Ex. XLVIII.—A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON.

AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS.

THOU happy, happy elf!

(But stop-first let me kiss away that tear)-Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he 's poking peas into his ear!)
Thou merry, laughing sprite!
With spirits feather-light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin-
(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)
Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

HOOD.

Light as the singing bird that wings the air(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents-(Drat the boy!
There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub-but of earth;

Fit playfellow for fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's elysium ever sunny.
(Another tumble !-that 's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope!

(He 'll break the mirror with that skipping rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint(Where did he learn that squint ?)

Thou young domestic dove!

(He 'll have that jug off, with another shove!)
Dear nursling of the Hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best ?)

Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life— (He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,
My elfin John!

Toss the light ball-bestride the stick—
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk,

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy and breathing music like the South, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove(I'll tell you what, my love,

I can not write unless he 's sent above!)

O. W. HOLMES.

Ex. XLIX. THE KATYDID.

I LOVE to hear thine earnest voice, Wherever thou art hid,

Thou testy little dogmatist,

Thou pretty Katydid!

Thou 'mindest me of gentlefolks,

Old gentlefolks are they,

Thou say'st an undisputed thing

In such a solemn way.

Thou art a female, Katydid!

I know it by the trill

That quivers through thy piercing notes,
So petulant and shrill,

I think there is a knot of you

Beneath the hollow tree,

A knot of spinster Katydids,-
Do Katydids drink tea?

Oh, tell me where did Katy live,

And what did Katy do?

very

And was she fair and young,
And yet so wicked, too?
Did Katy love a naughty man,
Or kiss more cheeks than one?
I warrant Katy did no more
Than many a Kate has done.

Dear me! I'll tell you all about
My fuss with little Jane,

And Ann, with whom I used to walk
So often down the lane,

And all that tore their locks of black,
Or wet their eyes of blue,-

Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid,
What did poor Katy do?

Ah no! the living oak shall crash,
That stood for ages still,

The rock shall rend its mossy base,
And thunder down the hill,

Before the little Katydid

Shall add one word, to tell
The mystic story of the maid
Whose name she knows so well.

Peace to the ever-murmuring race!

And when the latest one

Shall fold in death her feeble wings,
Beneath the autumn sun,

Then shall she raise her fainting voice,

And lift her drooping lid,

And then the child of future years
Shall learn what Katy did.

Ex. L.-THE TROOPER'S DIRGE.

To horse-to horse!-the bugles call; And sadly swells the mournful strain, That warns us to the burial

Of one who ne'er shall mount again. His course is run-his fame is wonFor well he reined as free a steed As ever bore to daring deed, When charging hosts came spurring on.

His course is run-his battles done-
He died as aye he wished to die,—
The well-fought field was fairly won,
And Victory pealed her clarion nigh;
Nor on his lip of beauteous pride,

When high in hope, he rode among
The brave, the noble, and the young,
Wreathed such a smile as when he died.
Stern eyes became, as woman's, weak,

Nor scorned to soil the clustering gold
That floated o'er his marble cheek,

With tears that would not be controlled.
For though none bolder struck with brand,
When boiling veins were up and wild,
Yet never even the gentlest child
Had kinder heart or freer hand.

To horse-to horse-no more I weep;
His high career was run full fast,—
Thus on the battle-field to sleep
His long, lone sleep of death at last.
No more I weep ;-but far

away
Are deep blue eyes to weep in vain-
Fair lips not soon to smile again,—
And hearts to wail this bitter day.

Ex. LI.-DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.

FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow,

TENNYSON.

And the winter winds are wearily sighing:

Toll ye the church-bell, sad and slow,

And tread softly and speak low;

For the old year lies a-dying.

Old year, you must not die.

You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year, you shall not die.

He lieth still; he doth not move;

He will not see the dawn of day:

He hath no other life above.

He gave me a friend and a true, true love,
And the new year will take them away.

Old year, you must not go:
So long as you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us,—
Old year, you shall not go.

He frothed his bumpers to the brim;
A jollier year we shall not see;
But though his eyes are waxing dim,
And though his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.

Old year, you shall not die.

We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest ;

But all his merry quips are o'er.
To see him die, across the waste
His son and heir doth ride post-haste,
But he'll be dead before.

Every one for his own.

The night is starry and cold, my friends,
And the new year blithe and bold, my friends,
Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the snow
I heard just now the crowing cock;
The shadows flitter to and fro;

The cricket chirps,--the light burns low,-
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock.

Shake hands before you die!

Old year, we'll dearly rue for you.
What is it we can do for you?-
Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin ;-
Alack! our friend is gone,

Close up his eyes,-tie up

his chin,—

Step from the corpse; and let him in

That standeth there alone,

And waiteth at the door.

There's a new foot on the floor, my friends,
And a new face at the door, my friends,
The new year's at the door.