ODE

WRITTEN FOR THE CELEBRATION OF THE INTRODUCTION OF THE COCHITUATE

WATER INTO THE CITY OF BOSTON.

My name is Water: I have sped

Through strange, dark ways, untried before,

By pure desire of friendship led,

Cochituate's ambassador ;

He sends four royal gifts by me:
Long life, health, peace, and purity.

I'm Ceres' cup-bearer; I pour,

For flowers and fruits and all their kin,

Her crystal vintage, from of yore

Stored in old Earth's selectest bin,

Flora's Falernian ripe, since God

The wine-press of the deluge trod,

In that far isle whence, iron-willed,

The New World's sires their bark unmoored,

The fairies' acorn-cups I filled

Upon the toadstool's silver board,

And, 'neath Herne's oak, for Shakspeare's sight, Strewed moss and grass with diamonds bright.

No fairies in the Mayflower came,

And, lightsome as I sparkle here,

For Mother Bay-State, busy dame,

I've toiled and drudged this many a year,

Throbbed in her engines' iron veins,

Twirled myriad spindles for her gains.

I, too, can weave; the

warp I set

Through which the sun his shuttle throws,

And, bright as Noah saw it, yet

For you the arching rainbow glows,

A sight in Paradise denied

To unfallen Adam and his bride.

When Winter held me in his grip,

You seized and sent me o'er the wave,

Ungrateful! in a prison-ship;

But I forgive, not long a slave,

For, soon as summer south-winds blew, Homeward I fled, disguised as dew.

For countless services I'm fit,

Of use, of pleasure, and of gain,

But lightly from all bonds I flit,
Incapable as fire of stain;

From mill and wash-tub I escape,
And take in heaven my proper shape.

So free myself, to-day, elate

I come from far o'er hill and mead, And here, Cochituate's envoy, wait To be your blithesome Ganymede, And brim your cups with nectar true

That never will make slaves of you.

LINES

SUGGESTED BY THE GRAVES OF TWO ENGLISH SOLDIERS ON CONCORD

BATTLE-GROUND.

THE same good blood that now refills

The dotard Orient's shrunken veins,

The same whose vigor westward thrills,

Bursting Nevada's silver chains,

Poured here upon the April grass,
Freckled with red the herbage new;

On reeled the battle's trampling mass,
Back to the ash the bluebird flew.

Poured here in vain ; - that sturdy blood

Was meant to make the earth more green,

But in a higher, gentler mood

Than broke this April noon serene ;

Two graves are here; to mark the place,

At head and foot, an unhewn stone,

O'er which the herald lichens trace

The blazon of oblivion.

These men were brave enough, and true
To the hired soldier's bull-dog creed;
What brought them here they never knew,
They fought as suits the English breed ;
They came three thousand miles, and died,
To keep the Past upon its throne;

Unheard, beyond the ocean tide,

Their English mother made her moan.

The turf that covers them no thrill
Sends up to fire the heart and brain;
No stronger purpose nerves the will,
No hope renews its youth again:
From farm to farm the Concord glides,
And trails my fancy with its flow;
O'erhead the balanced henhawk slides,

Twinned in the river's heaven below.