He sent for lancewood, to make the thills;
The cross-bars were ash, from the straightest trees;
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs from logs from the "Setler's ellum "-
Last of its timber-they couldn't sell 'em-
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide,
Found in the pit where the tanner died.
That was the way he "put her through."
"There!" said the Deacon, 66 naow she'll dew!"
Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren-where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay,
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED-it came, and found
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred, increased by ten-
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came;—
Running as usual—much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive;
And then came fifty-and FIFTY-FIVE.
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large:
Take it. You're welcome.-No extra charge.)
FIRST OF NOVEMBER-the Earthquake-day.— There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavor of mild decay→
But nothing local, as one may say.
There couldn't be-for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less nor more,
And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring, and axle, and hub encore.
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!
First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Hud up!" said the parson.-Off went they.
The parson was working his Sunday text-
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the-Moses-was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n' house on the hill.
-First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill—
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock-
Just the hour of the earthquake shock!
What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once-
All at once, and nothing first-
Just as bubbles do when they burst.—
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.
Stand! the ground's your own, my braves,
Will ye give it up to slaves?
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
A trumpet's note is in the sky, in the glorious Roman sky,
Whose dome hath rung, so many an age, to the voice of victory,
There is crowding to the capitol, the imperial streets alɔng,
For again a conqueror must be crowned,—a kingly child of song!
Yet his chariot lingers,
Yet around his home
Broods a shadow silently,
'Mid the joy of Rome.
A thousand thousand laurel-boughs are waving wide and far,
To shed out their triumphal gleams around his rolling car;
A thousand haunts of olden gods have given their wealth of flowers,
To scatter o'er his path of fame bright hues in gem-like showers.
Peace! within his chamber
Low the mighty lies;
With a cloud of dreams on his noble brow,
And a wandering in his eyes.
Sing, sing for him, the lord of song, for him, whose rushing strain
In mastery o'er the spirit sweeps, like a strong wind o'er the main!
Whose voice lives deep in burning hearts, forever there to dwell,
As full-toned oracles are shrined in a temple's holiest cell.
Yes! for him, the victor,
Sing, but low, sing low!
A soft sad mis-e-re-re chant,
For a soul about to go!
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