Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, "The surest plan to make a Man Is, think him so, J. B., Ez much ez you or me!" Our folks believe in Law, John; 4.20 430 Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, Ef 't warn't for law," sez he, "There 'd be one shindy from here to Indy; An' thet don't suit J. B. (When 't ain't 'twixt you an' me!)" We know we 've got a cause, John, Thet 's honest, just, an' true; We thought 't would win applause, John, Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess "Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton: Ez wal 'z in you an' me!" 440 The South says, "Poor folks down!" John, Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, John preaches wal," sez he; "But, sermon thru, an' come to du, Shall it be love, or hate, John? Ain't your bonds held by Fate, John, Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess "But not forgit; an' some time yit God means to make this land, John, Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, 450 460 The Atlantic Monthly, Feb., 1862. Nothin' don't seem like wut it wuz; 50 I can't see wut there is to hender, An' yit my brains jes' go buzz, buzz, Like bumblebees agin a winder; 'fore these times come, in all airth's row, Ther' wuz one quiet place, my head in, Where I could hide an' think,-but now It's all one teeter, hopin', dreadin'. Where 's Peace? I start, some clearblown night, When gaunt stone walls grow numb an' number, An', creakin' 'cross the snow-crus' white, Walk the col' starlight into summer; 60 Up grows the moon, an' swell by swell Thru the pale pasturs silvers dimmer Than the last smile thet strives to tell O' love gone heavenward in its shim mer. I hev been gladder o' sech things Than cocks o' spring or bees o' clover, They filled my heart with livin' springs, But now they seem to freeze 'em over; Sights innercent ez babes on knee, Peaceful ez eyes o' pastur'd cattle, 70 Jes' coz they be so, seem to me To rile me more with thoughts o' battle. Indoors an' out by spells I try; Ma'am Natur' keeps her spin'wheel goin', But leaves my natur' stiff and dry Ez fiel's o' clover arter mowin'; An' her jes' keepin' on the same, Calmer 'n a clock, an' never carin', An' findin' nary thing to blame, Is wus than ef she took to swearin'. 80 Snow-flakes come whisperin' on the pane The charm makes blazin' logs so pleasant, But I can't hark to wut they 're say'n', With Grant or Sherman ollers present; The chimbleys shudder in the gale, Thet lulls, then suddin takes to flappin' Like a shot hawk, but all 's ez stale To me ez so much sperit-rappin'. Or up the slippery knob I strain Beaver roars hoarse with meltin' snows, An' rattles di'mon's from his granite; Time wuz, he snatched away my prose, An' into psalms or satires ran it; But he, nor all the rest thet once Started my blood to country-dances, 110 Can't set me goin' more 'n a dunce Thet hain't no use for dreams an' fancies. Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street I hear the drummers makin' riot, An' I set thinkin' o' the feet Thet follered once an' now are quiet,White feet ez snowdrops innercent, Thet never knowed the paths o' Satan, Whose comin' step ther' 's ears thet won't, No, not lifelong, leave off awaitin'. 120 Why, hain't I held 'em on my knee?1 Hahnsome an' brave an' not tu knowin'? I set an' look into the blaze Whose natur', jes' like theirn, keeps climbin', Ez long 'z it lives, in shinin' ways, An' half despise myself for rhymin'. Wut 's words to them whose faith an' truth On War's red techstone rang true metal. Who ventered life an' love an' youth 131 For the gret prize o' death in battle? 1 Lowell had three nephews who were killed during the war. Many loved Truth, and lavished life's best oil Amid the dust of books to find her, Content at last, for guerdon of their toil, With the cast mantle she hath left behind her. Many in sad faith sought for her, Many with crossed hands sighed for her; But these, our brothers, fought for At life's dear peril wrought for her, Those love her best who to themselves are true, And what they dare to dream of, dare to do; They followed her and found her Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind, But beautiful, with danger's sweetness round her. Where faith made whole with deed 60 They saw her plumed and mailed, Some more substantial boon Than such as flows and ebbs with For- Is but half-nobly true; What men call treasure, and the gods call dross, Life seems a jest of Fate's contriving, & Only secure in every one's conniving. A long account of nothings paid with loss, Where we poor puppets, jerked by unseen wires, After our little hour of strut and rave, With all our pasteboard passions and desires, Loves, hates, ambitions, and immortal fires, Are tossed pell-mell together in the A conscience more divine than we, A gladness fed with secret tears, A vexing, forward-reaching sense Of some more noble permanence; A light across the sea, Which haunts the soul and will not let it be, Still beaconing from the heights of undegenerate years. |