,
We doubt much whether their own wives would know 'em,
Though Barnum might make money , if he'd show 'em.

This is the secret of the great furore,
      Which "drew first claret?" which appeared the bolder?
And which was whipped at last? and how much more
      Might he have stood, if he'd not sprained his shoulder?
Why could his seconds not his strength restore?
      And which had Smith, which Jones, for "bottle-holder?"
Until these questions all receive full answers,
Who cares a straw for Italy –– or Kansas?

A lot of idlers, lounging on the wharf,
      Beguiled the time in playing "duck and drake,"
Each trying to throw a pebble farthest off
      Into the river, for amusement's sake.
And cries of "Who beats that?" rang loud and fast,
            At each successive cast.

A six foot Tony Lumpkln, with his arms
      Deep buried in his pockets, and a smile
Lighting his wooden face, to enhance his charms,
      Looked on, as if astonished, all the while;
Seeming too verdaut e'en to understand
            The exciting game in hand.

At length the youngster who appeared to be
      The bully of the party, made a cast
He thought was quite astonishing; says he,
      "I'd like to see the man could beat that last."
Then turning, knocked aside the stranger's hat,
            With, "what d'ye think of that?"

"A darned good throw, considerin'; but I've seen
      Some better ones than that, up on the lake,
And made by chaps that you would think were green;
      Some fellows that I know up there would take
A man of your size, with a single toss,
            And fling him clean across

To yonder hank!" The bully laughed aloud,
      The others gathered round to quiz the stranger.
"Wall, you may laugh, but I'll treat all the crowd
      If that ain't so; I guess there'd be no danger,
To bet five dollars I myself can do it,
            If I was hard put to it."

"Nonsense!" returned the other; "if you wish,
      I'll take the bet, and let you try a throw."
"But can you swim?" said verdant. "Like a fish."

      "Because I might not quite succeed you know;
But anyhow I'll try; put up your V,
            And here is mine, you see."

The stakes were placed in a third party's hand,
      Six-foot stripped off his coat, spit in his palms,
Then braced his feet to take a firmer stand,
      And seized the bully in his brawny arms;
Before the luckless wight had time to wink,
            He floundered in the drink.

Blowing and sputtering, soon he scrambled out;
      "I'll take that ten spot;" "No, not quite so fast,
Hold on, my friend, I know what I'm about."
      Again he seized him in his vice-like grasp,
And plunged him, e'er he'd rallied from the shock,
            Full ten feet from the dock!

"Stand by again! the third time I'll improve,
      I'm bound to do it, so I give you warning;
No game can be won by a single move,
      I'll try from this time till to-morrow morning!
I didn't say I'd do it the first throw."
            "Hold on! pray let me go!"

"For mercy's sake don't throw me In again!
      I'll pay the bet," stammered the half-drowned victim,
As Jonathan, excited now to win,
      Chuckled with glee to think how he had tricked him;
"I'll pay the bet!" he pleaded on his knees;
            The Yankee took the V's,

And tucked them in his wallet with a grin;
      "That job pays well; better than chopping timber;
And when you want the starch took out again,
      Ezekiel Green's my name; but you're so limber
At present, after being put in soak,
            You can't enjoy the joke."

Peal loud the bell, and call the School together!"
      We are but "children of a larger growth,"
Though now, matured, we range with longer tether.
      Restraints and duties appertain to both
Childhood and manhood – parts of life's progression –
Peal loud the bell! the school's again in session!

And as we meet to-day, on classic ground.
      To enjoy and celebrate our great Reunion,
To let the story, song and jest go round,
      To call up bygones, and, in glad communion,
To interchange experiences of life,
Of wanderings and trials, toil and strife,

Let us awhile, with retrospective view,
      Go back to eighteen hundred thirty-eight,
When what is now the old High School was new,
      Had not yet turned out its first graduate –
Impressed on mem'ry's page, we see it still,
The venerable "school-house on the hill."

We see again each sturdy little "form,"
      Painted in ridicule of bird's-eye maple,
The clumsy stoves, which failed to keep us warm,
      The drinking-closet-door, with hook and staple,
The little room, enclosing various matters.
Labelled conspicuously, "Apparatus."

The staring figures, blazoned on the seats,
      The pegs for hats, numbered to correspond,
The bell-rope, leading down between its cleets,
      The windows, looking on the "Lily Pond,"
The maps, the blackboards fixed against the wall.
All rise before us now, at mem'ry's call.

Then Father Peirce reigned over us – who seemed
      To us, a cyclopedia of knowledge;
Not less for humble piety esteemed

      Than for his stores of learning, gained at college;
We think of him as teacher, guide and pastor,
A faithful servant of the Greater Master.

And after him, our veteran teacher. Morse,
      Who, more thin others, made the school his own
By long and arduous service in its cause,
      Giving to it his spirit and his tone,
And grafting his own character upon us. –
Ile lives to-day to wear his well-earned honors.

The pupils of the school on the hill
      Are scattered broadcast – some have passed away –
But others, spared to do it honor still,
      May, with their children, gather here to-day;
Two generations, vieing with each other
In love and tribute to their one Fair Mother.

A fine, new school-house has usurped the old;
      Yet "on the Hill" it stands – a beacon light.
Shedding its rays, more precious far than gold,
      And younger pupils now may claim the right
To pen its later hist'ry, and to tell
How other teachers labored, and how well.

Let then, the new-made High School graduate
      Take up the Book of Chronicles anew,
As we about the old school love to prate,
      So let the young Alumni sing the new –
One theme may both inspire – it stands there still.
Ever the same – the "School-house on the Hill."

Long may it stand! its "shadow ne'er grow less!"
      Our children, and our children's children may,
In years to come, rejoice in its success
      And sing its praises; let us ever pray
For blessings on it, and, with hearty will,
Cherish for aye the "School-house on the Hill.

A merchant in the South American trade,
      Of standing fair, and business reputation,
When fitting out the good ship Ambuscade,
      Had from his nearest friend, an application
For a live monkey; not in way of trade,
      But merely for his children's recreation:
(The monkey being as well in form as feature,
A ludicrous and mirth-provoking creature.)

In writing to his agent – mark the slip,
      For thereby hangs the story of the blunder –
He, as he thought, requested him to ship
      Two or three monkeys, as a foreign wonder,
By the saine vessel on her return trip;
      Thinking they might thrive better not to sunder
The ties formed in the home of their nativity,
But let them have companions in captivity.

But loosely writing the conjunction or
      (As 'twas a postscript hastily appended),
The r was quite omitted: and the more
      As he was from a Spanish stock descended
And wrote much in that language, years before;
      (The omission was of course quite unintended)
But in the Spanish or, as well we know,
The r is dropped, the word being simply o.

"2 o 3 monkeys," then, the order stood,
      And in due time, it reached its destination;
The agent, quite dumbfounded, shouted "Good!"
      As soon as he could speak for cachination;
"Have apes become an article of food
      In Boston? or throughout the Yankee nation?
Dios me ayuda! even so,
Else why this great demand, I'd like to know?"

"Two hundred and three monkeys! let me see;
     

A regiment of blacks were soon employed
     

The agent wrote thus to his Boston friend,
     

In time the Ambuscade arrived, all right,
     

When, in duck pants and shirt of check,
Elate, I paced the lighter's deck,
      A new-fledged, proud young sailor,
– How little I, so salt and bold,
Dreamed that my eyes would e'er behold
      The last Nantucket whaler!

Had one, with gift of second sight,
Made prophecy (as some one might,)
      That whaling soon would fail, or
Foretold that, within thirty years,
(The truth, as plainly now appears,)
      One lonely little whaler,

One solitary bark, would bear
The name "Nantucket" here and there
      In quest of giant whale, or
Drop anchor in some foreign port,
There to be sold, and thus report
      Herself as our last whaler,

I should, while headed "rounded Cape Horn,"
Have ridiculed and laughed to scorn
      The Idle, croaking railor!
He ne'er could have persuaded me
That I should over live to see
      The last Nantucket whaler.

Yet "gone's our occupation," now;
No longer do our proud ships plough
      The ocean under sail, or
Bronzed-faced young seamen walk our streets,
Or sit and tell tales of their feats
      Performed while in a whaler.

No more we hear of "on Japan,"
"Off Patagonia" or "Tristan,"
      Where blows th' Antarctic gale, or
"Adown the Line," or "Archer Ground;"
These have an unfamiliar sound,
      Since not a single whaler

Remains, of all the long, proud roll,
That once, almost from polo to pole,
      Defied the howling gale, or
Threw canvas to the gentle breeze,
And gathered wealth from tropic seas –
      – We've sold our last, last whaler!

No more we boast our wooden walls;
The boy, no longer duty calls
      To train himself a sailor,
Our hundred ships, all lost or sold,
(Like Thebes's hundred gates of old,)
Exist but in old story told
      By some grey-bearded whaler.

But cheerfully we face the truth;
We retrospect upon our youth,
      But don't complain, or wail, or
Blubber about what once we had;
– It can't be helped, – but give one sad
      "Farewell!" to our last whaler.

House-cleaning! House-Cleaning!
O word of terrible meaning!
Man is a terrible sinner,
But Woman,–the deuce is in her!
Nought but a picked-up dinner,
Nought but a shadow and seeming
Of old home and its joys,
–"Stand clear, girls and boys!"
Every one in a flutter,
Dust, confusion, and clutter,
Bolt your bread-and-butter,
And keep your equipoise.

Brooms, brushes, soap and suds;
O! to pack up one's duds,
And off for Babelmandel,
Or some other place with a handle
To 'ts name; nor bell nor candle
Can lay the remorseless ghost,
That chases one from post
To pillar, and almost
Drives a poor man to insanity;
All peace is nought but vanity!

Mrs. Smythe so overbearing,
There's no help for't but swearing–
Order turned into chaos–
Our better halves betray us,
And wet women waylay,
At every hour of the day–
"Fall back out of the way!"
Forth from the back-door leaping,
We're sick and tired of house-keeping.

No; house-cleaning, we mean;
For all the time between

These annual devastations
It's pleasant enough; and rations
Are cooked, and–O for patience
To hold out unto the end
Towards which e'en this must tend.
–Else would our heart-strings sever,–
Hurrah! 'twon't last forever!

Up through the vapor of soap,
Comes a slight gleam of hope,
Things, crazy with o'erturning,
To their old status returning.
This gleam of hope discerning,
Our courage begins to rise;
Through suffering made wise,
Into the midst we sweep,
As fierce and brave as–a sheep.

Bruised fingers and lame backs,
Hammer, and saucer of tacks,
Laugh, and swear, and pound,
Baby jumps at the sound–
Put things hack in their places!
Square 'ein by lifts and braces!
(As the old sailors' phrase is.)
Women with smiling faces
Say, "Men are a terrible pest;
Still, it must be confessed,
They're handy, at times, to have round!"

When all is o'er, sweet rest
Comes to us with a zest–
Bless all the family nest!
O Pontian Mithridates!
No–Ganges and Euphrates!
No, No–Lares and Penates!
(Got the right word at last,)
Set up your fallen altars,
But let not pride exalt us!
Our pen with gratitude falters–
House-cleaning's o'er and past!

Which I'm free to proclaim,
(And my meaning is clear,)
That I'm writing this same,
Just to make it appear,
That that Heathen Chinee was a humbug,–
So reader, a word in your ear.

John Jones is my name,–
And you needn't infer,
In regard to the same,
That 'twill make any stir,
If it's trumpeted forth to the public,
It's too common a name, my dear sir.

But I boldly declare,
That that heathen Chinee
Was a fool to be there;
For he might as well be
In the den of a gang of highwaymen,
As playing with that precious pair.

For in that little game,
Wherein he took a hand,–
(Seven-up, was its name?
Or euchre?) he'd stand
No chance against two veteran gamblers,
With their smiles, all so child-like and bland.

But had I been Ah-Sin,
When that rowdy, Bill Nye,
Jumped up and "sailed in,"
I'd ha' knocked out his eye,
If I'd been overwhelmed the next minute,–
Which the same I'd ha' done, live or die.

I'd ha' given him enough,
As we fit on the floor,
Though he be stout and tough,
Yet his clothes I'd ha' tore,
While we rolled o'er and o'er,
As I wish to remark to my readers, –
And with lists, clubs or stones,
I'd ha' broken his bones,
Sure's my name is John Jones, –
Which the same I have told you before, –
And this parody makes forty-four, –
Adds one to the Boston man's score, –
Such as this the won't want any more –

It was so cold the other day.
I couldn't work. I couldn't play,
So I resolved to spend the day,
        Attendin' Annual Meet'n.
So down to 'Tlantic Hall I went,
Where an attentive ear I lent,
To learn how money should be spent
        As shown at the Annual Meet'n.

Then all the orators uprose,
I swan, I thought they'd come to blows,
Just as they stood, in dress-up clothes,
        Right there in the Annual Meet'n.

So many subjects were discussed.
Some of the talk was calm and just,
And some so silly, I thought I'd bust
        With laughter at Annual Meet'n.

I learned that guardians of the schools
Are necessarily knaves or fools,
Accordin' to all human rules,
        – This I learned at the Annual Meet'n.
I thought, if every town or city
Must thus abuse its School Committee,
Once every year, the more's the pity
        We had any Annual Meet'n.

They voted to put wimmen on,
I wondered that, in years bygone,
They hadn't sent 'em round Cape Horn
        By vote at the Annual Meet'n.
Now into office they must go.
It seems so strange that this is so.
But 'tis the fact, as I well know,
        – I was there at Annual Meet'n.

And when another year rolls round,
The ladies must all right be found,
Or they will be to powder ground
        In the mill of the Annual Meet'n.
O glorious days of Woman's Rights!
When for the offices she fights,
And anxious days, and sleepless nights
        Are hers during Annual Meet'n.

"O woman, in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy and hard to please,"
Only to think, that in times like these,
        Her name is in Annual Meet'n!
That they who've heretofore been slaves,
May be made "Cullers of Coopers' Staves,"
And, next year, stigmatized as knaves
        By vote of the Annual Meet'n!

I went to see what I could learn,
And heard the speakers, turn and turn,
Until they voted to adjourn,
        And break up the Annual Meet'n.
I listened to bad rhetoric,
Till of it I was tired and sick,
It touched my feelin's to the quick,
        What I saw at the Annual Meet'n.

I'm thankful now that all is o'er,
And never want to hear no more
Such stuff as I heard talked before
        The people at Annual Meet'n.
Hokee, Pokee, Sassyfras,
Foolish talk and noisy gas,
Pollytiks may go to grass,
        If that's an Annual Meet'n.

Jerusha Jenkins has spoken her piece
      Concerning the Annual Meeting,
There is no more sense to it than cackling of geese,
      Or a stray sheep, wofully bleating;
And first of all, I don't believe she was there,
      My husband says he never knew it;
And he was there, I know, and talked his full share,
      I don't think she'd venture to do it.

She don't seem to like it, that women should be
      Elected to serve in high places:
Good Lord! what do we care for such folks an she?
      When we women get "into the traces."

She'll see better works done on roads and in schools,
      And more will be done for less money,
The land! does she think all her own sex are fools,
      That against us she tries to be funny?

It's admitted by people of sense the world through,
      That women are good educators
Of children, and isn't it equally true,
      That in finance, we're good calculators?
Let us all have a chance, for we think it is hard
      If we don't prove the best politicians,
When we all go and vote, without further regard
      To sex, color, or previous conditions.

There are so many places that ladies can fill
      Better far than the "lords of creation,"
They must have a vote, and what's morn, they soon will,
      And control the affairs of the nation.
Now, as for being chosen as "Cullers of Staves,"
      Why not, if they know how to do it?
And if next year, they're sent to political graves,
      Don't fear, they'll contrive to live through it.

Jerusha, your ears ought to tingle with shame
      To write thus concerning your sisters,
I wonder you dared to append your full name,
      Why don't you come up and assist us?
If you really have talent – I own you have some.
      Employ it in lifting up Woman:
When she is enfranchised, the good time will come,
      And we'll be beholden to no man.

Now as for the gas that you hear at Town Hall,
      I quite agree with you about it,
'Tis our mission to put an end to it all,
      And do the work better without it.
Come into our ranks, an a welcome recruit,
      The war into Afric we'll carry,
We'll train the Town Meet'n – ay, down to the root,
      Or my name's not

The shades of night were falling fast,
As round Brant point a good sloop passed,
And to the pier her hawsers cast –

Then music raised its stirring tone,
Great guns were fired and fog-horns blown,
That her arrival might be known –

Once more, in his own native place,;
The Captain, with his Ray-diant face,
Can tell his stories with a grace –

How for two months he has been gone,
Long enough to have reached Cape Horn –
In Woods Hole, ice-bound and forlorn –

Long may the honest captain tell
Of all the mishaps that befell,
During that long, cold, bitter spell –

Through ice-fields did the good sloop drive
In eighteen hundred seventy-five
She came forth safe and all alive –

Propitious gales the old craft bless
Through many years of good success.
And "may her shadow ne'er grow less!"

I'm no great of a reader, you know,
      (At least, I thought all of ye knew so,)
Though I used to like Daniel Defoe,
      (I mean him that writ Robbison Crusoe,)
And John Bunyan's "Progress.: I say,
      Was to me a delight and a wonder,
But I'm made almost crazy to-day,
      By this talk about – Daniel Deronda.

I wondered much who he could be,
      I'd heard about Daniel O'Connell,
The great patriot over the sea,
      (Mike Flinn used to call him O'Donnell.)
Our great Webster, too, was called Dan,
      He also was called "Great Expounder,"
(I don't mean the spellin'-book man,)
      But who on airth's – Daniei Deronda?

I know about Daniel of old,
      Cast into the den full of lions,
Daniel Dancer, the miser, so cold,
      Daniel Lambert, that fattest of giants.
These were all famous men in their way,
      But my memory had to knock under,
All those men are forgotten to-day,
And, instead, I hear "Daniel Deronda!"

If I only go out on the street,
      I'm subject to just the same bother.
Wherever two young people meet,
      I'm sure to hear something or other
Concerning this pesky hard name,

I heard one young lady declare
      That the least said of him, soonest mended,
While her, friend, with a toss of her hair,
      Said she thought that' Daniel was "splendid!"
So "elegant," "noble," and "nice,"
      With other pet words; even fonder,
I was tempted to ask; once or twice,
      Why, who is this Daniel Deronda?

I picked up the last magazine,,
      'Twas lying on Mrs. Brown's sofa,
She smiled, for she knows that I'm green,
      I ran the leaves hastily over.
I confess I was struck all aghast,
      Though I wouldn't express any wonder,
For almost from first page to last,
      'Twas "Re-views of Daniel Deronda."

My husband's much exercised too,
      For even his old daily Journal
Has a column or two of "Review,"
      About what be calls "that infernal
Dry stuff that would give him the blues."
      And sometimes he asks, "Why in thunder
Don't the editors give us some news,
      Instead of this Daniel Deronda?"

"Why that's news," said I, "I suppose,
      At least the young people so tell us."
"It is?" says he. "Well, the Lord knows
      I don't read about such queer fellers.
When I used to go round Cape Horn,
      We cruised for whales off Rock Redonda,
But never yet since I was born
      Did I hear such a name as De-ronda,"

Just then comes in Malviny Jane,
      With her book from the old Atheneum,
She gets books that are silly and vain,
      And don't always want me to see 'em.
But now, full of pleasure and pride,
      She danced about, hither and yonder,
"O mother! I've got it!" she cried,
      "Yes, Ma! I've got Daniel Deronda!".

"Set right down Malviny!" says I,
      "For now I can't stand it no longer,
If I don't find out soon, I shall die,
      My cur'osity can't grow no stronger.
I won't ask nobody outside,
For fear I might make some great blunder,
      But what means year pleasure and pride?
And, for land's sake, who's Daniel Deronda?"

"Why, lor, Ma!" says she, "Don't you know?
      He's just the young ladles' ideal,
He's pictured and colored up so,
      You'd almost believe he was real."
"Real! Why, what do you mean?
      Is he a stuffed figger, I wonder?
Don't laugh at your Ma, 'cause she's green!
      But tell me who's Daniel Deronda?"

Then Malviny gave such a look,
      My husband's face went down to zero, –
"Why, George Elliott's made a new book
      And put Daniel in for a hero."
"George Elliott?" I cried, "and who's he?
      Our minister's grandson, I wonder?"
"His grandson!" she laughed, "It's a she!
      It's a woman wrote Daniel Deronda!"

"Malviny! Don't tell me no more!
      I hain't got the patience to listen!
How can you tell, if you don't know her,
      Whether'ts a her'n,or a his'n?"
I put on my dignity then

"A woman that wears a man's name,
      Ain't much," says he, "my way o' thinkins,
Jerusha, I'd say just the same
      If you signed your name as George Jenkins.
True wimmin are wimmin, d'ye see,
      And don't let their ambition wander,
What business has women to be
      George Elliot or Dan'l Deronda?"

But I can't drive cur'osity out,
      And so I determined to feed it,
Took the book when Malviny was out,
      And neglecting work, set down to read it.
And so, as I read more and more,
      I was filled with delight and with wonder,
That woman, I'm crazy to know her.
      That writ about Daniel Deronda.

I read till my back and eyes ached,
      (I was never before such a sinner,)
My bread's In the oven half baked,
      And my spouse had to whistle for dinner.
He came in and caught me by surprise,
      Looked over my shoulder; "By thunder!
Jerusha, can I trust my eyes?
      She's readin' that Daniel Deronda!"

Of course you've heard what has been said of late,
      Of marvellous cures and strange recoveries,
Under the influence of blue glass plate;
      O! strangest of all strange discoveries!
Unlike inventions more elaborate,
      Of which necessity the mother is,
A simple matter like the present one.
Immortalizes General Pleasanton.

Wonder of wonders! Can it then be true,
      That all the countless ills that flesh is heir to,
Will soak out in a sun-bath colored blue?
      How rash it seems that any man should dare to
Tell us that light of any special hue
      Is the great heal-all! Surely none would care to
Seek faine by this, unless quite sure to win it,
For all admit there's no money in it.

But Pleasanton proclaims that his blue glass
      Makes vegetation grow; that pigs will fatten
Under its light; nay, more, he has the brass
      To tell you that if you your nose will flatten
With face against the pane, 'twill come to pass
      That health will every nerve and fibre gladden.
The blues by blue glass will be dissipated,
Disease removed, the system renovated.

Is this all true? If so, what need we care
      For scoff of scientist, or sneer of critic?
If to bald heads blue light restores the hair,
      Makes the blind see, uplifts the paralytic,
Kills hydrophobia, purifies had air,
      E'en cures asphyxia from gasmephitics,
What care we for analysis of prisms,
For learned "pathies," "ologies" or "isms?"

When pane meets pain, then comes the tug of war;
      "To tight it on that line" is our intention,
A fig for science or organic law!
      No "blue light," since the Federalist convention
Has moved men's minds like this; the old Blue Law
      Revived again its claims on our attention;
We'll sit and wait for health in twilight azure,
No longer pay the doctor, – but the glazier.

A lady, as we're told, had for five years
      Been crippled past all power of locomotion;
Had quite exhausted science, it appears,
      Was proof'gainst draught and blister, pill and lotion;
Despite the doctor's ridicule and sneers,

      Resolved to try this wild and foolish notion;
So had her window glazed in style imperial,
And took a sum-bath in the blue ethereal.

The family left her there as oft before;
      'Twas an experiment hardly worth the trying;
A noise was heard, they rushed in at the door,
      Thinking to and the patient dead or dying;
She'd risen and had walked across the floor!
      We know the public print are given to lying.
But one can get the lady's affidavit,
Her husband's too, if any wish to have it.

This is one case; from many we may choose;
      The age of miracles Is here before us,
We read about them in our daily news,
      The promise of still others hanging o'er us.
He that is sick, has but to take the blues,
      Drugs need not nauseate, nor doctors bore us,
To all, may health and length of life be given,
Through the blue window-pane, direct from heaven.

Old rules and systems must give place to new,
      The nineteenth century is full of wonders,
Have done with blue pills and blue vitriol too,
      Repent our medical mistakes and blunders.
"Let there be light," and let the light he blue!
      Though science cast its sneers and hurl its thunders.
Still, towering high above all others, is
This wondrous Pleasantonian hypothesis.

My young darter, Malviny Jane,
      Thinks her ma made a terrible blunder
When she told the whole story so plain,
      About readin' Daniel Deronda;
"But Lor," says I, "What do you care?
      I don't wish to blow my own trumpet,
But my verses are my own affair,
      And them that don't like it can lump it.

As she thinks she knows more than her ma,
      I'll write rhymes and not let her see 'em;
She's got more school l'arniu', by far,
      And reads books from that Atheneum;
She goes down there Saturday night,
      But my husband's got pretty good smellers,
He says, – and I guess he's 'bout right, –
      That she goes there to flirt with the fellers.

She keeps company with mighty nice folks,
      For she's just the right manners that takes here;
But I thought 'twas just one of her jokes
      When she talked about "j'inin' the Shakspeare."
"The Shakspeare! and what may that be?"
      "It's a club, where the works of that poet
Are studied and read; don't you see?"
      "Just so; but then, how should I know it?"

I asked her if she'd read them books?
      "Why, y-e-e-s." "Now, Malviny, I doubt it;
I know that's a fib by your looks;
      Now tell me the plain truth about it."
"Well, no, ma, I hain't read 'em through,
      But to do so I've always intended;
But then, there's my friend, Susie Drew,
      She's read 'em, and says they are splendid."

"She read the book when 't was just out,
      The very first published edition."
"Malviny!" said I with a shout,
      "I'm shocked, after all the tuition
You've had, and been through the High School,
      That you don't know better! My conscience!
Do you think your old mother's a fool
      That you try to deceive her with nonsense?

"I'd just like to meet Susie Drew,
      I guess I'd wind her up and set her;
But I shouldn't ha' thought it of you,
      Malviny, you ought to know better!
Why, I don't put up to know much,

      With no great advantage of schoolin',
But my l'arnin' would he a lame crutch
      If 1 was tripped up by such foolin'

"Why, Shakspeare wrote long before Burns,
      And long before old Lindley Murray,
His books are much older than Sterne's,
      And I shan't forget in a hurry,
How Elizabeth Black used to say
      We all ought to know that, for shame's sake,
(She was the school-ma'am in my day)
      That he lived in the days of her namesake.

"Now when did Queen 'Lizabeth reign?
      You just go and rub up your history,
And then you will see very plain
      'I'hat Susie Drew's talk is all mystery;
I guess she's been humbugging you,
      Or jokin', but you didn't know it;
But your brother knows more than we do,
      He'll tell you about your great poet."

Seth Jenkins, although he's my son,
      Has a wonderful taste for good readin';
But he's so deep, so quiet and glum,
      His sister says Seth lacks good breedin';
But when her book knowledge runs out,
      And she can't get no help from her mother,
She's glad enough then, there's no doubt,
      To call on that great, awkward brother.

When she asked him about Will Shakspeare,
      I could see the boy's eyes fairly glisten;
I myself. was astonished to hear,
      I could only set stock still and listen;
He told us astonishin' things
      Of Shakspeare and his con-tempo-raries,
And about old Plantagenet kings
      And queens too, he called Bloody Marys,

And Henrys of various names,
      With characters blacker and blacker;
Of Elizabeth, and the first James,
      Who wrote against using tobacker;
He told about Shakspeare's plays,
      And even in what order he wrote 'em,
And the parts that he wished most to praise,
      He knew all by heart and could quote 'em.

'T would ha' done your heart good to hear Seth
      Speak the words of old Brutus, the Roman,
And then act out Lady Macbeth,
      That murderous, bold, bloody woman;
It made my blood almost run cold
      When he came to the part of Othello;
That Iago! the lies that he told;
      A sneaking, mean, dangerous fellow!

If I had read them plays all through,
      (But I've no time nor patience to do it,)
I should never have known what I do,
      From jest hearin' Seth Jenkins go through it;
Malviny and me was so scared,
      It seemed our limbs wouldn't sustain us;
Bless your soul! Seth he never cared,
      But went on with Cory O'Lanus.

And then when he called himself Lear,
      That crazy, old cracked King of Britain,
He couldn't ha' done it so near,
      If by a mad dog he'd been bitten.
"Blow, winds, and crack open your cheeks!"
      I smelt his breath to see'f he was fuddled,
But 'twas what the old crazy king speaks
      To the storm, when his brain was all muddled.

My husband came in from down town,
      And stood stock still in the front entry,
His forehead bent into a frown,
      And as stiff as a soger on sentry.
Where he stood, it was more than half-dark,

      But he wouldn't come in any further,
While Seth, as the Prince of Denmark,
      Jawed away at the ghost of his father.

He most frightened Malviuy to death,
      When plotting to kill Julius Caesar;
She screeched, and cried "Git away, Seth!"
      For she thought he was going to seize her;
But when, acting Richard the Third,
      He rushed at his father, 'twas funny;
For my old man, he never stirred,
      But just said "What's the trouble now, Sonny?"

When Seth stopped to rest for a while,
      He said we had had enough tragic;
And then, bustin' into a smile,
      He changed the whole thing just like magic;
We had everything under the sun,
      Life's joys, and gay frolics, and sorrows;
He was sometimes as full of his fun
      As he had been before of the horrors.

Miss Juliet told young Montague
      That he might have her love if he'd ask it;
There was Touchstone, and Dogberry too,
      And fat Falstaff–in the buck-basket;
There was Benedick, wooing his bride,
      And that funny joker, Mercutio,
While Malviny laughed till she cried,
      At the strong-minded husband, Petruchio.

My boy was quite bright, that I say,
      But we never thought him so uncommon,
And who'd suppose he could play
      The part of a young, lovely woman?
Mirandy, and sweet Annie Page,
      Ophelia, and fair Desdemony,
Then Katrina, the shrew, in a rage,
      And The Two Gentlemen of Verony.

I don't think I should have been tired
      If I'd sot there and listened till mornin',
For he seems just as if he's inspired;
      But his Pa cut him short with a warum'.
Says he "It's most twelve o'clock, Seth,
      And it's time to have done with this soariu';
Malviny, she's most tired to death,
      And we ought to be all in bed snorin'."

When the young folks had gone off up stairs,
      Says my husband to me, "Don't encourage
Our Seth in these highf'lut'n airs,
      For they won't put no salt in his porridge."
Says I, "Phineas, how do ye know
      But our Seth may become a great actor?
And you might feel if that was so,
      That you were the world's benefactor."

"Great humbug!" says he, "Once for all,
      With me it's a matter o' conscience,
I don't want to hear it at all,
      I tell you it's all stuff and nonsense!
Why, long before I was his age,
      I went round Cape Horn in the Ranger,
I wasn't brought up for the stage!"
      "Should think not," says I, "There's no danger.

"You grew up in a different age,
      As to Shakspeare, why, you never read it,
And if you had took to the stage,
      I don't think you'd ha' done it much credit;
But Phineas Jenkins, our boy
      Can't go round Cape Horn as you used ter,
And ser'ously, I don't see why
      You should crow over that like a rooster.

"The times are much altered now, Pa,
      To brag of the past don't become us;
We must learn to take things as they are,
      Dull winters and butterfly summers;
Our children must fetch up somewhere,

      With such eddication's we've gin 'em;
But if we want to have 'em start fair,
      We must find out just what there is in 'em."

"Well, yes," says he, "may be that's so,
      But I've nothin' to say 'bout the daughter,
When she gets a husband she'll go,
      Just as I suppose all women ought'er;
Wimmen's queer critters, I vow,
      To manage one gets me quite nettled;
Gals hain't much account anyhow,
      Till after they're married and settled."

"But ours may not marry, I fear."
      "Tut, tut, of course somebody'll have her,
And I hope that'll happen this year;
      I don't want her on my hands forever.
She may as well jive the Shakspeares,
      Or anything else that will make her
Content till the right man appears,
      To fall in love with her, and take her."

Now with my old man that's just the way;
      Though I know his heart is a warm one,
About wimmen he will have his say,
      And talk just like a Turk–or a Mormon.
"The gal's got a good looking face,"
      He says, "and that's her chief reliance;
But with Seth it's a different case,
      And he mustn't set me at defiance.

"For you see I'm a practical man,
      From my son I won't stand any nonsense;
But I'll just carry out my own plan,
      For I make it a matter of conscience."
"Oh, bother your conscience!" says I:
      (We sometimes have these little breezes,)
"You can't force things, you'd better not try,
      For Seth'll do just as he pleases.

"The saplin' won't break, but 'twill bend,
      So don't get your back up, dear Phineas.
For you'll have to back down in the end,
      And that would he quite ignominious."
He got that long word through his head,
      Sot a minute for consideration:
"Come!" says he, "it's time we were in bed,"
      And so ended that conversation.

Well, Malviny has j'ined the Shakspeare,
      And as I think, much to her improvement;
But the coming man doesn't appear,
      And her father still waits for that movement.
Seth Jenkins is almost of age;
      At his trade he earns many a dollar;
And I don't think he'll take to the stage,
      Though he is a Shaksperean scholar.