And the fiery flood Of whose purple blood Has a dash of Spanish bravado. For richest and best Is the wine of the West, That grows by the Beautiful River,— Fills all the room With a benison on the giver. And as hollow trees Are the haunts of bees, For ever going and coming; So this crystal hive Is all alive With a swarming and buzzing and humming. Very good in its way Is the Verzenay, Or the Sillery soft and creamy; Has a taste more divine, More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy. There grows no vine By Danube or Guadalquiver, That bears such a grape As grows by the Beautiful River. Drugg'd is their juice For foreign use, When shipp'd o'er the reeling Atlantic, With the fever pains That have driven the Old World frantic. To the sewers and sinks And after them tumble the mixer ! Or at best but a Devil's Elixir. While pure as a spring Is the wine I sing, And to praise it, one needs but name it; Has need of no sign, No tavern-bush to proclaim it. And this Song of the Vine, The winds and the birds shall deliver In her garlands dress'd, On the banks of the Beautiful River. THE CUMBERLAND. AT anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore. Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port. We are not idle, but send her straight From each iron scale Of the monster's hide. "Strike your flag!"-the rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain. "Never! our gallant Morris replies; "It is better to sink than to yield!" And the whole air peal'd With the cheers of our men. Then, like a kraken huge and black, She crush'd our ribs in her iron grasp! Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon's breath For her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmasthead. Lord, how beautiful was thy day! Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead. Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream. Ho! brave land! with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seam! SNOW-FLAKES. OUT of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expresssion, This is the poem of the Air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded; Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, ROBERT HINCKLEY MESSINGER. Born 1807. GIVE ME THE OLD. OLD WINE TO DRINK, OLD WOOD TO BURN, OLD BOOKS TO READ, AND OLD FRIENDS TO CONVERSE WITH. OLD wine to drink! Ay, give the slippery juice That drippeth from the Within the tun: grape thrown loose Pluck'd from beneath the cliff Of sunny-sided Teneriffe, And ripen'd 'neath the blink Peat whiskey hot, Temper'd with well-boil'd water! These make the long night shorter; Good stout old English porter. Old wood to burn! Ay, bring the hill-side beech From where the owlets meet and screech, The crackling pine, and cedar sweet; The knotted oak, A faggot too, perhap, Whose bright flame dancing, winking, While the oozing sap Shall make sweet music to our thinking. Old books to read! The brazen-clasp'd, the vellum-writ, The same my sire scann'd before, Of Oxford's domes. Old HOMER blind, Old HORACE, rake ANACREON, by Nor leave behind The Holye Book by which we live and die. Old friends to talk! Ay, bring those chosen few, The wise, the courtly, and the true, So rarely found: |