you will find it, you shill find it to read thus: "And he played on a harp uv a thousand strings-sperits of just men made perfeck." My tex, breethering, leads me to speak uv sperits. Now thar's a great many kinds of sperits in the world-in the fust place, thar's the sperits as some folks call ghosts, then thar's the sperits uv terpentime, and then thar's the sperits as some folks call liquor, an' I'v got as good an artikel of them kind uv sperits on my flat-boat as ever was fotched down the Mississippi River, but thar's a great many other kind of sperits, for the tex sez: "He played on a harp uv a thou-sand strings-sperits of just men made perfeck." But I'll tell you the kind uv sperits as is ment in the tex, it's fire. That is the kind of sperits as is ment in the tex, my breethering. Now thar's a great many kinds of fire in the world. In the fust place, thar's the common sort uv fire you lite your segar or pipe with, and then thar's camfire, fire before you're reddy, and fall back, and many other kinds uv fire, for the tex sez: “He played on a harp uv a thou-sand strings--sperits uv just men made perfeck." But I'll tell you the kind uv fire as is ment in the tex, my breethering-it's hell fire! an' that's the kind uv fire as great many uv you'll come to, ef you don't do better nor what you have been doin'-for "He played on a harp of a thousand strings-sperits uv just men made perfeck." Now the different sorts uv fire in the world may be likened unto the different persuasions of Christians in the world. In the fust place we have the Piscapalions; and they are a high sailin' and a high-falutin set, and they may be likened unto a turkey buzzard that flies up into the air, and he goes up and up till he looks no bigger than your finger nail, and the fust thing you know, he cums down and down, and is a fillin' himself on the karkiss of a dead hoss by the side of the road-and "He played on a harp of a thou-sand strings-sperits of just men made perfeck." And then thar's the Methedis, and they may be likened unto the squirrel, runnin' up into a tree, for the Methedist betieves in gwine on from one degree of grace to another, and finally on to perfeckshun, and the squirrel goes up and up, and up and up,and he jumps from lim' to lim,' and branch to branch, and the fust thing you know he falls, and down he comes kerflummux, and that's like the Methedis, for they is allers fallin' from grace, ah! And-"He played on a harp of a thou-sand strings-sperits of just men made perfeck." And then, my breethering, thar's the Baptist, ah—and they hev bin likened unto a possum on a 'simmon tree, and the thunders may roll, and the earth may quake, but that possum clings there still, ah-and you may shake one foot loose, and the other's thar, and you may shake all feet loose, and he laps his tail around the lim', and he clings fur ever, for "He played on a harp uv a thou-sand stringssperits of just men made perfeck." ONCE MORE.-O. W. HOLMES. CLASS OF '29. Condiscipulis, Coœtaneis, Harvardianis, Amicis. "Will I come?" That is pleasant! I beg to inquire And which was the muster-roll-mention but one- You see me as always, my hand on the lock, -"Is it loaded?" I'll bet you! what doesn't it hold? One charge is a remnant of College-day dreams As the trigger was pulled by each clever young man! And Love! bless my stars, what a cartridge is there! -Were there ever such sweethearts? Of course there were not! And next,-what a load! it will split the old gun,- Bump! bump! down the staircase the cannon-ball goes,— Old P- as we called him,-at fifty or so,- Oh, say, can you look through the vista of age But where are the Tutors, my brother, Oh, tell!— "They are dead, the old fellows" (we called them so then, I'm thinking. I'm thinking. Is this 'sixty-eight? I may have been dreaming. I rather incline "By George!" as friend Sales is accustomed to cry,- I told you 'twas nonsense. Joe, give us a song! Dead! Dead! You false graybeard, I swear they are not! Well, one we have with us (how could he contrive --And now as my load was uncommonly large, Non Peircius ipse enumeret quam! THE DEATH OF MOSES.*--JESSIE G. M'CARTEE. Led by his God, on Pisgah's height, The pilgrim-prophet stood When first fair Canaan blessed his sight, And Jordan's crystal flood. Behind him Jay the desert ground His weary feet had trod; While Israel's host encamped around, Still guarded by their God. With joy the agéd Moses smiled On all his wanderings past, While thus he poured his accents mild "I see them all before me now- From where bright Jordan's waters flow, To yonder boundless main. "Oh! there the lovely promised land With milk and honey flows; Now, now my weary murmuring band Shall find their sweet repose. *This poem will form a worthy prelude to Mrs. C. F. Alexander's "Burial of Moses." See No. 3, page 94. "There groves of palm and myrtle spread O'er valleys fair and wide; The lofty cedar rears its head On every mountain-side. "For them the rose of Sharon flings Her fragrance on the gale; And there the golden lily springs,- "Amid the olive's fruitful boughs Is heard the song of love, For there doth build and breathe her vows The gentle turtle-dove. "For them shall bloom the clustering vine, The fig tree shed her flowers, The citron's golden treasures shine "For them, for them, but not for me- Not Jordan's stream, nor yon bright sea, “Tis well, 'tis well, my task is done, Father, receive thy dying one Alone he bade the world farewell, Now, to your tents, O Israel, And mourn your prophet dead! TEMPERANCE.-1776-1876.* Our sires were rocked in Faneuil Hall, While Rum is king, would they be still? They would again renew their vows *G. w. BUNGAY. |