human
Can you write a poem for me in the style of Albert Bigelow Paine?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem in the style of Albert Bigelow Paine:
  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District
state-coaches, and wear long trains, and are every now and then
Wishing you merry holidays, I kiss my hand to you.
"God knows," said Mrs. Wilde, "and He did not make her in vain."
O be my _first_, my darling child,
Whatever may betide;
Meet falsehood with its best rebuke,
An open, earnest, honest look,
Clear-browed, and fearless-eyed.
Be like my _second_, thoughtful, wise,
And in life's summer prime,
Gather and hoard a goodly store
Of truth and love, and priceless lore,
To cheer its winter time.
But never let thy frank young heart
Consent to play my _whole_;
Let will and honor in it meet,
Let Duty ever guide thy feet,
And keep thy steadfast soul.
But Meggie's troubles were only begun.  When they went down to
"Forgive you for what, Archie?" asked Mrs. Graham.
You should have seen me, when papa
Brought me your gift, an hour ago;
I almost hopped out of my shoes,
And raised a mighty bantam crow!
I shook my hair about my eyes,
I flung my chubby arms about,
I hugged it, and an eager score
Of "pretty pretties" sputtered out.
I grasp it, gloat upon it now,--
My fingers glide from link to link;
I like its shine, I like its feel,
I thank you--_don't_ I thank you, though!
My darling, dashing, handsome cousin!
I 'll pat your whiskers, when we meet,
And give you kisses by the dozen.
I 'll promise not to pull your hair,
When on your shoulder next I mount,
Nor bore my fingers in your ears,
Too often bored on my account.
Those fingers light shall never leave
On velvet waistcoat one faint crease,
Nor give your profile, clear and fine,
Another needless touch of Greece.
I will not bend the killing bow
Of that nice neck-tie, "rich, but neat,"
Nor put a ruffle in your shirt,
Nor break the white plaits with my feet.
The sacred collar shall not bear
The impress of a touch of mine;
Your sparkling diamond studs, like dews,
Shall on the lawn inviolate shine.
I will not fumble for your seals,
Nor listen where your tick-tick lies,--
Nor dare to call in anger down
The heavy lashes of your eyes.
In short, I 'll be a tender sprig,
A greenwood blossom small and sweet,
To hang upon your button-hole,
Or breathe love's fragrance at your feet.
flecked by snowy water-lilies.
The Lord Glenmore of the time of my story was a handsome young
nobleman, married to a pretty London lady, very gay and fond of
splendor, but kind-hearted and gentle to every one.
Whenever Lord Glenmore came up from London to his northern
"No, Charles," replied the good mother, "though I yearn for them
"And, mamma," broke in little Maud, "dear Lady Glenmore, and her
The children gathered closer about her, and were very still.
"While you were away, a great Lord sent for little brother, too."
"What for? to adopt him as his heir?" asked Robert.
"Yes, my son; and Ally has gone to a mansion far grander than the
"O mamma, mamma, I know what you mean now!--baby is dead!"
In the wet rice-swamps and canebrakes tall
My _first_ the driver wields;
It sounds among the dusky gang
In the snowy cotton-fields;
But fast comes on the day that ends
Its reign of blood and fear,--
Comes with the sound of breaking chains,
And the freedman's joyous cheer.
Be kind to such as are my _second_,
In spirit and in truth;
Have pity on their helpless age
And on their joyless youth.
Remember them whene'er you feast,
And on your downy bed,
For the sake of Him who "had not where
On earth to lay his head."
Good may my _third_ be in your hearts
Towards all of human kind,
Strong to reclaim the wandering,
And the lost lamb to find;
To help the suffering, and to bear
Thine own adversity;
To speak brave words for truth and right,
And strike for liberty.
My _whole_ is a mournful little bird,
That in the twilight dim
Complains how hardly he's been used,
Till all must pity him.
But not one word of what he did
Reveals the doleful wight,--
His _mother's_ story could we hear,
We might say, "Served him right!"
companion, pupil, and house-keeper.
intently listening to the solemn burial service, and reverently
cottage, as fast as his poor old limbs could carry him.
"Yes, darling," replied the mother, to whose heart the simple
"Because the Lord sent me back," she answered, gravely.
"Why, child, what do you mean?" he asked.
With a piteous cry Ruth flung herself by the side of her dead
It comes again, the blessed day,
Made glorious by the Saviour's birth,
When faintly in a manger dawned
The light of God which fills the earth
On this sweet morn, in years gone by,
Around one happy hearth we came,
And wished each other joy and peace,
Embracing in the dear Lord's name.
Now o'er a weary, wintry waste,
My heart a loving pilgrim wends
Her pious way, this holy time,
To greet you, O belovéd friends!
Fondly I long to take my place
Beside your hearth, its joy to share,--
To sun me in the summer smiles
Of the dear faces gathered there.
But baby eyes upraised to mine,
And baby fingers on my breast,
Steep all my soul in sweet content,--
Charm even _such_ longings into rest.
Yet, dear ones, let my name be breathed
Kindly around the Christmas tree,
And my soul's presence greet, as oft
In Christmas times ye 've greeted me.
No unadorned and humble guest
Comes that fond soul this blessed even
That radiates the light of heaven.
A rose, that breathes of Paradise,
Just budded from the life divine,
A little, tender, smiling babe,
As yet more God's and heaven's than mine.
Born in the Saviour's hallowed month,
A blessed Christ-child may she be,
A little maiden of the Lord,
Room for _her_ by the Christmas tree!
Lord Blantyre resided principally at Blantyre Castle, on a noble
poultry-yard, and the pretty little houses of the gold and silver
"Brother Hughie," answered Lilly, blushing.
"I canna say, but I think we 'll play flood-time wi' it."
"What is that?"
"Not my wee puss, Winkie?" cried Lilly in alarm.
"O, how grand that would be!" exclaimed little Bertha, her eyes
flashing with excitement.
"Probably not," said her ladyship, pleasantly.
"_Do_ you think so?" asked Bertha, wonderingly.
"O yes, mamma, and play with Lilly and Hughie?"
"O!" said Bertha, looking a little disappointed; then she added,
Early in the morning, Lilly was brought to the Castle, and Bertha
"O dear!" she exclaimed at last.
"What's the matter, my bonnie leddie?" said Hughie, rather
patronizingly.
"My feet smart so!  See how big and red they look."
Bertha thrust one foot into the water, but drew it out instantly,
carriage,--a two-wheeled vehicle, called a "dog-cart," drawn by a
comfortable.  Lady Blantyre devoted herself to her amusement; she
At lunch, Lady Blantyre had her little guest sit beside her, and
"Let me gae hame!  I maun gae hame!" (I must go home) said Lilly.
"So you shall, darling," replied the lady.
"Well, has my little daughter learned content from this day's
experience?" said the lady, smiling.
"Perhaps he did, my child."
My _first_ is fair, as when it graced
The bowers of Paradise;
It glows in Cashmere's vale, and climbs
Where snowy Alp-peaks rise:
It glads the peasant-woman's heart,
And the Queen's imperial eyes.
My _second_ is a sacred name,
A name of high renown,
By poets sung, yet common 'tis,
As daisies on the down,
Though ladies grand and royal dames
Have worn it as a crown.
When William's ship rocked in the bay,
Impatient to be gone,
And William took his seaward way
Across our dewy lawn,
To pluck my _whole_ to give her love,
Rose Mary with the dawn.
One autumn evening, as Margaret Grey rode homeward from the
Effie and Jamie grieved passionately over their lost friend and
Lord Dundale checked his horse, and looked down on his little
petitioner in silent astonishment, while Mrs. Grey ran out of the
"What _can_ the little lad mean, Mrs. Grey?" asked Lord Dundale,
utterly bewildered.
If my studious Lillian,
This charade will careful scan,
With knit brow and red lips pursed,
She will then unconscious show
To all such as care to know
An example of my _first_.
My _second_ is what divine truths are,
And Alpine heights that gleam afar,
And hills of Scottish heather;
And what are _not_ all human blisses,
The little loves of little misses,
Winds, waves, and April weather.
If from my _second_ some sad dawn
You find your favorite palfrey gone,
Don't lock the door, and don't
Sit down and cry.  To chase the thief
Despatch my _whole_: it's my belief
He 'll catch him, or--he won't.
"Arty O'Neill, may it please your lordship," was the reply.
"What, a son of Norah O'Neill?" asked Mrs. Marsham.
remorse.
They looked bewildered, but waited silently and patiently for the
"O no," cried Arthur, "I have really suffered no wrong.  God so
The poor lads had never looked upon death before: they were both
"I will not take it, Philip."
Entire, I circle Kitty's wrists
Or deck small Percy's breast,
Or Annie's night-robe, or beneath
Mamma's soft cheek am prest.
_Behead_ me, and I wander free,
In wood or meadow fair,
Leap down the rock on mosses soft,
Tall ferns, and maiden-hair;
Or linger in the sedgy deep,
And baby-lilies rock to sleep.
_Behead_ again, and to your door,
If I presume to come,
I warn you, bid the porter say,
"To _him_ I'm not at home.
Heaven save me from the visitations
Of all that sort of poor relations!"
weeping and some bravely striving to cheer them up.
At last these fell off, and the conscripts pursued their march in
Just outside the gates, on this morning, stood Count De Lorme,
"I _do_ believe you, Jean.  Adieu!"
Months went by,--months of sad anxiety to Mother Moreau and Marie
At length there rang over France the news of the great battle of
But where was Jean?  Not dead, as his friends feared.  Not buried
The next day, Jean generously offered to free Marie from her
"But, Jean, I am young and strong, and--"
"God and the saints will help us," interposed Mother Moreau.
Jean and Marie responded by silently crossing themselves; and the
unflinching eyes.
My _first_ is often caught in church,
Is dear to dog and cat,
Oft shuns the couch of kings, to bless
The slave upon his mat;
And like the "willow," in the song,
Is "all around my hat."
My _second_ an exclamation is,
A single, simple sound,
That tells of fear, surprise, or joy,
For friends, or treasures found;
And sometimes holds a world of woe
Within its little round.
My _third's_ a lordly name, a land
For which the Genoese
Went forth upon his god-like quest,
And ploughed through unknown seas,
And gave to Europe old a world
Of golden mysteries.
My _whole_, a mighty conqueror,
Filled earth with his renown;
His life-bark rode on Fortune's flood;
Till the heavens began to frown,
And it struck upon a rock at last,
In storm and night went down.
neighboring town, from whence they were to march to Italy, where
officer,--the General of all the drummers."
"Ah, there is the great General Bonaparte!" cried Leopold, to a
comrade.  "I knew him at a glance."
Leopold found a battle to be something yet more awful than he had
In the height of the battle, Murat dashed forward in one of his
The next morning, Leopold found himself an inmate of the crowded
One day, while Leopold yet lay on his cot, forbidden to stir, and
"I am thankful that she did not shake my hand off altogether, my
"Ah, well, my child, when you get strong enough to handle the
In the battles of the Empire, the young lieutenant of cavalry so
At this time Leopold offered to return to the bride her mother's
Entire, at an army's head I stand,
Marches and sieges I command,
The foremost fighter of the time:
_Behead me_, on the mimic stage
I pass for fine, poetic rage,
Passion and agony sublime.
_Behead again_, complete the fall,
From a mighty Major-General
To an insect most exceedingly small.
'T is marvellous, yet we have seen
Such magic changes before, I ween.
comfortless little inn.
"Is that your child?" he asked.
"No indeed," said the old dame; "I am a poor woman, and have seen
"Why do you call the boy a water-imp?"
"Show me the dog!" said the officer, with authority.
"Here he lies, your excellency," said the dame.  "We call him
"Dost thou know who I am?"
"Ah no,--the good Christmas King, perhaps," said the little lad,
looking full of innocent wonderment.
My _first_ the softest, loveliest grace
Nature to beauty gives;
While love and truth and modesty
Stay in the heart, it lives.
My _second_ is so like my first,
My first its shadow seems;
It sweetens all the sunny day,
All night in fragrance dreams.
My _whole_, sweet one, I love to trace,
Soft glowing in that tell-tale face,
When Arthur whispers in your ear
Those "nothings" I must never hear:
Ah! then it comes, all warm and clear,
Your answering blush, Rose, my dear.
"Ah, _Giuseppe_! that is my name also," said the officer.
"Yes, General, Giuseppe _Garibaldi_," said the lad, smiling.
The General started, and asked how he knew him.
"Ah, your father, I remember him; where is he now?"
"He was shot at Milan, General."
"Here comes more of our brave Italians," exclaimed Lucia.
"Why, what can such a little thing as I do?"
My _first_ we wish our dear ones' lives to be,
And all the joys and loves that Hope discloses,
And fairy-tales, and picnics by the sea,
Purses, and golden curls, and times of roses,
And lashes dark, to shade a beauty's glances,
And rides, and sails, and pantomimes, and dances.
My _second_ is the place where thousands meet,
Like ships at sea, who never meet again,--
Fair maids, and soldiers brave, and children sweet,
And ruddy boys, and silver-haired old men;
The surging mob, the monks' procession holy,
Gay bridal trains, and funerals moving slowly.
My _whole_, he was a Southern leader brave,
Whose flaming sword to Richmond barred the way;
'Mid smoke and shot, he saw his banners wave,
He rode victorious, joying in the fray.
Till fickle Fortune set the hero learning
'Tis a long lane, or street, that knows no turning.
though, that it was n't in the latter part of June, that it
affection, and was proud of his discernment.  This was thought so
So now you know all I know about My Pet from the Clouds.
So Will, my lad, you beg that I'll
Concoct you a charade;
Well, dear, here goes: My _first_ is first
Your favorite little maid;
The hearts of roses too are it,
And vine-blooms under which I sit;
And childhood's dreams, and sinless thoughts,
And tones attuned to love,
"The uses of adversity,"
The cooings of the dove,
And Lilly's eyes, and Kitty's lips,
And Tommy's 'lassed finger-tips.
My _second_ was the royal name
Of England's conquering foe.
Who set his foot on Saxon necks
Eight hundred years ago;
The name too of a poet-king,
Who still rules many a land;
No soldier he, but a knightlier soul
Did ne'er shake spear or brand.
My _whole_ is no exotic rare,
A common flower found everywhere;
In form 't is somewhat like the pink,
But its scent is finer, I declare,
Than musk, or your patchouli.
You 've guessed it now, I really think,
So I'll refrain from wasting ink.
Yours truly,
My _first_ the poet Cowper loved,
A creature soft and fleet;
To vote my _second_ to valiant puss,
The long-tailed sages meet.
It calls to prayer; at dead of night
Rouses the city street;
And to the bridal train sends out
A greeting wild and sweet.
My _whole_ would shine all dewy bright
In your golden hair, Bell, to-night.
father,--to Gustave, and Fritz, and Carl, her brothers,--but she
Alas, it was the same old sad story!  The father was killed at
Bertha's wise little head was perplexed.  There was to be a great
"Yes, little wife, all that the Rebels have left of me."
The drummer-boy's story was sad and strange but such stories are
But to return to the Sanitary butter,--"the little widow's mite."
Bertha presented her humble gift most modestly to one of the lady
My _first_ is the sweet diminutive
Of a name we love to hear;
The name of one--while here we live
We find not earth or Heaven can give
A friend more true and dear.
My _second_ should bring pride and joy
To parent-hearts, alway,--
Should bear the fresh soul of the boy
Into the earnest man's employ,
And ne'er from honor stray.
My _whole_ has ever stood for one
Who rears, with toil and care,
Block after block, stone after stone,
On city street, or prairie lone,
A building plain, or fair.
But now the name once honest, stands
For one who has not feared
To seek to level with the sands
The glorious structure, by the hands
Of Washington upreared.
The stealthy fox, the prowling rat,
The serpent, Heaven-accursed,
The cruel tiger, and the cat,
The weasel, and the vampyre bat,
Have all been called my _first_.
My _second_ is a shadowed place
Of forest bloom and song,
Where mosses creep o'er the rock's stern face,
Vines climb and swing in wildest grace,
And a streamlet laughs along.
My _whole_ upbore the traitor's crest,
And gloried in his crime;
Yet England took him to her breast,
Which once received a like brave guest,--
Our Arnold, of old time.
"What, mamma!  No toys, no nuts, no candies?"
"None, my child."
"Why, then, how can they wish one another a _merry_ Christmas?  I
Mrs. Raeburn, having heard her daughter repeat her simple prayer,
Amid all the joyful excitement and merry confusion of Christmas
unmerited misfortune, where virtuous poverty pined, and wept, and
The guide at last conducted her down a flight of slippery steps,
The woman took her pipe from her lips, and fixing a pair of hard,
"Who is that man?" asked Bessie, beginning to be frightened.
"It's father," replied Molly.
"Why, you told me your father was dead.  What makes you tell such
darling.  This will get me something good for Christmas."
"Some new clothes?" asked Bessie.
"No, miss; something better nor clothes."
"No; something better nor food."
"Why, bless your swate sowl, do I look like a sick man?"
Patrick Magee gave a loud, foolish laugh, as he stumbled up the
To do the beggar-child justice, she seemed shocked at this cruel
After a long, bewildering, winding walk, or rather run, the two
On hearing Bessie's exclamation, the child stood as motionless as
"Why, ma'am, it seems to me I remember _all_ these grand
"Perhaps your mother has taken you to such houses, or you went by
As Mrs. Raeburn sat reflecting on the words of the child, Bessie
"Nor write?" asked Bessie.
"Nor cipher, nor find places on the map?"
"Dear me!  Do you know any hymns?"
"No, miss.  What are they, thin?"
"Hymns?  Why hymns are a sort of singing prayers."
'Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.'"
"Who taught you that?" asked Mrs. Raeburn.
annoying interference of her father.
To return to Molly.  The account of her dream-home and parents so
"Where?" asked Molly, bewildered.
"Do you mean that you have been in the penitentiary?" said Molly,
"No," answered Molly, firmly.  "I have always had indistinct
"Then your wife did it?"
"What do you mean?"
expression, "The top of the morning to ye, gintlemen."
"These, Mr. Magee, are the best terms you offer, then?" asked the
"Then, Mr. Sheriff," said Mr. Morton, "you must do your duty."
intemperate,--_delirium tremens_.
"If I will give you a glass of good brandy, will you tell?"
The glass was given him, and he drained it with a sort of frantic
"Yes, and I have heard of Mr. Phillips; go on."
"What more do you want to know, thin?"
"How old was the child when your wife stole it?"
"Are Mr. and Mrs. Phillips both living?"
"It 's not ten days since I was towld they were, yer honor."
"Thank you kindly, Mr. Raeburn, but I doubt it's too late.  'It's
"Do you want _very much_ to go to her, darling?"
"I will do so; trust me," replied Mary, in a low voice.
When the servant came to the door, Mr. Raeburn inquired for Mr.
dream-father_!
her,--she was gasping under her veil.
Mary started, and a new terror seized her.
"Not seriously ill, I hope?" said Mr. Raeburn.
After a plan formed that morning, Mr. Raeburn then requested the
possible our child was on that boat."
"When we reached home," continued Mr. Phillips, "we found all in
snowflake melts in the sea.
"You have then other children?" said Mr. Raeburn.
"Yes, three; two boys, of eleven and nine, and a little girl, now
cabinet.  _It is mamma's portrait!_"
passionate emotion, so long restrained.
Mr. Raeburn rose and softly loft the room, passing out on to the
He returned just in time to see the two boys, George and Herbert,
"Now, my dear boys," said Mr. Phillips, "you have a task of
"Most joyfully, papa."
"That will do, George," said his father, with a wave of his hand.
"I slept in the nursery with Lilly last night, in the very bed, I
"O, never mind," said Mary, blushing, "look at this picture."
"No, no, not till you tell me when your birthday comes."
"I cannot tell you, dear."
Mary hesitated a moment, then replied, "There were some sad
"O John, John, tell me!  Can she he!  O blessed God!--"
Of all the stories told that night, there was none to compare,
I love my _first_ on a summer eve,
Or a breezy autumn morning;
My soul bounds with it, and my heart
Laughs out, all trouble scorning.
I love it by the wild sea-beach,
When fades the sunset splendor,
And the new moon, like a fairy boat,
Sails through the sky-deeps tender.
My _second_ brings up visions sad
Of life's most fearful duty,--
Of green mounds hiding from our sight
Dear forms of youth and beauty.
My _third_, if speaking slowly, clouds
The brightest day with sadness;
If quickly, thrills the air, and wakes
The gloomiest morn to gladness.
It calls, and through the churchyard gate
A funeral is creeping;
It calls, and down the old church aisle
A bridal train is sweeping!
My _whole_ grew in a garden old,
Round which my heart still lingers;
Its azure petals formed a cup
Fit for a fairy's fingers.
_Canterbury-bell_