The marriage list, and the jeu d'esprit, Oh sweet as the lapse of water at noon .O'er the mossy roots of some forest tree, The sigh of the wind in the woods of June, Or sound of flutes o'er a moonlight sea, Or the low soft music, perchance, which seems To float through the slumbering singer's dreams, So sweet, so dear is the silvery tone Of her in whose features I sometimes look, As I sit at eve by her side alone, And we read by turns from the selfsame book,Some tale perhaps of the olden time, Some lover's romance or quaint old rhyme. Then when the story is one of woe, Some prisoner's plaint through his dungeon-bar, Her blue eye glistens with tears, and low Her voice sinks down like a moan afar; And I seem to hear that prisoner's wail, And his face looks on me worn and pale. And, when she reads some merrier song, Her voice is glad as an April bird's; And, when the tale is of war and wrong, A trumpet's summons is in her words, And the rush of the hosts I seem to hear, And see the tossing of plume and spear!—Oh pity me then, when, day by day, The stout fiend darkens my parlour door; And reads me perchance the selfsame lay Which melted in music, the night before, From lips as the lips of Hylas sweet, And moved like twin roses which zephyrs meet! I cross my floor with a nervous tread, I whistle and laugh and sing and shout, I flourish my cane above his head, And stir up the fire to roast him out; I've studied Glanville and James the wise, Which a Christian man is presumed to meet, Can I find of a reading fiend like mine. I've crossed the Psalter with Brady and Tate, And hung a wig to my parlour wall, "Conjuro te, sceleratissime, Abire ad tuum locum!"-Still Ah!-commend me to Mary Magdalen With her sevenfold plagues,-to the wandering Jew,— OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. [Born in 1809. A Physician, and Professor of Anatomy in Harvard University. Well known as author of The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table and other prose writings, as well as poems-humorous, critical, or occasional, for the most part]. THE TREADMILL SONG. THE stars are rolling in the sky, The earth rolls on below, And we can feel the rattling wheel Then tread away, my gallant boys, Why should not wheels go round about, Like planets in the sky? Wake up, wake up, my duck-legged man, Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend, And shake your spider legs; What though you're awkward at the trade, There's time enough to learn,— So lean upon the rail, my lad, And take another turn. They've built us up a noble wall, We've nothing in the world to do So faster, now, you middle men, Here, tread upon the long man's toes, And punch the little fellow's ribs, He's lost them both, -don't pull his hair, But poke him in the further eye, Hark! fellows, there's the supper-bell, It's pretty sport, -suppose we take If ever they should turn me out, A treadmill of my own! THE MUSIC-GRINDERS. THERE are three ways in which men take One's money from his purse, And very hard it is to tell Which of the three is worse; But all of them are bad enough You're riding out some pleasant day, It's hard to meet such pressing friends It's very hard to lose your cash, But harder to be shot; And so you take your wallet out, Perhaps you're going out to dine,— You'll hear about the cannon-ball That carried off his pegs, He tells you of his starving wife, All clamorous for bread,— You're sitting on your window-seat, You hear a sound that seems to wear As if a broken fife should strive And nearer, nearer still, the tide There's something like a human voice, And something like a drum; You sit in speechless agony, Until your ear is numb. Poor "home, sweet home," should seem to be A very dismal place; Your "auld acquaintance" all at once Is altered in the face; Their discords sting through Burns and Moore, Like hedgehogs dressed in lace. You think they are crusaders, sent But hark! the air again is still, And silence, like a poultice, comes It cannot be,it is,-it is, A hat is going round! No! Pay the dentist when he leaves And pay the owner of the bear That stunned you with his paw, And buy the lobster that has had Your knuckles in his claw; But, if you are a portly man, To turn them out of town; Then close your sentence with an oath, And, if you are a slender man, Go very quietly and drop TO AN INSECT.1 I LOVE to hear thine earnest voice, Thou mindest me of gentlefolks,— 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 O tell me where did Katy live, I warrant Katy did no more 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, 1 Perhaps most of our readers are aware that there is an insect in America named the "Katydid," on account of its emitting a sound resembling that combination of syllables. I have been told that sometimes the insect varies its utterances into "Katydidn't."-W. M. R. |