And random passers staid to list,-
A boxer Ægon, rough and merry,
A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst
With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry.

A one-eyed Cyclops halted long
In tattered cloak of army pattern,
And Galatea joined the throng,-

A blowsy apple-vending slattern;
While old Silenus staggered out

From some new-fangled lunch-house handy, And bade the piper, with a shout,

To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy!

A newsboy and a peanut-girl

Like little fauns began to caper; His hair was all in tangled curl,

Her tawny legs were bare and taper;
And still the gathering larger grew,

And gave its pence and crowded nigher,
While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew
His pipe, and struck the gamut higher.

O heart of Nature, beating still

With throbs her vernal passion taught her,Even here, as on the vine-clad hill,

Or by the Arethusan water!

New forms may fold the speech, new lands
Arise within these ocean-portals
But Music waves eternal wands,-
Enchantress of the souls of mortals!

So thought I,-but among us trod
A man in blue, with legal baton,
And scoffed the vagrant demigod,

And pushed him from the step I sat on.
Doubting I mused upon the cry,

"Great Pan is dead!"—and all the people
Went on their ways:-and clear and high
The quarter sounded from the steeple.

1 For the classical allusions in this poem the pupil is referred to either Gayley's Classic Myths or Bulfinch's Age of Fable.

HOW WE BECAME A NATION

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD

This poem refers to events taking place in Boston, April 15,

1774.

WHEN George the King would punish folk

Who dared resist his angry will

Resist him with their hearts of oak
That neither King nor Council broke—

He told Lord North to mend his quill,
And sent his Parliament a Bill.

The Boston Port Bill was the thing

He flourished in his royal hand;
A subtle lash with scorpion sting,
Across the seas he made it swing,

And with its cruel thong he planned
To quell the disobedient land.

His minions heard it sing, and bare
The port of Boston felt its wrath;
They let no ship cast anchor there,
They summoned Hunger and Despair,—
And curses in an aftermath
Followed their desolating path.

No coal might enter there, nor wood,
Nor Holland flax, nor silk from France;

No drugs for dying pangs, no food

For any mother's little brood.

"Now," said the King, "we have our chance, We'll lead the haughty knaves a dance."

No other flags lit up the bay,

Like full blown blossoms in the air,
Than where the British war-ships lay;
The wharves were idle; all the day

The idle men, grown gaunt and spare,
Saw trouble, pall-like, everywhere.

Then in across the meadow land,

From lonely farm and hunter's tent,
From fertile field and fallow strand,
Pouring it out with lavish hand,

The neighboring burghs their bounty sent,
And laughed at King and Parliament.

To bring them succor, Marblehead

Joyous her deep-sea fishing sought.
Her trees, with ringing stroke and tread,
Old many-rivered Newbury sped,

And Groton in her granaries wrought
And generous flocks old Windham brought.

Rice from the Carolinas came,

Iron from Pennsylvania's forge,

And, with a spirit all aflame,
Tobacco-leaf and corn and game

The Midlands sent; and in his gorge
The Colonies defied King George!

And Hartford hung, in black array,

Her town-house, and at half-mast there The flags flowed, and the bells all day Tolled heavily; and far away

In great Virginia's solemn air

The House of Burgesses held prayer.

Down long glades of the forest floor

The same thrill ran through every vein,

And down the long Atlantic's shore;

Its heat the tyrant's fetters tore

And welded them through stress and strain
Of long years to a mightier chain.

That mighty chain with links of steel
Round all the Old Thirteen at last,

Through one electric pulse to feel

The common woe, the common weal.

And that great day the Port Bill passed
Made us a nation hard and fast.

JIM BLUDSO OF THE PRAIRIE BELLE PIKE COUNTY BALLADS

JOHN HAY

WALL, no! I can't tell whar he lives,
Because he don't live, you see;
Leastways, he's got out of the habit
Of livin' like you and me.

Whar have you been for the last three year
That you haven't heard folks tell
How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks
The night of the Prairie Belle?

He weren't no saint,-them engineers

Is all pretty much alike,