And for the flame of liberty, Heaven-kindled in thy breast, Which thou hast fed like sacred fire- 'Tis said thy spirit knoweth not EVENING. BY A TAILOR. DAY hath put on his jacket, and around His burning bosom buttoned it with stars. Here will I lay me on the velvet grass, That is like padding to earth's meagre ribs, And hold communion with the things about me. Ah me! how lovely is the golden braid That binds the skirt of night's descending robe! The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads, Do make a music like to rustling satin, As the light breezes smooth their downy nap. Ha! what is this that rises to my touch, So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage? It is, it is that deeply injured flower Which boys do flout us with; but yet I love thee, Is that a swan that rides upon the water? Which is the patron of our noble calling. When these young hands first closed upon a goose; And my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors: It happened I did see it on a time When none was near, and I did deal with it, It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs, And leap elastic from the level counter, Leaving the petty grievances of earth, The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears, FACTS FROM FAIRYLAND. "O then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you!" WOULDST thou know of me Where our dwellings be? 'Tis under this hill, Where the moonbeam chill Silvers the leaf and brightens the blade,— 'Tis under this mound Of greenest ground, That our crystal palaces are made. Wouldst thou know of me Which the bright flower hath, And we sip it up, In a harebell cup, By the winking light of the tweering star. Wouldst thou know of me And the clearest, too, That ever hung on leaf or flower; That wholesome drink, Thorough the quiet of the midnight hour. Wouldst thou know of me What our pastimes be? 'Tis the hunt and halloo, The dim greenwood through; O, bravely we prance it with hound and horn, O'er moor and fell, And hollow dell, Till the notes of our Woodcraft wake the morn. Wouldst thou know of me What our garments be? As they float in the cool of a summer eve bright, Form doublet and hose For our Squires of Dames on each festal night. Wouldst thou know of me When our revelries be? 'Tis in the still night, When the moonshine white Glitters in glory o'er land and sea, That, with nimble foot, To tabor and flute, We whirl with our loves round yon glad old tree. AN AMERICAN HUT. It was a curious old pile, composed of rough-hewn oaken logs, locked together and wedded at the seams by satisfactory daubs of red clay, which the sun had baked into a substance tolerably substantial. Over this bleak framework were thrown long black branches of various trees, the interstices being stuffed with moss and straw, and then the whole paved with dark rows of uneven stones, which afforded a rude shelter, and bid an humble defiance to the storms that might hurl their power at the brow of this little tenement. A |