Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Ex. XLVII.-OUR YANKEE GIRLS. O. W. HOLMES. LET greener scenes with bluer skies, The winds that lift the Georgian's vail, Waft to their shores the sultan's sail,— The gay grisette, whose fingers touch But more than one can tell; And England's fair-haired, blue-eyed dame And what if court or castle vaunt They ask not for the dainty toil By every hill whose stately pines From barest rock to bleakest shore Where furthest sail unfurls, That stars and stripes are streaming o'er,- 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!) Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin- 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!) In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou cherub-but of earth; Fit playfellow for fays, by moonlight pale, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) 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, Toss the light ball-bestride the stick (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) (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, Thou testy little dogmatist, Thou 'mindest me of gentlefolks,— Old gentlefolks are they,- In such a solemn way. Thou art a female, Katydid! I know it by the trill That quivers through thy piercing notes, 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? And was she very fair and young, Did Katy love a naughty man, Dear me! I'll tell you all about And Ann, with whom I used to walk And all that tore their locks of black, Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid, Ah no! the living oak shall crash, The rock shall rend its mossy base, Shall add one word, to tell Whose name she knows so well. Peace to the ever-murmuring race! And when the latest one Shall fold in death her feeble wings, Then shall she raise her fainting voice, And lift her drooping lid, And then the child of future years Ex. L.-THE TROOPER'S DIRGE. To horse-to horse!-the bugles call; Of one who ne'er shall mount again. ANON. His course is run-his battles done- When high in hope, he rode among Stern eyes became, as woman's, weak, Nor scorned to soil the clustering gold With tears that would not be controlled. To horse-to horse-no more I weep; His long, lone sleep of death at last. Are deep blue eyes to weep in vainFair 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, 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, |