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Ichabod

They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,

So much was theirs who so little allowed:

How all our copper had gone for his service!

1837

Rags-were they purple, his heart had been proud—
We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him,
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,

Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,
Made him our pattern to live and to die!

Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,

Burns, Shelley, were with us, they watch from their graves!

He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,

-He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

We shall march prospering,-not through his presence;
Songs may inspirit us, not from his lyre;
Deeds will be done,-while he boasts his quiescence,
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire:
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,
One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,
One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels,

One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!
Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!
There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,
Forced praise on our part-the glimmer of twilight,
Never glad confident morning again!

Best fight on well, for we taught him--strike gallantly,
Menace our heart ere we master his own;

Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,

Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

ICHABOD

[DANIEL WEBSTER]

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn

Which once he wore!

The glory from his gray hairs gone

Forevermore!

Revile him not, the Tempter hath

A snare for all;

And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,
Befit his fall!

Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage,
When he who might

Have lighted up and led his age,
Falls back in night.

Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark
A bright soul driven,
Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,
From hope and heaven!

Let not the land once proud of him

Insult him now,

Nor brand with deeper shame his dim,
Dishonored brow.

But let its humbled sons, instead,

From sea to lake,

A long lament, as for the dead,
In sadness make.

Of all we loved and honored, naught
Save power remains;

A fallen angel's pride of thought,
Still strong in chains.

All else is gone; from those great eyes
The soul has fled:

When faith is lost, when honor dies,
The man is dead!

Then, pay the reverence of old days
To his dead fame;

Walk backward, with averted gaze,

And hide the shame!

John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]

What Mr. Robinson Thinks 1839

WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS

GUVENER B. is a sensible man;

He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks;
He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can,
An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes;
But John P.
Robinson he

Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du?

We can't never choose him o' course,--thet's flat;
Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?)
An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that;
Fer John P.
Robinson he

Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man:

He's ben on all sides that give places or pelf; But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,— He's ben true to one party,-an' thet is himself;— So John P. Robinson he

Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war;

He don't vally princerple more'n an old cud;
Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer,
But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood?
So John P.
Robinson he

Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village,

With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint, We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage, An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint; But John P.

Robinson he

Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee,

The side of our country must ollers be took,

An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country,
An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book
Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry;
An' John P.

Robinson he

Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies;
Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, fum;
An' thet all this big talk of our destinies

Is half on it ign'ance, an' t'other half rum;

But John P.
Robinson he

Sez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so must we.

Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life

That th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats, An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes; But John P.

Robinson he

Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.

Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us

The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,-
God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers,
To start the world's team wen it gits in a slough;
Fer John P.

Robinson he

-

Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!
James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

THE DEBATE IN THE SENNIT

SOT TO A NURSERY RHYME

"HERE we stan' on the Constitution, by thunder!
It's a fact o' wich ther's bushils o' proofs;
Fer how could we trample on 't so, I wonder,

Ef't worn't thet it's ollers under our hoofs?"

The Debate in the Sennit

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;
"Human rights haint no more

Right to come on this floor,

No more'n the man in the moon," sez he.

"The North haint no kind o' bisness with nothin',
An' you've no idee how much bother it saves;
We aint none riled by their frettin' an' frothin',
We're used to layin' the string on our slaves,"
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-

Sez Mister Foote,

"I should like to shoot

The holl gang, by the gret horn spoon!" scz he.

1841

"Freedom's Keystone is Slavery, thet ther's no doubt on, It's sutthin' thet's-wha'd'ye call it?-divine,An' the slaves thet we ollers make the most out on

Air them north o' Mason an' Dixon's line,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;

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'Fer all thet," sez Mangum,

""T would be better to hang 'em

An' so git red on 'er soon," sez he.

"The mass ough' to labor an' we lay on soffies,
Thet's the reason I want to spread Freedom's are;
It puts all the cunninest on us in office,

An' reelises our Maker's orig'nal idee,"

Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-~
"Thet's ez plain," sez Cass,

"Ez thet some one's an ass,

It's ez clear ez the sun is at noon," sez he.

"Now don't go to say I'm the friend of oppression,
But keep all your spare breath fer coolin' your broth,
Fer I ollers hev strove (at least thet's my impression)
To make cussed free with the rights o' the North,"
Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-

"Yes," sez Davis o' Miss.,

"The perfection o' bliss

Is in skinnin' thet same old coon," sez he.

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