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!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! 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!) 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— (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, I think there is a knot of you Beneath the hollow tree, A knot of spinster Katydids,- Oh, tell me where did Katy live, And what did Katy do? very And was she fair and young, 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, Before the little Katydid Shall add one word, to tell 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; 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- When high in hope, he rode among Nor scorned to soil the clustering gold With tears that would not be controlled. To horse-to horse-no more I weep; away 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, Old year, you must not go: He frothed his bumpers to the brim; Old year, you shall not die. We did so laugh and cry with you, He was full of joke and jest ; But all his merry quips are o'er. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friends, How hard he breathes! over the snow The cricket chirps,--the light burns low,- Shake hands before you die! Old year, we'll dearly rue for you. His face is growing sharp and thin ;- 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, |