O CAPTAIN!  MY CAPTAIN!

O captain! my captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring: 
But O heart! heart! heart! 
Leave you not the little spot
Where on the deck my captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O captain! my captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—­for you the flag is flung—­for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—­for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
O captain! dear father! 
This arm I push beneath you;
It is some dream that on the deck
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
But the ship, the ship is anchored safe, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! 
But I, with silent tread,
Walk the spot my captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

THE COURTIN’.

Zekle crep’ up, quite unbeknown,
An’ peeked in thru the winder,
An’ there sot Huldy all alone,
’ith no one nigh to hender.

  Agin the chimbly crooknecks hung,
    An’ in amongst ’em rusted
  The ole queen’s arm thet Gran’ther Young
    Fetched back from Concord busted.

  The wannut logs shot sparkles out
    Toward the pootiest, bless her! 
  An’ leetle fires danced all about
    The chiny on the dresser.

  The very room, coz she wuz in,
    Looked warm from floor to ceilin’,
  An’ she looked full ez rosy agin
    Ez th’ apples she wuz peelin’.

  She heerd a foot an’ knowed it, tu,
    A-raspin’ on the scraper;
  All ways to once her feelin’s new
    Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

  He kin’ o’ l’itered on the mat,
    Some doubtfle o’ the seekle;
  His heart kep’ goin’ pitypat,
    But hern went pity Zekle.

  THE PIOUS EDITOR’S CREED.

  [From Biglow Papers.]

  I du believe in Freedom’s cause,
    Ez fur away as Paris is;
  I love to see her stick her claws
    In them infarnal Pharisees;
  It’s wal enough agin a king
    To dror resolves an’ triggers—­
  But libbaty’s a kind o’ thing
    Thet don’t agree with niggers.

  I du believe the people want
    A tax on teas an’ coffees,
  Thet nothin’ aint extravygunt,
    Pervidin’ I’m in office;
  Fer I hev loved my country sence
    My eye-teeth filled their sockets,
  An’ Uncle Sam I reverence—­
    Partic’larly his pockets.

  I du believe in any plan
    O’ levyin’ the taxes,
  Ez long ez, like a lumberman,
    I git jest wut I axes;
  I go free-trade thru thick an’ thin,
    Because it kind o’ rouses
  The folks to vote—­an’ keeps us in
    Our quiet custom-houses.