The American Library of Art, Literature and Song

FROM THE GREEK OF ANACREON.

THE thirsty earth soaks up the rain,

cup;

And drinks, and gapes for drink again; The plants suck in the earth, and are, With constant drinking, fresh and fair; The sea itself, which one would think Should have but little need of drink, Drinks ten thousand rivers up So filled that they o'erflow the The busy sun (and one would guess, By's drunken fiery face, no less) Drinks up the sea; and when he's done, The moon and stars drink They drink and dance by their own light, They drink and revel all the night; Nothing in nature's sober sound But an eternal health goes round. Fill the bowl, then-fill it high; Fill all the glasses there; for why Should every creature drink but I? Why, man of morals? Tell me why.

the sun;

Translation of ABRAHAM COWLEY.

And this was all the religion he had-
To treat his engine well,
Never be passed on the river,

To mind the pilot's bell;

And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire,
A thousand times he swore
He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last soul got ashore.

All boats has their day on the Mississip,
And her day come at last.

The Movastar was a better boat,

But the Belle she wouldn't be passed, And so she come tearin' along that nightThe oldest craft on the lineWith a nigger squat on her safety-valve

And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.

The fire bust out as she clared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night;

And quick as a flash she turned, and made For that willer-bank on the right.

There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled

out

Over all the infernal roar,

"I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank

Till the last galoot's ashore !"

Through the hot black breath of the burnin' boat

Jim Bludso's voice was heard,
And they all had trust in his cussedness

And knowed he would keep his word.
And, sure's you're born, they all got off
Afore the smokestacks fell,
And Bludso's ghost went up alone
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.

He weren't no saint, but at jedgment
I'd run my chance with Jim
'Longside of some pious gentlemen

That wouldn't shook hands with him.
He seen his duty-a dead-sure thing-
And went for it thar and then ;
And Christ ain't a-going to be too hard
On a man that died for men.

Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend,
And shake your spider legs!
What though you're awkward at the trade?
There's time enough to learn;
So lean upon the rail, my lad,

And take another turn.

They've built us up a noble wall
To keep the vulgar out;
We've nothing in the world to do

But just to walk about.

So faster, now, you middle men,

And try to beat the ends; It's pleasant work to ramble round

Among one's honest friends.

Here! tread upon the long man's toes:
He sha'n't be lazy here;

And punch the little fellow's ribs

And tweak that lubber's ear: He's lost them both. Don't pull his hair, Because he wears a scratch, But poke him in the further eye,

That isn't in the patch.

Hark, fellows! there's the supper-bell,
And so our work is done.
It's pretty sport: suppose we take

A round or two for fun?
If ever they should turn me out
When I have better grown,
Now, hang me, but I mean to have
A treadmill of my own.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

PICTURES OF MEMORY.

MONG the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory's
wall

Is one of a dim old forest

That seemeth best of all.
Not for its gnarled oaks olden,

Dark with the mistletoe;
Not for the violets golden

That sprinkle the vale
below;

Not for the milk-white lilies
That lean from the fra-
grant hedge,

Coquetting all day with the sunbeams

And stealing their golden edge; Not for the vines on the upland

Where the bright-red berries rest,

Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip,
It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother

eyes

With that were dark and deep:
In the lap of that old dim forest
He lieth in peace asleep.
Light as the down of the thistle,

Free as the winds that blow,

We roved there the beautiful summers-
The summers of long ago;

But his feet on the hills grew weary,

And, one of the autumn eves,

I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded

My neck in a meek embrace As the light of immortal beauty Silently covered his face;

And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the treetops bright,
He fell, in his saintlike beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures

That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.

AGE.

ALICE CARY.

FROM THE GREEK OF ANACREON.

FT am I by the women told,
"Poor Anacreon, thou growest old;
Look! how thy hairs are falling all!
Poor Anacreon, how they fall!"
Whether I grow old or no

By the effects I do not know.
This I know without being told:
'Tis time to live if I grow old;
'Tis time short pleasures now to take,
Of little life the best to make,
And manage wisely the last stake.

Translation of ABRAHAM COWLEY.

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That spirit hath fled, and we yield him to | How closely he twineth, how close he clings, thee; To his friend the huge oak tree! His ashes be spread, like his soul, far and And slyly he traileth along the ground, free.

O fire! we commit his dear reliques to thee,
Thou emblem of purity, spotless and free;
May his soul, like thy flames, bright and
burning arise

And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping where grim Death has been,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

To its mansion of bliss in the star-spangled Whole ages have fled and their works de

skies.

O water! receive him. Without thy kind

aid

He had parched 'neath the sunbeams or mourned in the shade;

cayed,

And nations have scattered been,

But the stout old ivy shall never fade

From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant, in its lonely days,
Shall fatten on the past;

Then take of his body the share which is For the stateliest building man can raise

thine,

For the spirit hath fled from its mouldering

shrine.

LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON.

THE IVY GREEN.

H, a dainty plant is the ivy green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old!

On right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.

The wall must be crumpled, the stone de-
cayed,

To pleasure his dainty whim,

LOVE AND GLORY.

YOUNG Henry was as brave a youth

As ever graced a gallant story,

And Jane was fair as lovely truth;

She sighed for love, and he for glory.

With her his faith he meant to plight,
And told her many a gallant story,

And the mouldering dust that years have made Till war, their coming joys to blight,

Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,

And a staunch old heart has he;

Called him away from love to glory.

Young Henry met the foe with pride;

Jane followed, fought. Ah! hapless story!

In man's attire, by Henry's side,
She died for love, and he for glory.

CHARLES DIBDIN.

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The American Library of Art, Literature and Song, Volume 2