What was it filled my youthful dreams,
In place of Greek or Latin themes,
Or beauty's wild, bewildering beams?
      Avitor?

What visions and celestial scenes
I filled with aerial machines,—
Montgolfier's and Mr. Green's!
      Avitor.

What fairy tales seemed things of course!
The rock that brought Sindbad across,
The Calendar's own winged-horse!
      Avitor!

How many things I took for facts,—
Icarus and his conduct lax,
And how he sealed his fate with wax!
      Avitor!

The first balloons I sought to sail,
Soap-bubbles fair, but all too frail,
Or kites,—but thereby hangs a tail.
      Avitor!

What made me launch from attic tall
A kitten and a parasol,
And watch their bitter, frightful fall?
      Avitor?

What youthful dreams of high renown
Bade me inflate the parson's gown,
That went not up, nor yet came down?
      Avitor?

My first ascent, I may not tell:
Enough to know that in that well
My first high aspirations fell,
      Avitor!

My other failures let me pass:
The dire explosions; and, alas!
The friends I choked with noxious gas,
      Avitor!

For lo! I see perfected rise
The vision of my boyish eyes,
The messenger of upper skies,
      Avitor!

A White-Pine Ballad

Recently with Samuel Johnson this occasion I improved,
Whereby certain gents of affluence I hear were greatly moved;
But not all of Johnson's folly, although multiplied by nine,
Could compare with Milton Perkins, late an owner in White Pine.

Johnson's folly—to be candid—was a wild desire to treat
Every able male white citizen he met upon the street;
And there being several thousand—but this subject why pursue?
'Tis with Perkins, and not Johnson, that to-day we have to do.

No: not wild promiscuous treating, not the winecup's ruby flow,
But the female of his species brought the noble Perkins low.
'Twas a wild poetic fervor, and excess of sentiment,
That left the noble Perkins in a week without a cent.

"Milton Perkins," said the Siren, "not thy wealth do I admire,
But the intellect that flashes from those eyes of opal fire;
And methinks the name thou bearest surely cannot be misplaced,
And, embrace me, Mister Perkins!" Milton Perkins her embraced.

But I grieve to state, that even then, as she was wiping dry
The tear of sensibility in Milton Perkins' eye,
She prigged his diamond bosom-pin, and that her wipe of lace
Did seem to have of chloroform a most suspicious trace.

Enough that Milton Perkins later in the night was found
With his head in an ash-barrel, and his feet upon the ground;
And he murmured "Seraphina," and he kissed his hand, and smiled
On a party who went through him, like an unresisting child.

Moral

Now one word to Pogonippers, ere this subject I resign,
In this tale of Milton Perkins,—late an owner in White Pine,—
You shall see that wealth and women are deceitful, just the same;
And the tear of sensibility has salted many a claim.

What the Wolf Really Said to Little Red Riding-Hood

Wondering maiden, so puzzled and fair,
Why dost thou murmur and ponder and stare?
"Why are my eyelids so open and wild?"—
Only the better to see with, my child!
Only the better and clearer to view
Cheeks that are rosy, and eyes that are blue.

Dost thou still wonder, and ask why these arms
Fill thy soft bosom with tender alarms,
Swaying so wickedly?—are they misplaced,
Clasping or shielding some delicate waist:
Hands whose coarse sinews may fill you with fear
Only the better protect you, my dear!

Little Red Riding-Hood, when in the street,
Why do I press your small hand when we meet?
Why, when you timidly offered your cheek,
Why did I sigh, and why didn't I speak?
Why, well: you see—if the truth must appear—
I'm not your grandmother, Riding-Hood, dear!

The Ritualist
By a Communicant of "St. James's."

He wore, I think, a chasuble, the day when first we met;
A stole and snowy alb likewise: I recollect it yet.
He called me "daughter," as he raised his jewelled hand to bless;
And then, in thrilling undertones, he asked, "Would I confess?"

O mother, dear! blame not your child, if then on bended knees
I dropped, and thought of Abelard, and also Eloise;
Or when, beside the altar high, he bowed before the pyx,
I envied that seraphic kiss he gave the crucifix.

The cruel world may think it wrong, perhaps may deem me weak,
And, speaking of that sainted man, may call his conduct "cheek;"
And, like that wicked barrister whom Cousin Harry quotes,
May term his mixèd chalice "grog," his vestments, "petticoats."

But, whatsoe'er they do or say, I'll build a Christian's hope
On incense and on altar-lights, on chasuble and cope.
Let others prove, by precedent, the faith that they profess:
"His can't be wrong" that's symbolized by such becoming dress.

A Moral Vindicator

If Mr. Jones, Lycurgus B.,
Had one peculiar quality,
'Twas his severe advocacy
Of conjugal fidelity.

His views of heaven were very free;
His views of life were painfully
Ridiculous; but fervently
He dwelt on marriage sanctity.

He frequently went on a spree;
But in his wildest revelry,
On this especial subject he
Betrayed no ambiguity.

And though at times Lycurgus B.
Did lay his hands not lovingly
Upon his wife, the sanctity
Of wedlock was his guaranty.

But Mrs. Jones declined to see
Affairs in the same light as he,
And quietly got a decree
Divorcing her from that L. B.

And what did Jones, Lycurgus B.,
With his known idiosyncrasy?
He smiled,—a bitter smile to see,—
And drew the weapon of Bowie.

He did what Sickles did to Key,—
What Cole on Hiscock wrought, did he;
In fact, on persons twenty-three
He proved the marriage sanctity.

The counsellor who took the fee,
The witnesses and referee,
The judge who granted the decree,
Died in that wholesale butchery.

And then when Jones, Lycurgus B.,
Had wiped the weapon of Bowie,
Twelve jurymen did instantly
Acquit and set Lycurgus free.

Songs Without Sense
For the Parlor and Piano

I.—The Personified Sentimental

Affection's charm no longer gilds
  The idol of the shrine;
But cold Oblivion seeks to fill
  Regret's ambrosial wine.
Though Friendship's offering buried lies
  'Neath cold Aversion's snow,
Regard and Faith will ever bloom
  Perpetually below.

I see thee whirl in marble halls,
  In Pleasure's giddy train;
Remorse is never on that brow,
  Nor Sorrow's mark of pain.
Deceit has marked thee for her own;
  Inconstancy the same;
And Ruin wildly sheds its gleam
  Athwart thy path of shame.

II.—The Homely Pathetic

The dews are heavy on my brow;
  My breath comes hard and low;
Yet, mother, dear, grant one request,
  Before your boy must go.
Oh! lift me ere my spirit sinks,
  And ere my senses fail:
Place me once more, O mother dear!
  Astride the old fence-rail.

The old fence-rail, the old fence-rail!
  How oft these youthful legs,
With Alice' and Ben Bolt's, were hung
  Across those wooden pegs.
'Twas there the nauseating smoke
  Of my first pipe arose:
O mother, dear! these agonies
  Are far less keen than those.

I know where lies the hazel dell,
  Where simple Nellie sleeps;
I know the cot of Nettie Moore,
  And where the willow weeps.
I know the brookside and the mill:
  But all their pathos fails
Beside the days when once I sat
  Astride the old fence-rails.

III.—Swiss Air

I'm a gay tra, la, la,
With my fal, lal, la, la,
And my bright—
And my light—
Tra, la, le. [Repeat.]

Then laugh, ha, ha, ha,
And ring, ting, ling, ling,
And sing fal, la, la,
La, la, le. [Repeat.]