Where I could hide an' think,— but now

It's all one teeter, hopin', dreadin'.

Where's Peace? I start, some clear-blown night,
When gaunt stone walls grow numb an' number,
An', creakin' 'cross the snow crus' white,

Walk the col' starlight into summer;
Up grows the moon, an' swell by swell
Thru the pale pasturs silvers dimmer
Than the last smile thet strives to tell
O' love gone heavenward in its shimmer.

I hev been gladder o' sech things

Than cocks o' spring or bees o' clover,
They filled my heart with livin' springs,
But now they seem to freeze 'em over;
Sights innercent ez babes on knee,
Peaceful ez eyes o' pastur'd cattle,
Jes' coz they be so, seem to me

To rile me more with thoughts o' battle.

In-doors an' out by spells I try;

Ma'am Natur' keeps her spin-wheel goin',
But leaves my natur' stiff and dry
Ez fiel's of clover arter mowin';
An' her jes' keepin' on the same,
Calmer'n a clock, an' never carin',
An' findin' nary thing to blame,

Is wus than ef she took to swearin'.

Snow-flakes come whisperin' on the pane
The charm makes blazin' logs so pleasant,
But I can't hark to wut they're say'n',
With Grant or Sherman ollers present;

The chimbleys shudder in the gale,

Thet lulls, then sudden takes to flappin'

Like a shot hawk, but all's ez stale

To me ez so much sperit-rappin'.

Under the yaller-pines I house,

When sunshine makes 'em all sweet-scented, An' hear among their furry boughs

The baskin' west-wind purr contented,
While 'way o'erhead, ez sweet an' low
Ez distant bells thet ring for meetin',
The wedged wil' geese their bugles blow,
Further an' further South retreatin'.

Or up the slippery knob I strain

An' see a hundred hills like islan's
Lift their blue woods in broken chain
Out o' the sea o' snowy silence;
The farm-smokes, sweetes' sight on airth,
Slow thru the winter air a-shrinkin'
Seem kin' o' sad, an' roun' the hearth
Of empty places set me thinkin'.

Beaver roars hoarse with meltin' snows,
An' rattles di'mon's from his granite;
Time wuz, he snatched away my prose,
An' into psalms or satires ran it;
But he, nor all the rest thet once

Started my blood to country-dances,

Can't set me goin' more'n a dunce

Thet hain't no use for dreams an' fancies.

Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street

I hear the drummers makin' riot,

An' I set thinkin' o' the feet

Thet follered once an' now are quiet,— White feet ez snowdrops innercent,

Thet never knowed the paths o' Satan, Whose comin' steps ther' 's ears thet won't, No, not lifelong, leave off awaitin'.

Why, hain't I held 'em on my knee?
Didn't I love to see 'em growin',
Three likely lads ez wal could be,

Hahnsome an' brave an' not tu knowin'?

I set an' look into the blaze

Whose natur', jes' like theirn, keeps climbin',

Ez long 'z it lives, in shinin' ways,

An' half despise myself for rhymin'.

Wut's words to them whose faith an' truth
On War's red techstone rang true metal,
Who ventered life an' love an' youth
For the gret prize o' death in battle?
To him who, deadly hurt, agen

Flashed on afore the charge's thunder,
Tippin' with fire the bolt of men

Thet rived the Rebel line asunder?

"Tain't right to hev the young go fust, All throbbin' full o' gifts an' graces, Leavin' life's paupers dry ez dust

To try an' make b'lieve fill their places:
Nothin' but tells us wut we miss,

Ther''s gaps our lives can't never fay in
And thet world seems so fur from this
Lef' for us loafers to grow gray in!

*

Come, Peace! not like a mourner bowed
For honor lost an' dear ones wasted,
But proud, to meet a people proud,

With eyes thet tell o' triumph tasted!
Come, with han' grippin' on the hilt,

An' step thet proves ye Victory's daughter! Longin' for you, our sperits wilt

Like shipwrecked men's on raf's for water.

Come, while our country feels the lift

Of a gret instinct shoutin' "Forwards!"

An' knows thet freedom ain't a gift

Thet tarries long in han's o' cowards! Come, sech ez mothers prayed for, when

They kissed their cross with lips thet quivered, An' bring fair wages for brave men, A nation saved, a race delivered!

THE MAN OF LIFE UPRIGHT.

THE man of life upright,

Whose guiltless heart is free

From all dishonest deeds,
Or thought of vanity;

The man whose silent days
In harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes can not delude
Nor sorrow discontent:

That man needs neither towers

Nor armor for defence,
Nor secret vaults to fly

From thunder's violence:

He only can behold

With unaffrighted eyes
The horrors of the deep

And terrors of the skies.

Thus scorning all the cares
That fate or fortune brings,
He makes the heaven his book,
His wisdom heavenly things;

Good thoughts his only friends,
His wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober inn

And quiet pilgrimage.

NIL NISI BONUM.

From THE ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.

William Makepeace Thackeray.

ALMOST the last words which Sir Walter spoke to Lockhart, his biographer, were, "Be a good man, my dear!" and with the last flicker of breath on his dying lips, he sighed a farewell to his family, and passed away blessing them.

Two men, famous, admired, beloved, have just left us, the Goldsmith and the Gibbon of our time.1 Ere a few weeks are over, many a critic's pen will be at work, reviewing their lives, and passing judgment on their works. This is no review,

1 Washington Irving died the twenty-eighth of November, 1859; Lord Macaulay died the twenty-eighth of December, 1859.