A POEM

I HOLD a letter in my hand,—

A flattering letter, more's the pity,—

By some contriving junto planned,

And signed per order of Committee.

It touches every tenderest spot,—

My patriotic predilections,

My well-known-something — do n't ask what,—

My poor old songs, my kind affections.

They make a feast on Thursday next,

And hope to make the feasters merry;

They own they're something more perplexed

For poets than for port and sherry.

They want the men of — ( word torn out );

Our friends will come with anxious faces,

( To see our blankets off, no doubt,

And trot us out and show our paces. )

They hint that papers by the score

Are rather musty kind of rations,—

They do n't exactly mean a bore,

But only trying to the patience;

That such as — you know who I mean —

Distinguished for their — what d’ ye call‘ em —

Should bring the dews of Hippocrene

To sprinkle on the faces solemn.

— The same old story: that's the chaff

To catch the birds that sing the ditties;

Upon my soul, it makes me laugh

To read these letters from Committees!

They're all so loving and so fair,—

All for your sake such kind compunction;

‘ T would save your carriage half its wear

To touch its wheels with such an unction!

Why, who am I, to lift me here

And beg such learned folk to listen,

To ask a smile, or coax a tear

Beneath these stoic lids to glisten?

As well might some arterial thread

Ask the whole frame to feel it gushing,

While throbbing fierce from heel to head

The vast aortic tide was rushing.

As well some hair-like nerve might strain

To set its special streamlet going,

While through the myriad-channelled brain

The burning flood of thought was flowing;

Or trembling fibre strive to keep

The springing haunches gathered shorter,

While the scourged racer, leap on leap,

Was stretching through the last hot quarter!

Ah me! you take the bud that came

Self-sown in your poor garden's borders,

And hand it to the stately dame

That florists breed for, all she orders.

She thanks you,— it was kindly meant,—

( A pale afair, not worth the keeping,) —

Good morning; and your bud is sent

To join the tea-leaves used for sweeping.

Not always so, kind hearts and true,—

For such I know are round me beating;

Is not the bud I offer you,

Fresh gathered for the hour of meeting,

Pale though its outer leaves may be,

Rose-red in all its inner petals?—

Where the warm life we cannot see —

The life of love that gave it — settles.

We meet from regions far away,

Like rills from distant mountains streaming;

The sun is on Francisco's bay,

O'er Chesapeake the lighthouse gleaming;

While summer girds the still bayou

In chains of bloom, her bridal token,

Monadnock sees the sky grow blue,

His crystal bracelet yet unbroken.

Yet Nature bears the selfsame heart

Beneath her russet-mantled bosom

As where, with burning lips apart,

She breathes and white magnolias blossom;

The selfsame founts her chalice fill

With showery sunlight running over,

On fiery plain and frozen hill,

On myrtle-beds and fields of clover.

I give you Home! its crossing lines

United in one golden suture,

And showing every day that shines

The present growing to the future,—

A flag that bears a hundred stars

In one bright ring, with love for centre,

Fenced round with white and crimson bars

No prowling treason dares to enter!

O brothers, home may be a word

To make affection's living treasure,

The wave an angel might have stirred,

A stagnant pool of selfish pleasure;

HOME! It is where the day-star springs

And where the evening sun reposes,

Where'er the eagle spreads his wings,

From northern pines to southern roses!