Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones, The bright sun folded on his breast And softly over all the west The shades of evening came. He slept, and troops of murdered Pigs Loud rang their wild, unearthly shrieks, Wide yawned their mortal seams The clock struck twelve; the Dead hath heard ; He opened both his eyes, And sullenly he shook his tail To lash the feeding flies. One quiver of the hempen cord,- And straight towards the sleeper's house And hooting owl, and hovering bat, Back flew the bolt, up rose the latch, And little mincing feet were heard Pat pat along the floor. Two hoofs upon the sanded floor, And two upon the bed; And they are breathing side by side, The living and the dead! Now wake, now wake, thou butcher man! Take hold! take hold! thou dost not fear Untwisted every winding coil; The shuddering wretch took hold; All like an icicle it seemed, So tapering and so cold. "Thou com'st with me, thou butcher man!"- And open, open swung the door, Fast fled the darkness of the night, They called full loud, they knocked full long, Straight, straight towards that oaken beam A ghastly shape was swinging there,— PARK BENJAMIN. [Born in 1809 at Demerara, of a New England family; died towards 1865 Practised as an attorney at Boston. Afterwards took to magazine-writing and general literature, and published a great number of compositions, in verse and prose. Two of his principal poems are satires, named Poetry and Infatuation]. INDOLENCE. THERE is no type of indolence like this:- The wave unstirred about her huge sides lying, To his tough limbs that scarce have ever found Some are asleep; some whistle, try to sing; But every lubber there is lazy as a king. MATTHEW C. FIELD. [Born in 1812, died in 1844. Irish by parentage, and a Londoner by place of birth, but living in the United States from four years of age. He published much verse, and much prose also, in journals of the Southern States, from 1834 onwards]. TO MY SHADOW. SHADOW, just like the thin regard of men, Constant and close to friends while fortune's bright. Yet, Shadow, as good friends have often done, Light calls ye forth, yet, lying at my feet, JOHN GODFREY SAXE. [Born in 1816. A barrister and newspaper editor, highly popular in the States for his humorous or burlesque poems-some of them modelled very closely on Hood, and others on Barham]. THE GHOST-PLAYER. A BALLAD. TOM GOODWIN was an actor man, Now Tom was very fond of drink, From porter up to port. But grog, like grief, is fatal stuff For, when it fails to pull him down, And so it fared with ghostly Tom, At length the manager observed 'Twas only 'tother night he saw And heard him cry, "By all the gods ! The Ghost is getting fat !" 'Twould never do, the case was plain; His eyes he couldn't shut; Ghosts shouldn't make the people laugh, And Tom was quite a butt. Tom's actor friends said ne'er a word To cheer his drooping heart; Though more than one was burning up With zeal to "take his part." Tom argued very plausibly; He said he didn't doubt That Hamlet's father drank, and And so, 'twas natural, he said, 'Twas all in vain; the manager Said he was not in sport, grew, And, like a general, bade poor Tom He'd do perhaps in heavy parts; Or porter to the elephant, To carry round his trunk; But in the Ghost his day was past- A Ghost might just as well be dead Alas next day poor Tom was found For he had lost his character, And given up the Ghost! I'M GROWING OLD. My days pass pleasantly away; My nights are blest with sweetest sleep; I feel no symptoms of decay; I have no cause to mourn nor weep; My foes are impotent and shy; My friends are neither false nor cold; And yet, of late, I often sigh I'm growing old! My growing talk of olden times, My growing love of easy shoes, I'm growing fonder of my staff; I see it in my changing taste; I see it in my growing heir; Ah me!-my very laurels breathe The secret she would fain withhold, And tells me in "How young you are!" I'm growing old. Thanks for the years-whose rapid flight My sombre Muse too sadly sings; Thanks for the gleams of golden light That tint the darkness of their wings; |