Less than a god they thought there could not dwell
Within the hollow of that shell,
That spoke so sweetly and so well.
What passion cannot music raise and quell?
The trumpet's loud clangor
Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger,
And mortal alarms.
The double, double, double beat
Of the thundering drum,
Cries, "Hark! the foes come;
Charge, charge! 'tis too late to retreat."
The soft complaining flute
In dying notes discovers
The woes of hapless lovers,
Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.
Sharp violins proclaim
Their jealous pangs, and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depths of pain and height of passion,
For the fair disdainful dame.
But, O! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach,
The sacred organ's praise!
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.
Orpheus could lead the savage race;
And trees uprooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre;
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher;
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appeared,
Mistaking earth for heaven.
THE WONDERFUL “ONE-HOSS SHAY.”
HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it—Ah, but stay,
I'll tell you what happened, without delay -
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits
Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,
Georgius Secundus was then alive -
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.
Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always, somewhere, a weakest spot-
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace - lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will
Above or below, or within or without-
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
It should be so built that it couldn't break daown:·
"Fur," said the Deacon, "it's mighty plain Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain, 'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
To make that place uz strong uz the rest.”
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn't be split, nor bent, nor broke -
That was for spokes, and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood, to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees;
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs from logs from the "Settler's ellum
Last of its timber — they couldn't sell 'em
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide,
Found in the pit where the tanner died.
That was the way he "put her through."
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"
Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren — where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay,
As fresh as on Lisbon earthquake-day!
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred, increased by ten
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came —
Running as usual — much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive;
And then came fifty- and fifty-five.
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large:
First of November - the Earthquake-day.
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavor of mild decay
But nothing local, as one may say.
There couldn't be for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whipple-tree neither less nor more,
And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring, and axle, and hub encore.
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!
First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
Huddup!" said the parson.· -O.I went they.
The parson was working his Sunday text
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the Moses was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.
First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill-
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock -
Just the hour of the Earthquake-shock!
What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce.
How it went to pieces all at once
All at once, and nothing first
Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is Logic. That's all I say.
IRISH ALIENS AND ENGLISH VICTORIES.
I SHOULD be surprised, indeed, if, while you are doing us wrong, you did not profess your solicitude to do us justice. From the day on which Strongbow set his foot upon the shore of Ireland, Englishmen were never wanting in protestations of their deep anxiety to do us justice; Strafford, the deserter of the people's cause, the renegade Wentworth, who gave evidence in Ireland of the spirit of instinctive tyranny which predominated in his character, even Strafford, while he trampled upon our rights, and trod upon the heart of the country, protested his solicitude to do justice to Ireland! What marvel is it, then, that gentlemen
|