"Agreed!" cried North; thought he, This fall In that way I shall get the start, As for his grain, such work they'd made on't, Off in a rage he rushed to South, "My wheat and rye" grief choked his mouth; "Pray don't mind me," said South, "but plant All of the new land that you want"; "Yes, but your hogs," cried North; "The grain Won't hurt them," answered South again; "But they destroy my crop"; "No doubt; 'Tis fortunate you've found it out; Misfortunes teach, and only they, You must not sow it in their way"; "Nay, you," says North, "must keep them out"; "Did I create them with a snout?" Asked South demurely; "as agreed, The land is open to your seed, And would you fain prevent my pigs From running there their harmless rigs? God knows I view this compromise With not the most approving eyes; I gave up my unquestioned rights "Abate Your heat," says South, "'tis now too late; I offered you the rocky corner, But you, of your own good the scorner, No doubt you might have found a quarry, You can't expect me to resign My rights" "But where," quoth North, "are mine?" "Your rights," says t'other, "well, that's funny, I bought the land" "I paid the money"; "That," answered South, "is from the point, I'm sure my only hope and trust is They might have answered once, but Fate So saying, South began to whistle While North went homeward, each brown paw And all the while, in either ear, Heard something clicking wondrous clear. Through the windows blow! bugles! blow! through doors burst like a ruthless force, Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation, Leave not the bridegroom quiet now with his bride, no happiness must he have Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain, So fierce you whirr and pound you drums so shrill you bugles blow. Beat! beat! drums! Are beds prepared for blow! bugles! blow! over the rumble of wheels in the streets; sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds, No bargainers, bargains by day no brokers or speculatorswould they continue? Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing? Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge? Then rattle quicker, heavier drums you bugles wilder blow. Beat! beat! drums! blow! bugles! blow! Make no parley -stop for no expostulation, Mind not the timid mind not the weeper or prayer, Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties, the hearses, So strong you thump O terrible drums so loud you bugles blow. FROM "MEMORIES OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN". O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. MAY 4, 1865. Hush'd be the camps to-day, And soldiers let us drape our war-worn weapons, No more for him life's stormy conflicts, Nor victory, nor defeat no more time's dark events, Charging like ceaseless clouds across the sky. But sing poet in our name, Sing of the love we bore him - because you, dweller in camps, know it truly. As they invault the coffin there, Sing as they close the doors of earth upon him For the hearts of soldiers. one verse, This dust was once the man, Gentle, plain, just and resolute, under whose cautious hand, Against the foulest crime in history known in any land or age, Was saved the Union of these States. BAYARD TAYLOR. MARIGOLD. Homely, forgotten flower, Thou, the half-summer long, Even as waits a song Till men shall heed. Then, when the lilies die, In spicy death, 1 |