The woodland rings with laugh and shout, As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup. On beds of oaken leaves. THE YELLOW VIOLET When beechen buds begin to swell, Peeps from the last year's leaves below. Ere russet fields their green resume, Of all her train, the hands of Spring Beside the snow-bank's edges cold. Thy parent sun, who bade thee view Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. Oft, in the sunless April day, Thy early smile has stayed my walk; But midst the gorgeous blooms of May, I passed thee on thy humble stalk. So they, who climb to wealth, forget The friends in darker fortunes tried. I copied them but I regret That I should ape the ways of pride. And when again the genial hour THE DEATH OF LINCOLN Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, In sorrow by thy bier we stand, Thy task is done; the bond are free: Pure was thy life; its bloody close Hath placed thee with the sons of light, Among the noble host of those Who perished in the cause of Right. ROBERT OF LINCOLN Merrily swinging on brier and weed, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest. Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note. Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can! Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might: Spink, spank, spink; Robert of Lincoln at length is made Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nobody knows but my mate and I Summer wanes; the children are grown; Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Chee, chee, chee. |