I have walk'd the world for fourscore years,
And they say that I am old-
That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death,
And my years are well-nigh told.
It is very true-it is very true-
I am old, and I "bide my time;
But my heart will leap at a scene like this,
And I half renew my prime.
Play on! play on! I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smother'd call,
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.
I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go-
For the world, at best, is a weary place,
And my pulse is getting low;
But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail
In treading its gloomy way;
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness
To see the young so gay.
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.*
Born at Haverhill, Mass: 1807.
SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE.
Of all the rides since the birth of time,
Told in story or sung in rhyme,—
On Apuleius' Golden Ass,
Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass,
Witch astride of a human hack,
Islam's Prophet on Al-Boràk,-
The strangest ride that ever was sped
Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead !
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarr'd and feather'd and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead !
Body of turkey, head of owl,
Wings a-droop like a rain'd-on fowl,
Feather'd and ruffled in every part,
Skipper Ireson stood in the cart.
Scores of women, old and young,
Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue,
Push'd and pull'd up the rocky lane,
Shouting and singing the shrill refrain:
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"
Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,
Girls in bloom of cheek and lips,
Wild-eyed, free-limb'd, such as chase
Bacchus round some antique vase,*
Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,
Loose of kerchief and loose of hair,
With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang,
Over and over the Mænads sang:
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"
Small pity for him!-He sail'd away
From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay,—
Sail'd away from a sinking wreck,
With his own town's-people on her deck!
"Lay by! lay by!"-they call'd to him.
Back he answer'd-" Sink or swim!
Brag of your catch of fish again!"
And off he sail'd through the fog and rain!
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart
Tarr'd and feather'd and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead !
Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur
That wreck shall lie for evermore.
Mother and sister, wife and maid,
Look'd from the rocks of Marblehead
Over the moaning and rainy sea,-
Look'd for the coming that might not be!
What did the winds and the sea-birds say
Of the cruel captain who sail'd away ?-
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart
Tarr'd and feather'd and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead !
Through the street, on either side,
Up flew windows, doors swung wide;
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray,
Treble lent the fish-horns' bray.
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound,
Hulks of old sailors run aground,
Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane,
And crack'd with curses the hoarse refrain:
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"
Sweetly along the Salem road
Bloom of orchard and lilac show'd.
Little the wicked skipper knew
Of the fields so green and the sky so blue.
Riding there in his sorry trim,
Like an Indian idol glum and grim,
Scarcely he seem'd the sound to hear
Of voices shouting far and near:
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'cad!"
"Hear me, neighbours!" at last he cried,-
"What to me is this noisy ride?
What is the shame that clothes the skin
To the nameless horror that lives within ?
Waking or sleeping I see a wreck,
And hear a cry from a reeling deck!
Hate me and curse me,-I only dread
The hand of God and the face of the dead!".
Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart
Tarr'd and feather'd and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!
Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea
Said "God has touch'd him!-why should we?"
Said an old wife mourning her only son-
"Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!
So with soft relentings and rude excuse,
Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose,
And gave him a cloak to hide him in,
And left him alone with his shame and sin.
Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart
Tarr'd and feather'd and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead !
BARCLAY OF URY.
Up the streets of Aberdeen
By the kirk and college green,
Rode the Laird of Ury;
Close behind him, close beside,
Foul of mouth and evil-eyed,
Press'd the mob in fury.
Flouted him the drunken churl,
Jeer'd at him the serving girl,
Prompt to please her master;
And the begging carlin, late
Fed and clothed at Ury's gate,
Cursed him as he pass'd her.
Yet, with calm and stately mien,
Up the streets of Aberdeen
Came he slowly riding;
And to all he saw and heard
Answering not with bitter word,
Turning not for chiding.
Came a troop with broadswords swinging,
Bits and bridles sharply ringing,
Loose and free and froward;
Quoth the foremost- "Ride him down!
Push him! prick him! through the town
Drive the Quaker coward!
But from out the thickening crowd
Cried a sudden voice and loud:
"Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!"
And the old man at his side
Saw a comrade, battle tried,
Scarr'd and sunburn'd darkly;
Who with ready weapon bare,
Fronting to the troopers there,
Cried aloud- "God save us!
Call ye coward him who stood
Ankle deep in Lutzen's blood,
With the brave Gustavus?
"Nay, I do not need thy sword,
Comrade mine!" said Ury's lord;
"Put it up, I pray thee:
Passive to his holy will,
Trust I in my Master still,
Even though he slay me."
"Pledges of thy love and faith,
Proved on many a field of death,
Not by me are needed."
Marvel'd much that henchman bold,
That his laird, so stout of old,
Now so meekly pleaded.
"Woe's the day!"-he sadly said,
With a slowly-shaking head,
And a look of pity ;-
"Ury's honest lord reviled,
Mock of knave and sport of child,
In his own good city!
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