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Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889

To Sally

By John Quincy Adams (1767–1848)

THE MAN in righteousness arrayed,

A pure and blameless liver,

Needs not the keen Toledo blade,

Nor venom-freighted quiver.

What though he wind his toilsome way

O’er regions wild and weary—

Through Zara’s burning desert stray,

Or Asia’s jungle’s dreary:

What though he plough the billowy deep

By lunar light, or solar,

Meet the resistless Simoon’s sweep,

Or iceberg circumpolar.

In bog or quagmire deep and dank,

His foot shall never settle;

He mounts the summit of Mont Blanc,

Or Popocatapetl.

On Chimborazo’s breathless height,

He treads o’er burning lava;

Or snuffs the Bohan Upas blight,

The deathful plant of Java.

Through every peril he shall pass,

By Virtue’s shield protected;

And still by Truth’s unerring glass

His path shall be directed.

Else wherefore was it, Thursday last,

While strolling down the valley,

Defenceless, musing as I passed

A canzonet to Sally;

A wolf, with mouth-protruding snout,

Forth from the thicket bounded—

I clapped my hands and raised a shout—

He heard—and fled—confounded.

Tangier nor Tunis never bred

An animal more crabbed;

Nor Fez, dry-nurse of lions, fed

A monster half so rabid.

Nor Ararat so fierce a beast

Has seen, since days of Noah;

Nor stronger, eager for a feast,

The fell constrictor boa.

Oh! place me where the solar beam

Has scorched all verdure vernal;

Or on the polar verge extreme,

Blocked up with ice eternal—

Still shall my voice’s tender lays

Of love remain unbroken;

And still my charming Sally praise,

Sweet smiling and sweet spoken.