"To prove your reviler an infamous liar,

I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire!" "Then by my head,"

The youngster said,

"I'll mount the coach when the horses are fed!For there's nothing I'd choose, as I'm alive, Like a seat on the box, and a dashing drive!"

"Nay, Phaëthon, don't—

I beg you won't,—

Just stop a moment and think upon't! You're quite too young," continued the sage, "To tend a coach at your tender age!

Besides, you see,

"Twill really be

Your first appearance on any stage!

"Desist, my child,

The cattle are wild,

And when their mettle is thoroughly 'riled,'
Depend upon't the coach'll be 'spiled,'-
They're not the fellows to draw it mild!
Desist, I say,

You'll rue the day

So mind, and don't be foolish, Pha!”

But the youth was proud,

And swore aloud,

'Twas just the thing to astonish the crowd,— He'd have the horses and wouldn't be cowed! In vain the boy was cautioned at large,

He called for the chargers, unheeding the charge,
And vowed that any young fellow of force
Could manage a dozen coursers, of course!

Now Phoebus felt exceedingly sorry
He had given his word in such a hurry,

But having sworn by the Styx, no doubt

He was in for it now, and couldn't back out.

So calling Phaëthon up in a trice,

He gave the youth a bit of advice:

"Parce stimulis, utere loris !'"

(A "stage direction," of which the core is,
Don't use the whip,-they're ticklish things,-
But whatever you do, hold on to the strings!)
Remember the rule of the Jehu-tribe is,
"Medio tutissimus ibis,"

(As the Judge remarked to a rowdy Scotchman, Who was going to quod between two watchmen!) "So mind your eye, and spare your goad,

Be shy of the stones, and keep in the road!"

Now Phaethon, perched in the coachman's place,
Drove off the steeds at a furious pace,
Fast as coursers running a raçe,
Or bounding along in a steeple-chase!
Of whip and shout there was no lack,
"Crack-whack-

Whack-crack,"

Resounded along the horses' back!

Frightened beneath the stinging lash,
Cutting their flanks in many a gash,
On-on they sped as swift as a flash,
Through thick and thin away they dash,
(Such rapid driving is always rash!)
When all at once, with a dreadful crash,
The whole "establishment" went to smash!
And Phaethon, he,

Don't rashly take to dangerous courses,-
Nor set it down in your table of forces,
That any one man equals any four horses.
Don't swear by the Styx!—

It's one of Old Nick's

Diabolical tricks

To get people into a regular "fix,”

And hold 'em there as fast as bricks!

THE OLD MAN'S MOTTO.

"GIVE me a motto!" said a youth

To one whom years had rendered wise;
"Some pleasant thought, or weighty truth,
That briefest syllables comprise;
Some word of warning or of cheer
To grave upon my signet here.

“And, reverend father," said the boy,
"Since life, they say, is ever made
A mingled web of grief and joy;

Since cares may come and pleasures fade,— Pray, let the motto have a range

Of meaning matching every change.”

"Sooth!" said the sire, "methinks you ask
A labor something over-nice,

That well a finer brain may task,-
What think you, lad, of this device,
(Older than I,-though I am gray,)
"Tis simple,-'This will pass away'?

"When wafted on by Fortune's breeze,

In endless peace thou seem'st to glide, Prepare betimes for rougher seas,

And check the boast of foolish pride;
Though smiling joy is thine to-day,
Remember, 'This will pass away!'

"When all the sky is draped in black,
And, beaten by tempestuous gales,
Thy shuddering ship seems all-awrack,
Then trim again thy tattered sails;
To grim Despair be not a prey;
Bethink thee, 'This will pass away!'

"Thus, oh, my son, be not o'er proud,

Nor yet cast down; judge thou aright; When skies are clear, expect the cloud;

In darkness, wait the coming light; Whatever be thy fate to-day,

Remember, 'This will pass away!'"

TIME AND LOVE.

AN ALLEGORY.

OLD Time and young Love, on a morning in May,
Chanced to meet by a river in halcyon weather,
And, agreeing for once, ('tis a fable, you'll say,)

In the same little boat made a voyage together.

Strong, steady, and patient, Time pulled at his oar,
And swift o'er the water the voyagers go;
But Love, who was thinking of Pleasure on shore,
Complained that his boatman was wretchedly slow.

But Time, the old sailor, expert at his trade,

And knowing the leagues that remained to be done, Content with the regular speed that he made, Tugged away at his oar and kept steadily on.

Love, always impatient of doubt or delay,
Now sighed for the aid of the favoring gales,
And scolded at Time, in the sauciest way,
For not having furnished the shallop with sails.

But Time, as serene as a calendar saint,

(Whatever the graybeard was thinking upon,) All-deaf to the voice of the yonker's complaint, Tugged away at his oar and kept steadily on.

Love, vexed at the heart, only clamored the more, And cried, "By the gods! in what country or clime Was ever a lubber who handled an oar

In so lazy a fashion as old Father Time!'

But Time only smiled in a cynical way,
('Tis often the mode with your elderly Don,)
As one who knows more than he cares to display,
And still at his oar pulled steadily on.

Grown calmer at last, the exuberant boy

Enlivens the minutes with snatches of rhyme;

The voyage, at length, he begins to enjoy,

And soon has forgotten the presence of Time!

But Time, the severe, egotistical elf,

Since the day that his travels he entered upon,
Has ne'er for a moment forgotten himself,
But tugs at his oar and keeps steadily on.

Awaking once inore, Love sees with a sigh
That the River of Life will be presently passed,
And now he breaks forth with a piteous cry,
"O Time, gentle Time! you are rowing too fast!"

But Time, well knowing that Love will be dead,
Dead-dead! in the boat!-ere the voyage is done,
Only gives him an ominous shake of the head,
While he tugs at his oar and keeps steadily on!
LITTLE JERRY, THE MILLER.

BENEATH the hill you may see the mill
Of wasting wood and crumbling stone;
The wheel is dripping and clattering still,
But Jerry, the miller, is dead and gone.

Year after year, early and late,

Alike in summer and winter weather,
He pecked the stones and calked the gate,
And mill and miller grew old together.

"Little Jerry!"-'twas all the same,

They loved him well who called him so;
And whether he'd ever another name,
Nobody ever seemed to know.

"Twas "Little Jerry, come grind my rye;" And "Little Jerry, come grind my wheat;" And "Little Jerry' was still the cry,

From matron bold and maiden sweet.

"Twas "Little Jerry" on every tongue,

And so the simple truth was told:
For Jerry was little when he was young,
And Jerry was little when he was old.

But what in size. he chanced to lack,
That Jerry made up in being strong;