OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. A FAMILIAR LETTER TO SEVERAL | You hand us a nosegay of milliner's It can't have fatigued him, — no, not in the least, A dash here and there with a haphazard crayon, And there stands the wrinkledskinned, baggy-limbed beast. Just so with your verse, - 'tis as easy as sketching, You can reel off a song without knitting your brow, With musical murmurs and rhythmi- As lightly as Rembrandt a drawing cal closes You can cheat us of smiles when you've nothing to tell; Well; imagine you've printed your No will of your own with its puny volume of verses; Your forehead is wreathed with the garland of fame, Your poem the eloquent school-boy rehearses. Her album the school-girl presents for your name; And all above was in a howl, It chanced to be our washing-day, And all our things were drying; The storm came roaring through the lines, And set them all a flying; I saw the shirts and petticoats I lost, ah! bitterly I wept, I lost my Sunday breeches! That night I saw them in my dreams, How changed from what I knew them! The dews had steeped their faded threads, The winds had whistled through them! I saw the wide and ghastly rents Where demon claws had torn them; A hole was in their amplest part, I have had many happy years, I saw them straddling through the air, But those young pantaloons have Alas! too late to win them; I saw them chase the clouds, as if The devil had been in them; They were my darlings and my pride, My boyhood's only riches, "Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried: "My breeches! O my breeches!" THOMAS HOOD. TO MY INFANT SON. THOU happy, happy elf! In love's dear chain so bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents;-(Drat the boy! (But stop; first let me kiss away that There goes my ink.) tear,) Thou tiny image of myself! Thou cherub, but of earth; (My love, he's poking peas into his Fit playfellow for fairies, by moon ear,) Thou merry, laughing sprite, With spirits, feather light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin. (My dear, the child is swallowing a pin!) Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, 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! light 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 But still he stoutly urged his suit, He drove the "Dart" for years. In vain he wooed, in vain he sued; While on his way to Stroud. He fretted all the way to Stroud, At last her coldness made him pine Alas! in vain he still assailed, Her heart withstood the dint; Though he had carried sixteen stone, He could not move a flint. Worn out, at last he made a vow Now some will talk in water's praise, And waste a deal of breath, But John, though he drank nothing else, He drank himself to death. The cruel maid that caused his love, There's Mr. Wick at Number Nine, At Number Seven there was a sale- My mother often sits at work, And talks of props and stays, Some say his spirit haunts the Crown, And what a comfort I shall be But that is only talk For after riding all his life, His ghost objects to walk. NUMBER ONE. It's very hard! - and so it is, For Love goes calling up and down, I am sure he has been asked enough To call at Number One! I'm sick of all the double knocks And one in blue, at Number Two, It's very hard they come so near, And not to Number One! Miss Bell, I hear, has got a dear Exactly to her mind.— By sitting at the window-pane Without a bit of blind; But I go in the balcony, Which she has never done; In her declining days: The very maids about the house The sweethearts all belong to them | Once only, when the flue took fire, One Friday afternoon, Young Mr. Long came kindly in I am not old; I am not plain; I am not crooked like the bride But even beauty has no chance, At Number Six they say Miss Rose And Cupid, for her sake, has been The Imp they show with bended bow, Yet arts that thrive at Number Five I wish he had a gun! 'Tis hard, with plenty in the street, And plenty passing by, There's nice young men at Number Ten, But only rather shy; And Mrs. Smith across the way But, la! he hardly seems to know But if he had he'd never deign To shoot with Number One! It's very hard, and so it is, Oh, take away your foolish song, |