Chapter I: LOVE the leaf of the old oak-tree,

I love the gum of the spruce,
I love the bark of the hickory,
And I love the maple's juice.

On the walnut's grain I fondly dote,
On the cherry's fruit I'd dine,
And I love to lie in a narrow boat,
And scent the odor of pine.

Ah, me! how I wish some power grand
Would invent some single tree
With all these points well developed, and
Would send that tree to me!

I'd plant it deep in the jardiniere
That stands in this flat of mine;
I'd give it the sweetest, tenderest care,
And water its roots with wine.

_WHERE ARE THEY?_

WHAT has become of the cast-off coats
That covered Will Shakespeare's back?
What has become of the old row-boats
Of Kidd and his pirate pack?

Where are the scarfs that Lord Byron wore?
Where are poor Shelley's cuffs?
What has become of that wondrous store
Of Queen Elizabeth's ruffs?

Where are the slippers of Ferdinand?
Where are Marc Antony's clothes?
Where are the gloves from Antoinette's hand?
Where Oliver Goldsmith's hose?

I do not search for the ships of Tyre--
The grave of Whittington's cat
Would sooner set my spirit on fire--
Or even Beau Brummel's hat.

And when I reflect that there are spots
In the world that I can't find,
Where lie these same identical lots,
And many of this same kind,

I'm tempted to give a store of gold
To him that will bring to me
A glass, Earth's mysteries to unfold,
And show me where these things be.

_MEMORIES_

YON maiden once a jester did adore,
Who early died and in the church-yard sleeps.
Once in a while she reads his best jokes o'er
And sits her down and madly, sorely weeps.

_A SAD STATE_