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This 'ere rebellion 's nothing but the rettle,

You'll stomp on thet an' think you've won the bettle;

It's Slavery thet's the fangs an' thinkin' head,

An' ef you want selvation, cresh it dead,An' cresh it suddin, or you'll larn by waitin'

Thet Chance wun't stop to listen to debatin'!'

'God's truth!' sez I,—'an' ef I held the club,

An' knowed jes' where to strike, but there's the rub!''Strike soon,' sez he, or you'll be deadly ailin',

6

Folks thet's afeared to fail are sure o' failin';

320

Ther''s nothin' wuss, 'less 't is to set

A martyr-prem'um upon jawrin': Teapots git dangerous, ef you shet

Their lids down on 'em with Fort War

ren.

'Bout long enough it's ben discussed
Who sot the magazine afire,
An' whether, ef Bob Wickliffe bust,

"T would scare us more or blow us

higher.

D'ye s'pose the Gret Foreseer's plan

Wuz settled fer him in town-meetin' ? Or thet ther' 'd ben no Fall o' Man,

Ef Adam 'd on'y bit a sweetin'?

Oh, Jon'than, ef you want to be
A rugged chap agin an' hearty,
Go fer wutever 'll hurt Jeff D.,

Nut wut 'll boost up ary party.
Here's hell broke loose, an' we lay flat
With half the univarse a-singein',
Till Sen'tor This an' Gov'nor Thet
Stop squabblin' fer the garding-ingin.

It's war we're in, not politics;

It's systems wrastlin' now, not parties; An' victory in the eend 'll fix

Where longest will an' truest heart is. An' wut's the Guv'ment folks about? Tryin' to hope ther' 's nothin' doin', An' look ez though they did n't doubt Sunthin' pertickler wuz a-brewin'.

20

30

40

In six months where 'll the People be, Ef leaders look on revolution

Ez though it wuz a cup o' tea,

90

Jest social el'ments in solution? This weighin' things doos wal enough When war cools down, an' comes to writin';

the Democratic party, and a bitter opponent of Lincoln. He had at this time been recently elected governor of New York on a platform that denounced almost every measure the government had found it necessary to adopt for the suppression of the Rebellion. His influence contributed not a little to the encouragement of that spirit which inspired the Draft Riot in the city of New York in July, 1863. (F. B. Williams, in Riverside and Cambridge Editions.)

An' yit I love th' unhighschooled way
Ol' farmers hed when I wuz younger;
Their talk wuz meatier, an' 'ould stay,
While book-froth seems to whet your
hunger;

For puttin' in a downright lick

'twixt Humbug's eyes, ther' 's few can metch it,

An' then it helves my thoughts ez slick
Ez stret-grained hickory doos a hetchet.

But when I can't, I can't, thet 's all,
For Natur' won't put up with gullin';
Idees you hev to shove an' haul

30

Like a druv pig ain't wuth a mullein: Live thoughts ain't sent for; thru all rifts

O' sense they pour an' resh ye onwards, Like rivers when south-lyin' drifts

Feel thet th' old airth 's a-wheelin' sunwards.

40

sant,

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'.

Under the yaller-pines I house,

When sunshine makes 'em all sweet-
scented,

An' hear among their furry boughs
The baskin' west-wind purr contented,
While 'way o'erhead, ez sweet an' low
Ez distant bells thet ring for meetin',
The wedged wil' geese their bugles blow,
Further an' further South retreatin'.

90

Or

up

the slippery knob I strain

An' see a hundred hills like islan's
Lift their blue woods in broken chain
Out o' the sea o' snowy silence;
The farm-smokes, sweetes' sight on airth,
Slow thru the winter air a-shrinkin'
Seem kin' o' sad, an' roun' the hearth
Of empty places set me thinkin'.

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,
Can't set me goin' more 'n a dunce

100

110

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'.

Why, hain't I held 'em on my knee? 1
Did n't I love to see 'em growin',

Three likely lads ez wal could be,

120

Hahnsome an' brave an' not tu knowin' ? I set an' look into the blaze

climbin',

Ez long 'z it lives, in shinin' ways,
An' half despise myself for rhymin'.

1 Of Lowell's three nephews one, William_Lowell Putnam, was killed, and another, James Jackson Lowell, seriously wounded, at the battle of Ball's Bluff, the same battle in which Holmes's son was wounded (see My Hunt After the Captain'); the third, Charles Russell Lowell, died October 20, 1864, of wounds received the previous day at the battle of Cedar Creek. James Jackson Lowell recovered from the wounds received at Ball's Bluff, but was killed in the battle of Seven Pines. See Lowell's Letters, vol. 1, pp. 162166; and Scudder's Life of Lowell, vol. ii, pp. 29–31.

See also the note on Emerson's Sacrifice,' p. 95, note 1; and Colonel Henry Lee Higginson's Four Addresses, there referred to. Emerson wrote to Carlyle, October 15, 1870: The Lowell race, again, in our War yielded three or four martyrs so able and tender and true, that James Russell Lowell cannot allude to them in verse or prose but the public is melted anew.' (Carlyle-Emerson Correspondence, vol. ii, p. 374.) See also Lowell's 'Commemoration Ode,' p. 490, and Under the Old Elm,' p. 512, with the passages from his letters there quoted.

150

With eyes thet tell o' triumph tasted ! Come, with han' grippin' on the hilt, An' step thet proves ye Victory's daughter!

Longin' for you, our sperits wilt

Like shipwrecked men's on raf's for