ODE TO MY BOY, AGED THREE YEARS.

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!) Thou merry, laughing sprite,

With spirits feather light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin·
(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin !)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestruck,

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 a-fire!)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In love's dear chain, so strong and bright a link,

Thou idol of thy parents

There goes my ink.)

(Drat the boy!

Thou cherub, but of earth;

Fit play-fellow for fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him if he pulls his tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble !- that's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope!

(He 'Il break the mirror with that skipping rope!) With pure heart, newly stampt from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint ?)

Thou young domestic dove!

(He 'll have that jug off with another arowe!)

Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!

(Are those torn clothes his best?)

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,

Play on, play on,

My elfin John!

Toss the light ball - bestride the stick —
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)

With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk,

(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 the 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 cannot write unless he 's sent above.)

ноов

THE OLD HAT.

I HAD a hat-it was not all a hat.
Part of the brim was gone, yet still I wore
It on, and people wondered, as I passed.
Some turned to gaze, others, just cast an eye,
And soon withdrew it, as 't were in contempt.
But still, my hat, although so fashionless,
In complement extern, had that within,
Surpassing show, my head continued warm,
Being sheltered from the weather, spite of all
The want (as has been said) of brim.

A change came o'er the color of my hat.

pass

!

That which was black grew brown, and then men stared
With both their eyes, (they stared with one before ;)
The wonder now was twofold — and it seemed
Strange, that things so torn, and old, should still
Be worn, by one who might - but let that
I had my reasons, which might be revealed,
But for some counter reasons far more strong,
Which tied my tongue to silence. Time passed on.
Green spring, and flowery summer, autumn brown,
And frosty winter, came, ·
and went, and came,'-

And still, through all the seasons of two years,

In park, in city, yea, in routs and halls,

The hat was worn, and borne. Then folks grew wild With curiosity, -- and whispers rose,

And questions passed about how one so trim

In coats, boots, pumps, gloves, trowsers, could ensconce His caput in a covering so vile.

A change came o'er the nature of my hat.
Grease-spots appeared; but still, in silence, on
I wore it; and then family and friends

Glared madly at each other. There was one,
Who said but hold! no matter what was said,
A time may come when I-away, away —
Not till the season 's ripe, can I reveal
Thoughts that do lie too deep for common minds;
Till then, the world shall not pluck out the heart
Of this my mystery. When I will - I will!
The hat was greasy now, and old, and torn
But torn, old, greasy, still I wore it on.

A change came o'er the business of this hat.
Women, and men, and children scowled on me ;
My company was shunned - I was alone!

None would associate with such a hat —
Friendship itself proved faithless, for a hat.
She, that I loved, within whose gentle breast
I treasured up my heart, looked cold as death:
Love's fires went out, extinguished by a hat.
Of those that knew me best, some turned aside,
And scudded down dark lanes, one man did place
His finger on his nose's side, and jeered,—
Others, in horrid mockery, laughed outright;
Yea, dogs, deceived by instinct's dubious ray,
Fixing their swart glare on my ragged hat,
Mistook me for a beggar, and they barked.
Thus women, men, friends, strangers, lover, dogs --
One thought pervaded all—it was, my hat.

A change

it was the last came o'er this hat. For lo! at length, the circling months went round, The period was accomplished, and one day

This tattered, brown, old greasy coverture,

(Time had endeared its vileness.) was transferred.
To the possession of a wandering son

Of Israel's fated race, and friends once more
Greeted my digits with the wonted squeeze:
Once more 1 went my way along, along,

And plucked no wondering gaze; the hand of scorn,
With its annoying finger, men and dogs,

Once more grew pointless, jokeless, laughiess, growlless;
And last, not least, of rescued blessings - love,
Love smiled on me again, when I assumed

A brand-new beaver of the Andre mold;

And then the laugh was mine, for then came out
The secret of this strangeness-

-

-'t was a bet!

THE WHISKERS.

A PETIT MAITRE wooed a fair,
Of virtue, wealth, and graces rare;
But vainly had preferred his claim —
The maiden owned no answering flame;
At length, by doubt and anguish torn,
Suspense too painful to be borne,
Low at her feet he humbly kneeled,
And thus his ardent flame revealed:
"Pity my grief, angelic fair;
Ded my anguish and despair ;
For you, this heart must ever burn-
O bless me with a kind return;
My love, no language can express;
Reward it, then, with happiness:
Nothing on earth but you I prize;
All else is trifling in my eyes;
And cheerfully would I resign
The wealth of worlds, to call you mine.
But if another gain your hand,
Far distant from my native land,
Far hence, from you and hope, I'll fly,
And in some foreign region die."

The virgin heard, and thus replied:

"If my consent to be your bride
Will make you happy, then be blest ;
But grant me, first, one small request -
A sacrifice I must demand,

And, in return, will give my hand.”

A sacrifice! O speak its name;

For you I'd forfeit wealth and fame;
Take my whole fortune-every cent

"'T was something more than wealth I meant." "Must I the realms of Neptune trace? O speak the word - where'er the place; For you, the idol of my soul, I'd e'en explore the frozen pole, Arabia's sandy desert tread, Or trace the Tigris to its head."

-

"Oh, no, dear sir, I do not ask So long a voyage, so hard a task; You must but ah! the boon I want, I have no hope that you will grant." "Shall I, like Bonaparte, aspire To be the world's imperial sire? Express the wish, and here I vow, To place a crown upon your brow." Sir, these are trifles," she replied; "But, if you wish me for your bride, You must but still I fear to speak You'll never grant the boon I seek." "O say!" he cried -"dear angel, say, What must I do, and I obey;

No longer rack me with suspense;

Speak your commands, and send me hence."

'Well, then, dear, generous youth!" she cries,

"If thus my heart you really prize,

And wish to link your fate with mine,
On one condition I am thine:

'T will then become my pleasing duty,
To contemplate a husband's beauty;
And, gazing on his manly face,
His feelings and his wishes trace;
To banish thence each mark of care,
And light a smile of pleasure there.
then 't is all I ask-
Commence at once the pleasing task.
O let me, as becomes my place-

O let me,

Cut those huge whiskers from your face!"
She said-but oh, what strange surprise
Was pictured in her lover's eyes!

Like lightning, from the ground he sprung,
While wild amazement tied his tongue;
A statue, motionless, he gazed,
Astonished, horror-struck, amazed.
So looked the gallant Perseus, when
Medusa's visage met his ken;