I write in many an idle way,
Thinking one serious thought.
‘O flowers, a fine Greek name ye bear,
And with a fine Greek grace.’
Be still, O heart, that turns to share
The sunshine of a face.
‘Have ye no messages-no brief,
Still sign: ‘Despair’, or ‘Hope’?’
A sudden stir of stem and leaf-
A breath of heliotrope!
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Judge Sawyer, whom in vain the people tried
Death only from the bench could ever startThe sluggish load of his immortal part.____For those this mausoleum is erectedWho Stanford to the Upper House elected.Their luck is less or their promotion slower,For, dead, they were elected to the Lower.____Rash mortal! stay thy feet and look around-This vacant tomb as yet is holy ground;But soon, alas!…
‘Tis the census enumerator
It’s ho! for the tall potater,And ho! for the clustered corn.The whiffle-tree bends in the breeze and the fineLarge eggs are a-ripening on the vine.‘Some there must be to till the soilAnd the widow’s weeds keep down.I wasn’t cut out for rural toilBut they _won’t_ let me live in town!They ‘re not so many by…
I lay one happy night in bed
They’d all been taken out and shotTheir bodies strewed each vacant lot.O’er all the earth, from Berkeley downTo San Leandro’s ancient town,And out in space as far as NilesI saw their mortal parts in piles.One stack upreared its ridge so highAgainst the azure of the skyThat some good soul, with pious views,Put up a steeple…
Off Santa Cruz the western wave
The sun was sinking to his graveBeneath that angry flood.Sir Walter Turnbull, brave and stout,Then shouted, ‘Ho! lads; run-The powder and the ball bring outTo fire the sunset gun.‘That punctual orb did ne’er omitTo keep, by land or sea,Its every engagement; itShall never wait for me.’Behold the black-mouthed cannon stand,Ready with charge and prime,The lanyard…
‘What is that, mother?’
His hands are black, but his heart is mild.’‘May I touch him, mother?’”T were foolishly done:He is slightly touched already, my son.’‘O, why does he wear such a ghastly grin?’‘That’s the outward sign of a joke within.’‘Will he crack it, mother?’‘Not so, my saint;‘T is meant for the _Saturday Livercomplaint.’‘Does he suffer, mother?’‘God help him,…
In Congress once great Mowther shone,
Now into an asylum thrown,He vacuously chatters.If in that legislative hallHis wisdom still he ‘d vented,It never had been known at allThat Mowther was demented.