Donn Piatt Of Mac-O-Chee.

    Donn Piatt - of Mac-o-chee, -
    Not the one of History,
    Who, with flaming tongue and pen,
    Scathes the vanities of men;
    Not the one whose biting wit
    Cuts pretense and etches it
    On the brazen brow that dares
    Filch the laurel that it wears:
    Not the Donn Piatt whose praise
    Echoes in the noisy ways
    Of the faction, onward led
    By the statesman! - But, instead,
    Give the simple man to me, -
    Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!


    II.

    Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
    Branches of the old oak tree,
    Drape him royally in fine
    Purple shade and golden shine!
    Emerald plush of sloping lawn
    Be the throne he sits upon!
    And, O Summer sunset, thou
    Be his crown, and gild a brow
    Softly smoothed and soothed and calmed
    By the breezes, mellow-palmed
    As Erata's white hand agleam
    On the forehead of a dream. -
    So forever rule o'er me,
    Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!


    III.

    Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee:
    Through a lilied memory
    Plays the wayward little creek
    Round thy home at hide-and-seek -
    As I see and hear it, still
    Romping round the wooded hill,
    Till its laugh-and-babble blends
    With the silence while it sends
    Glances back to kiss the sight,
    In its babyish delight,
    Ere it strays amid the gloom
    Of the glens that burst in bloom
    Of the rarest rhyme for thee,
    Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!


    IV.

    Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
    What a darling destiny
    Has been mine - to meet him there -
    Lolling in an easy chair
    On the terrace, while he told
    Reminiscences of old -
    Letting my cigar die out,
    Hearing poems talked about;
    And entranced to hear him say
    Gentle things of Thackeray,
    Dickens, Hawthorne, and the rest,
    Known to him as host and guest -
    Known to him as he to me -
    Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!