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EAR MR. EDITOR,—The older I grow | ting mey'er haest as flien to faen, which the more convinced am I that I'm a signifies, when fried, Don't be in a hurry poet. I was born on a rimy morning. I about anything, except the capture of a flea! lisped in numbers, I have no doubt of that. I enclose two of my fugitive pieces. If I have lisped, ay, and spoken pretty plainly, you don't like them, send them back to me in several numbers of B. M. M. Poëta by electric telegraph, and I'll reward the nascitur non fit, or as you may English it messenger with a piece of my mind. for the uninstructed, he who is not a poet Never yours (but always my own), by birth is not fit to be one. I feel myself THE ODD BOY. pretty tall in this respect, and would freely undertake to do the Laureate business for half the money, and find my own laurelstwo suits a year. I have a tinge of what is common to all poco di matto-which has nothing to do with a mat and a poker, but is a slight tinge of insanity. I'm easily off my head; bless you, when a creature in human form told me my prose was bad and my rhyme was worse, I was as mad as a hatter. I should have hit him, only he is bigger than I am by several chalks, and his sister's husband's cousin married a relation of ours, and it is no use making a family row; besides, cui bono, though I had knocked him down and jumped upon him, Plus negabit in una hora unus asinus quam centum doctores in centum annis probaverint.

I say I am a poet-I shall prove it; I have my MS. nearly ready. The major poem is "Harold Deceased," which shows that the last of the Saxon kings was not dead at all on the field of Hastings. It's a jolly good idea, and full of incident. The rest of the volume will consist of fugitive pieces-I call them fugitive because every one of them runs away with a good idea. If your people think of doing the book, say so; there is another firm hankering after it, but they want Doré to do the pictures. No, not at all, neither; every respect to you, my gentle Gustave,

but it won't wash.

I shall say no more. The thorn in the bush is worth two in the hand. Consider my proposal. Don't purchase in haste and repent at your earliest convenience. Nin

I WENT to see my nephew Sam,
At Thresher's, The Birches, Whippingham,
And I was nobly entertained
With pudding of plums and flesh of beeves,
And baked potatoes and cabbage leaves,

Till tea was ready and day it waned.
There were lessons taught at Thresher's

The A B C and Triumvirate rule,

And Greek and Mathematics;
In fact, the house was Minerva's home,
And full of books about Greece and Rome

From the kitchen up to the attics.
But the lesson I learned at Thresher's that

Was nothing at all in the classic way;

But while I was nobly entertained
With pudding of plums and flesh of beeves,
And baked potatoes, and cabbage leaves,
My lesson was thus ordained.
The rule prevailing at Thresher's School,
And Thresher was wise, and his head was

Was-no condiments allowed;
There was no restriction as to food,
But vinegar's nice, and mustard's good,

And these were never allowed.
For to give a boy mustard to his beef,
Or vinegar sharp as a nice relief,

Was unknown in Thresher's halls;
For mustard, you know, the tongue may bite,
And it sharpens up the appetite,

And makes on the carver calls.

But going to see my nephew Sam
At Thresher's, The Birches, Whippingham,
Was a day of days, a red-letter day;
And under visitorial
The encyclopædian eye of Thresher
From his pupils wandered away.

Then a youngster bold, at the board who sat, Who had got no lean, 'cause he could not eat fat,

Put out his fist like a cannon shot,
And thinking nobody saw the act,
(And this, I declare, is a positive fact,)
Made a grab at the mustard-pot!
He made a grab at the mustard-pot.
He spooned it out, and a lot he got,

Then he daub'd his meat with the pungent

Took it and tears were in his eyes--
At stolen pleasures tears arise-

He took it-and sat like a fixture.

There was a smart for the heedless boySorrow is sister-twin to Joy

The hot tears starting to his eyes, Made him feel "horrid," that's the word. Nothing at all but this occurred,

But the tears were a word to the wise.

To learn at once that fleeting pleasure
Has to be paid for, measure for measure;
That he is wise who, cold or hot,
Content with plain, unseasoned fare,
Is playing fair and has no share


T. O. D.


ONCE in my life I got up early,

And I went out a-fishing; The dew upon the grass was pearly, Welcome to early purl so early,

And I went out a fishing.

The early worm I'd captured over night,
Or rather bought him at a shop in town,
And sure was I that something soon would


If a fish would not, perhaps a cross dog might, And I have something to take back to


I used the gentle as I would a friend,

And made him comfortable on the hook; Then I a line did drop, and sat and thought Of Izaak Walton, I his book had bought, And read it-with a hook.

Sudden-a strain-a trout had made a bite,

I pulled and saw him, but 'tis sad to say, He took my bait but would not take my hook, Took bait and hooked it, and my fingers


For I, not he, was caught, 'tis sad to say.

Thus doth it happen, the fact is very plain, The moral suits me, and I musing sit: Those who would take others, may themselves be ta'en,

The tables turn, and turn, and turn again, THE BITING BITER MAY BE THE BITER BIT! T. 0. D.


So autumn, thou hast come at last,
With thy refreshing dews;
The trees their leafy coats now cast,
Excepting the bright yews,
Which still retain their cov'ring green,
And through the Winter still
Will do so, though the wind blows keen,
And whistles o'er the hill.

Yet, Autumn, still we love to see Thy bright and smiling face; For now the fruit doth every tree In our fine orchards grace.

The birds, they now begin to fly,
Some warmer clime to seek ;
For now to Winter, cold and dry,

We fast approach each week.
The nights are often bleak and cold,
Yet still we'll grumble not;
For, as we need not to be told,
E'en in the humblest cot,
We now may gather round the fire,
And listen to such tales

That oft the mind with dread inspire,
Of shipwrecks, storms, and gales.



It had been a day of triumph in Capua. Lentulus, returning with victorious eagles, had amused the populace, with the sports of the amphitheatre, to an extent unknown even in that luxurious city. The shouts of revelry had died away; the roar of the lion had ceased; the last loiterer had retired from the banquet; and the lights in the palace of the victor were extinguished. The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, silvered the dew-drop on the corselet of the Roman sentinel, and tipped the dark waters of Volturnus with a wavy, tremulous light. No sound is heard but the last sob of the retiring wave, telling its story to the smooth pebbles of the beach; and then all is still, as the breast when the spirit has departed. In the deep recesses of the amphitheatre, a band of gladiators were assembled; their muscles still knotted with the agony of conflict, the foam upon their lips, and the scowl of battle yet lingering upon their brows, when Spartacus, rising in their midst, thus addressed them:


"Ye call me chief, and ye do well to call him chief who, for twelve long years, has upon the arena every shape of man, or beast, the broad empire of Rome could furnish, and never yet lowered his arms. And if there is one among you who can say that ever, in public fight, or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him step forth and do it! If there be three, in all your company, dare face me on the bloody sand, let them COME ON!

"Yet I was not always thus, a hired butcher, a savage chief of still more savage men. My father was a Thracian of Pieria, a pious man, who feared great Jupiter, and brought to the rural deities his offerings of fruits and flowers. My ancestors came from Greece, and settled among the vineclad rocks and citron groves of Syrasello. My early life ran quiet as the brook by which I played; and when, at noon, I gathered my sheep beneath the shade to play upon the shepherd's flute, I had friend, the son of our neighbour, to share the pleasure. We led our flocks to the same pasture, and shared together our rustic meal.


"One evening, after the sheep were folded,

and we were all seated beneath the myrtle that shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra, and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, withstood a whole army. I did not know what war meant then; but my cheek did burn, I knew not why; and I did clasp the knees of the venerable man, till my mother, parting the hair from off my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and think no more of those old tales, and savage wars.

"That very night the Romans landed on our shores; and the clash of steel was heard within our quiet vale. I saw the breast that nourished me trampled by the iron heel of the war-horse; the bleeding body of my father flung amid the blazing rafters of his dwelling. I killed a man to-day in the arena; and when I broke his helmet clasps, behold! IT WAS MY FRIEND! He knew me,-smiled faintly,gasped, and died! The same sweet smile that I had marked upon his face when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled some lofty cliff, to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home, in childish triumph. I told the prætor he was my friend, noble and brave, and begged his body, that I might burn it upon the funeral pile, and mourn over him.

"Ay! on my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, with tears, I begged that boon; while all the Roman maids, and matrons, and those holy virgins they call vestal, and the rabble, shouted as if mad, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble, like a very child, before that piece of bleeding clay; but he drew back as if I were pollution, and sternly said, 'Let the carrion rot! There are no noble men but Romans!'

"And he, deprived of funeral rites, must wander a hapless ghost beside the waters of that sluggish river, and look—and look— and look in vain, to the bright Elysian fields, where dwell his ancestors and noble kindred. And so must you; and so must I, die like dogs.

"O Rome! Rome! I thank thee! thou hast been a tender nurse to me. Ay! thou hast given to that poor, gentle, timid, shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher sound than flute-notes, muscles of iron and a heart

of flint; taught him to drive the sword through bones, and rugged brass, and plaited mail; and warm it in the marrow of his foe; to gaze into the glaring eyeballs of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a smoothcheeked boy upon a laughing girl; and he shall pay thee back, till the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest oozing, life-blood lies curdled!

"Ye stand here now, like giants, as ye are ; the strength of brass is in your toughened fibres ;-but to-morrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet odours from his curling locks, shall come and, with his lily fingers, pat your red brawn, and bet his sesterces npon your blood!

"Listen! Hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? 'Tis three days since he tasted meat; but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon your flesh; and ye will be a dainty meal for him. If ye are brutes, then stand like fat oxen waiting for the butcher's knife; but if ye are men, then FOLLOW ME! Strike down yon sentinel, and gain the mountain passes; and then do bloody work, as did your sires at old Thermopyla! Is Sparta dead? is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins? that you do crouch and cower, like a belaboured hound, beneath his master's lash? Oh, comrades! warriors! Thracians! If we must fight, let us fight for ourselves; if we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors; if we must die, let us die under the free sky, by the bright waters, IN NOBLE, HONOURABLE BATTLE!"

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And Ardennes waves above them her | The pilgrim exile-sainted name !—
green leaves,
The hill, whose icy brow

Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they

Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave,-alas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,
Which now beneath them, but above
shall grow

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living valour rolling on the foe
And burning with high hope, shall moulder

cold and low.

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THE pilgrim fathers-where are they?

The waves that brought them o'er
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray
As they break along the shore;
Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day,
When the Mayflower moored below,
When the sea around was black with storms,

And white the shore with snow.

The mists, that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep,
Still brood upon the tide ;

And his rocks yet keep their watch by the

To stay its waves of pride.

But the snow-white sail, that he gave to

the gale,

When the heavens looked dark, is gone ;As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud,

Is seen, and then withdrawn.

Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame,

In the morning's flame burns now. And the moon's cold light, as it lay that, night,

On the hillside and the sea,

Still lies where he laid his houseless head;
But the pilgrim-where is he?

The pilgrim fathers are at rest :

When summer's throned on high,

And the world's warm breast is in verdure

Go, stand on the hill where they lie.
The earliest ray of the golden day
On that hallowed spot is cast;

And the evening sun, as he leaves the

Looks kindly on that spot last.

The pilgrim spirit has not fled :

It walks in noon's broad light; And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,

With the holy stars by night. It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,

And shall guard this ice-bound shore, Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay,

Shall foam and freeze no more.

The drifting soil, the mouldering leaf,
Along the sod were blown ;
His mound has melted into earth,—
His memory lives alone.

26. THE FATE OF GOLDAU. (John Neal.)

[This piece exemplifies, with striking effect, the variation of voice and action required by great and sudden transitions of emotion. The tones, attitudes, and gestures of deep grief, profound pathos, perfect repose, the energy of sublime description, the horror-struck utterance, inseparable from the relating of a terrific catastrophe,all unite here, to produce one of the most thrilling recitations of modern lyric poetry.]

O SWITZERLAND! my country! 'tis to thee
I strike my harp in agony :-
My country; nurse of Liberty,
Home of the gallant, great, and free,
My sullen harp I strike to thee.

Oh! I have lost you all!
Parents, and home, and friends:

Ye sleep beneath a mountain pall,
A mountain's plumage o'er you bends.
The cliff-yew of funereal gloom,
Is now the only mourning plume
That nods above a people's tomb.

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