This moment there, so low, O change! stupendous change! Eliza Cook. I LOVE it, I love it; and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm-chair? I've treasured it long as a sainted prize, I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs "Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart; Not a tie will break, not a link will start. In childhood's hour I lingered near And gentle words that mother would give, She told me shame would never betide, With truth for my creed and God for my guide; As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. I sat and watched her many a day, When her eye grew in, and her locks were gray; "Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now Say it is folly, and deem me weak, While the scalding drops start down my cheek; SONG OF THE HEMPSEED. AY, scatter me well, 'tis a moist Spring day, Wide and far be the hempseed sown, And bravely I'll stand on the Autumn land When the rains have dropp'd and the winds have blown. Man shall carefully gather me up, His hand shall rule and my form shall change, Not as a mate for the purple of state, Nor into aught that is "rich and strange." But I will come forth all woven and spun, With my fine threads curled in serpent length, And the fire-wrought chain, and the lion's thick mane, I have many a place in the busy world, I am linked to childhood's darling toy. Bravely I swing in the anchor ring Where the foot of the proud man cometh not, Where the dolphin leaps, and the sea-weed creeps O'er the rifted sand and coral grot. Down, down below I merrily go When the huge ship takes her rocking rest ; Putting their faith in the cordage stout. Sons of evil, bad and bold, Madly ye live and little ye reck, The yarn is smooth and the knot is sure rope. Thinly they twine the halter line, Yet when does the halter hitch or break? My leaves are light and my flowers are bright- But what think ye of me 'neath the gibbet-tree, The people rejoice, the banners are spread; From trellised porch and Gothic wall; Gayly they laugh when I am found, And rare music they make, till the quick peals shake The hempseed lives with the old church-bell, The sunshine falls on a new-made grave! The poor man has come to the happiest home I shall be there to lower him down Gently into his narrow bed; I shall be there, the work to share, I may be seen on the hillock green, While the earth is thrown with worm and bone, Till the sexton has done, and the grave is full. Back to the gloomy vault I'm borne, Leaving coffin and nail to crumble and rust, Moistened with tears and clogged with dust: Harvest shall spread with its glittering wheat; The barn shall be opened, the stack shall be piled; Let the sheaves go towering to the sky, I will fetter the rolling load; Not an ear shall escape my binding hold, On the furrowed field or jolting road: Oh, the hempseed hath a fair place to fill, My threads are set in the heaving net, Out with the fisher-boy far at sea, While he whistles a tune to the lonely moon, And bring from the cell of the deep old well |