DONN PIATT OF MAC-O-CHEE.

Donn Piatt — of Mac-o-chee,—

Not the one of History,

Who, with flaming tongue and pen,

Scathes the vanities of men;

Not the one whose biting wit

Cuts pretense and etches it

On the brazen brow that dares

Filch the laurel that it wears:

Not the Donn Piatt whose praise

Echoes in the noisy ways

Of the faction, onward led

By the statesman!— But, instead,

Give the simple man to me,—

Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!

Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!

Branches of the old oak tree,

Drape him royally in fine

Purple shade and golden shine!

Emerald plush of sloping lawn

Be the throne he sits upon!

And, O Summer sunset, thou

Be his crown, and gild a brow

Softly smoothed and soothed and calmed

By the breezes, mellow-palmed

As Erata's white hand agleam

On the forehead of a dream.—

So forever rule o'er me,

Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!

Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee:

Through a lilied memory

Plays the wayward little creek

Round thy home at hide-and-seek —

As I see and hear it, still

Romping round the wooded hill,

Till its laugh-and-babble blends

With the silence while it sends

Glances back to kiss the sight,

In its babyish delight,

Ere it strays amid the gloom

Of the glens that burst in bloom

Of the rarest rhyme for thee,

Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!

Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!

What a darling destiny

Has been mine — to meet him there —

Lolling in an easy chair

On the terrace, while he told

Reminiscences of old —

Letting my cigar die out,

Hearing poems talked about;

And entranced to hear him say

Gentle things of Thackeray,

Dickens, Hawthorne, and the rest,

Known to him as host and guest —

Known to him as he to me —

Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!