Adams, Franklin P. Tobogganing on Parnassus Doubleday and Page, Garden City, New York, 1912, Decorative Cloth, , , Good+
xii, 142 p. 19 cm. Spine darkened, lettering rubbed, head band fraying, corners rubbed. Five-leaf clover included on p. 97. 'When Milton sang 'O nightingale / That on yon gloomy spray,' / The sonneteer whom we revere / Lauded that birdie's lay.//While Keats's ode upon that bird / Was limpid as the notes / That, sweet and strong, were in the song / Of Philomelian throats.//And Bryant's 'To a Water-fowl!' / Had praise in every line, / And every word about the bird / Impinged on the divine. // When Wordsworth did the skylark stuff, / He praised the bird a few, / And Shelley's ode sincerely showed / He liked the skylark too.//O Poets, if ye had but dwelt / Upon a Harlem block, / Fain would I read your poems sweet / Upon the sparrows' 'Peet! Peet! Peet!' '
This site is dedicated to reprinting the works of Annie Adams Fields in accessible annotated editions. It was begun as a "spin-off" from the Sarah Orne Jewett Text Project.—by Terry Heller
THE MUSES THRENODIE.
Furthwith we dress’d us in our archer grath,
And to the fields we came, like men in wrath:
When we our nerves and tendons had extended,
Incontinent our bowes were bravely bended:
The skie was wondrous cleer, Apollo fair,
Greatly delighted to behold us there:
And did disperse the clouds, that he might see
What matchless skill we prov’d in archerie.
The cristal river Phœbus beams reflected,
As glad of us, them in our face directed:
The flowerie plains, and mountains all the while
That we were shooting merrilie did smile.
Mean while, for honours praise, as we were swelting
The sweat from off our brows and temples melting,
Phœbus, as seeming to envie our skill,
His quiver with some fierie shafts did fill,
And from his silver bow, at us he darted
These shafts, to make us faint and feeble-hearted:
Whose mighty force we could not well oppose,
Under a shade we therefore did repose
A pretty while hard by a silver streame,
Which did appeare some melodie to frame,
Running alongst the snow-white pibble stones
Mourning, did murmure joys, commix’t with moanes.
A cup I had with woodbind of the wall,
And drinking said, this to you Mr Gall,
Quoth he, Monsier, since that we have no better,
With all mine heart, I will you pledge in water.
This brook alongst the flowerie plain meanders,
And in a thousand compasses it wanders;
And as it softly slides so many wayes,
It sweetly sings as many roundelayes,
And harmonie to keep, the honie bees
Their trumpets sound amongst the flowers and trees.