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The cataract-throb of her mill-hearts I hear,
The swift strokes of trip-hammers weary my ear,
Sledges ring upon anvils, through logs the saw

screams, Blocks swing to their place, beetles drive home

the beams : It is songs such as these that she croons to the din Of her fast-flying shuttles, year out and year in, While from earth's farthest corner there comes not

a breeze But wafts her the buzz of her gold-gleaning bees : What though those horn hands have as yet found

small time, For painting and sculpture and music and rhyme ? These will come in due order, the need that pressed

sorest Was to vanquish the seasons, the ocean, the forest, To bridle and harness the rivers, the steam, Making that whirl her mill-wheels, this tug in her

team, To vassalize old tyrant Winter, and make Him delve surlily for her on river and lake ;When this New World was parted, she strove not

to shirk Her lot in the heirdom, the tough, silent Work, The hero-share ever, from Herakles down To Odin, the Earth’s iron sceptre and crown; Yes, thou dear, noble Mother! if ever men's praise Could be claimed for creating heroical lays, Thou hast won it; if ever the laurel divine Crowned the Maker and Builder, that glory is

thine ! Thy songs are right epic, they tell how, this rude Rock-rib of our earth here was tamed and sub


Thou hast written them plain on the face of the


In brave, deathless letters of iron and granite; Thou hast printed them deep for all time; they

are set From the same runic type-fount and alphabet With thy stout Berkshire hills and the arms of thy

Bay,They are staves from the þurly old Mayflower lay. If the drones of the Old World, in querulous ease, Ask thy Art and thy Letters, point proudly to

these, Or, if they deny these are Letters and Art, Toil on with the same old invincible heart; Thou art rearing the pedestal broad-based and

grand Whereon the fair shapes of the Artist shall stand, And creating, through labors undaunted and long, The theme for all Sculpture and Painting and

Song! “ But my good mother Baystate wants no praise

of mine, She learned from her mother a precept divine About something that butters no parsnips, her forte In another direction lies, work is her sport, (Though she'll curtsey and set her cap straight,

that she will, If you talk about Plymouth and one Bunker's

hill.) Dear, notable goodwife ! by this time of night, Her hearth is swept clean, and her fire burning

bright, And she sits in a chair (of home plan and make)

rocking, Musing much, all the while, as she darns on a

stocking, Whether turkeys will come pretty high next


Whether flour 'll be so dear, for, as sure as she's

living, She will use rye-and-injun then, whether the pig By this time ain't got pretty tolerable big, And whether to sell it outright will be best, Or to smoke hams and shoulders and salt down the

rest, At this minute, she'd swop

all my verses,

ah, cruel ! For the last patent stove that is saving of fuel; So I'll just let Apollo go on, for his phiz Shows I've kept him awaiting too long as it is.” “If our friend, there, who seems a reporter, is

done With his burst of emotion, why, I will go on,” Said Apollo; some smiled, and, indeed, I must own There was something sarcastic, perhaps, in his


“ There's Holmes, who is matchless among you

for wit ; A Leyden-jar always full-charged, from which flit The electrical tingles of hit after hit; In long poems 'tis painful sometimes and invites A thought of the way the new Telegraph writes, Which pricks down its little sharp sentences spite

fully As if you got more than you'd title to rightfully, And you find yourself hoping its wild father Light

ning Would flame in for a second and give you a

fright’ning. He has perfect sway of what I call a sham metre, But many admire it, the English pentameter, And Campbell, I think, wrote most commonly


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Timon ;

With less nerve, swing, and fire in the same kind

of verse, Nor e'er achieved aught in't so worthy of praise As the tribute of Holmes to the grand Marseil

laise. You went crazy last year over Bulwer's New Why, if B., to the day of his dying, should rhyme

on, Heaping verses on verses and tomes upon tomes, He could ne'er reach the best point and vigor of

Holmes. His are just the fine hands, too, to weave you a

lyric Full of fancy, fun, feeling, or spiced with satyric In a measure so kindly, you doubt if the toes That are trodden upon are your own or your



“ There is Lowell, who's striving Parnassus to

climb With a whole bale of isms tied together with He might get on alone, spite of brambles and

boulders, But he can't with that bundle he has on his

shoulders, The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reach

ing Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and

preaching; His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty

well, But he'd rather by half make a drum of the shell, And rattle away till he's old as Methusalem, At the head of a march to the last new Jerusa“ There goes Halleck, whose Fanny's a pseudo


Don Juan, With the wickedness out that gave salt to the true

one, He's a wit, though, I hear, of the very first order, And once made a pun on the words soft Recorder; More than this, he's a very great poet, I'm told, And has had his works published in crimson and

gold, With something they call • Illustrations,' to wit, Like those with which Chapman obscured Holy.

Writ,* Which are said to illustrate, because, as I view it, Like lucus a non, they precisely don't do it; Let a man who can write what himself under

stands Keep. clear, if he can, of designing men's hands, Who bury the sense, if there's any worth having, And then very honestly call it engraving. But, to quit badinage, which there isn't much wit Halleck's better, I doubt not, than all he has writ

ten; In his verse a clear glimpse you will frequently

find, If not of a great, of a fortunate mind, Which contrives to be true to its natural loves In a world of back-offices, ledgers, and stoves. When his heart breaks away from the brokers and

banks, And kneels in its own private shrine to give

thanks, There's a genial manliness in him that earns Our sincerest respect, (read, for instance, his

“ Burns,”);


* (Cuts rightly called wooden, as all must admit.)

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