Whose breasts though furies with their passions rule Yet laugh at satire, pointed by a fool. Was there no world but ours to give you room? No Patagonia, for your savage home, By dark suspicion led, you aim at all Such is your stretch! and thus awhile go on! none. Hurt whom they will, let who will injured be, The sons of smut and scandal hurt not me. TO A CATY-DID In a branch of willow hid While upon a leaf you tread, Nothing else but Caty-did. From your lodging on the leaf Did you utter joy or grief? Did you only mean to say, Tell me, what did Caty do ? Did she mean to trouble you? Why was Caty not forbid To trouble little Caty-did? Wrong, indeed, at you to fling, Hurting no one while you sing, Caty-did! Caty-did! Caty-did! Why continue to complain? Caty tells me she again Will not give you plague or pain; Caty says you may be hid, Caty will not go to bed While you sing us Caty-did, Caty-did! Caty-did! Caty-did! But, while singing, you forgot To tell us what did Caty not: Caty did not think of cold, Flocks retiring to the fold, Winter with his wrinkles old; Winter, that yourself foretold When you gave us Caty-did. Stay serenely on your nest; Caty now will do her best, All she can, to make you blest; But you want no human aid, Nature, when she formed you, said, "Independent you are made, My dear little Caty-did: Soon yourself must disappear With the verdure of the year," And to go, we know not where, With your song of Caty-did. TO A HONEY BEE THOU, born to sip the lake or spring, Or quaff the waters of the stream, nor'-west blew through the pitch- It was a clear and cloudless night, and the wind blew steady and strong, pine spars; 1 See BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE, p. 778. As gayly over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along; With the foaming seas beneath her bow the fiery waves she spread, And bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cat-head. There was no talk of short'ning sail by him who walked the poop, And under the press of her pond'ring jib, the boom bent like a hoop! And the groaning water-ways told the strain that held her stout main-tack, But he only laughed as he glanced aloft at a white and silvery track. The mid-tide meets in the Channel waves that flow from shore to shore, And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone to Dunmore, And that sterling light in Tusker Rock where the old bell tolls each hour, And the beacon light that shone so bright was quench'd on Waterford Tower. What looms upon our starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze? 'T is time our good ship hauled her wind abreast the old Saltees, For by her ponderous press of sail and by her consorts four We saw our morning visitor was a British man-of-war. Up spake our noble Captain then, as a shot ahead of us past "Haul snug your flowing courses! lay your topsail to the mast!" Those Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs from the deck of their covered ark, And we answered back by a solid broadside from the decks of our patriot bark. "Out booms! out booms!" our skipper cried, "out booms and give her sheet," And the swiftest keel that was ever launched shot ahead of the British fleet, And amidst a thundering shower of shot, with stun'-sails hoisting away, Down the North Channel Paul Jones did steer just at the break of day. Timothy Dwight Their honors, well he knew, would ne'er be driven; But hoped they still would please to go to heaven. Each week he paid his visitation dues; Coaxed, jested, laughed; rehearsed the private news; Smoked with each goody, thought her cheese excelled; Her pipe he lighted, and her baby held. Or placed in some great town, with lacquered shoes, Trim wig, and trimmer gown, and glistening hose, He bowed, talked politics, learned manners mild, Most meekly questioned, and most smoothly smiled; At rich men's jests laughed loud, their stories praised, Their wives' new patterns gazed, and gazed, and gazed; St. John Honeywood DARBY AND JOAN I WHEN Darby saw the setting sun, 46 My work is done!" retorted Joan, My work is done! your constant tone; But hapless woman ne'er can say, My work is done,' till judgment day. "I know your meaning," Joan replied, And fed- and all because of you: And stole off grumbling to his bed; "Zounds! woman's clack is never done." II At early dawn, ere Phoebus rose, Old Joan resumed her tale of woes; When Darby thus — “I'll end the strife, Be you the man and I the wife: Take you the scythe and mow, while I Will all your boasted cares supply." * Content," quoth Joan, "give me my stint." This Darby did, and out she went. Old Darby rose and seized the broom Swore he'd ne'er try to milk again: For as he chanced to brush the room, The bread take form of loaf or cake. Old Jowler barked, and Tabby mewed, Our fates have marked, while thou art mine. Then Joan, return, as heretofore, |