Mount! nor stay: Quick, or all is lost; They've surprised and stormed the post, Gallop! retrieve the day. House the horse in ermine- The turn of the tide began, The rally of bugles ran, He swung his hat in the van; The electric hoof-spark flew. Wreathe the steed and lead him- Josiah Gilbert Holland. BORN in Belchertown, Mass., 1819. DIED in New York, N. Y., 1881. INTERLUDES FROM "BITTER-SWEET." [Bitter-Sweet. 1858.-Complete Poetical Writings. 1879.] BABYHOOD. WHAT is the little one thinking about? Very wonderful things, no doubt! Unwritten history! Unfathomed mystery! Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, And curious riddles as any sphinx! Warped by colic, and wet by tears, Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears, Where the summers go;— He need not laugh, for he'll find it so! Who can tell what a baby thinks? By which the manikin feels his way Into the light of day?— Out from the shore of the unknown sea, Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, What of the cradle-roof that flies Forward and backward through the air? What does he think of his mother's breast Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, Seeking it ever with fresh delight— Cup of his life and couch of his rest? Presses his hand and buries his face Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell With a tenderness she can never tell, Though she murmur the words Of all the birds Words she has learned to murmur well? I can see the shadow creep IN THE CELLAR. IXTEEN barrels of cider Open the vent-channels wider! Flowed through the sinuous sluices Of sweet springs under the orchard; Climbed into fountains that chained them; Dripped into cups that retained them, And swelled till they dropped, and we gained them. Then they were gathered and tortured By passage from hopper to vat, And fell-every apple crushed flat. Ah! how the bees gathered round them, And how delicious they found them! Oat-straw, as fragrant as clover, Was platted, and smoothly turned over, In went the pulp by the scoop-full, Till the juice flowed by the stoup-full,- Filling the half of a puncheon While the men swallowed their luncheon. Of the lever and screw, Till the last drops from the press Open the vent-channels wider! |