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HOLMES breathes 'his last,' and we are thrilled with laughter!

JOHN G. SAXE, E82.

THE third, arrived from Heliconian journey,

Attaches all

by power of attorney.

The youngest, too: we give his senior joy,

Who dare cross swords with this Green Mountain Boy!
We in his fearless song no mincing meet;

No Gallic fashions mar his Saxon feet.

But hold! he does mince; for he Folly minces,
And cuts her up until the galled jade winces!'
Saxon the sinews of his poet's arm;

His speech is full of the old Saxon charm;
Saxon the jokes which he pert Folly cracks on;
Saxon his mind; his very hat is SAXE on!

SAXE vs. PETTICOATS.

BUT the best light, by far, for painting him in,
Is that which shows his power on the women.
Time was when ladies, both the short and tall,
In street or parlor, balcony or ball,
Wore trailing dresses floating far behind,
Or making cheeses in the frolic wind;
Sweeping the pavements as they sailing went,
And hid their insteps when their beaux were beat.
Perchance, in winter, ere the church was filled,
Warming their feet, the while the organ spilled
Its first few notes of Sabbath-music solemn,
Echoed in sweetness back from arch and column,
In the broad aisle they lingered on the flue,
Where, grateful now, the ardent air leaps through.
Behold some damsel, slender as a reed,
And fair as slender, beautiful indeed,
Suddenly grow to such enormous size,
That you can scarcely half believe your eyes!
Spreading to seem, with each succeeding minute,
St. Peter's dome, with a small child stuck in it!

* ASTREA.

But now,
in love with SAXE, the ladies dress
So as to show their taste for mauliness.
With their wings up, behold them as they pass,
Like turkeys tip-toe in the morning grass;

Or herons wading in some shallow near
Ontario's waters, or Oneida clear!
How strange a poet can indeed so soon
Turn the fringed pantalette to pantaloon.
Yet so it is; the ladies - these are facts-
Throw off their little-coats and cling to SACKS!

ANGELICA.

BUT not alone as Fashion's ribboned queen, Hare-brained and rude, is smirking Folly seen: Gravely she comes to train the youthful mind, And sets the mode: blind leader of the blind!

Lo, yon fond mother with a spindling son,
Who longs for twenty, while she has but one!
See how her love concentred cleaves to him,
And gently bends to every idle whim.
She feeds him dainties till his cheek is pale,
And calls the doctor at his slightest ail;
From morn till eve, his wishes are her will,
And though he flout her, he is fondled still;
Selfish and rude, to all but her a pest,
Do others chide him, then she loves him best;
Caressed at all times, never 'crossed' nor struck,
This impish gosling is her little duck.'

HELEN.

AND here another of a different mould,
Her vixen nose proclaiming her a scold.
Prolific fortune this good dame annoys,
Not with one only, but a dozen boys!
One she throws this way, and another that,
And deals decisive with each saucy brat.
She with her palm the eldest gives a box,
Were it of oak, would almost fell an ox!
The youngest, a fat chub with curly pate,
Perchance from school and home to supper late,
She seizes struggling, holds him to her knee,
Fixing her grasp to leave her right hand free;
And then she pummels him with blows so stout,
Were he a tub, she'd stave its bottom out!

Neither is right; nor are they wholly wrong:
But I must wind the bobbin of my song,
And leave good sense to show meanwhile to you
The golden mean of Simpleton and Shrew.
Nor dream, my friends, the poet wedlock shuns:
Oh no! its cares are mostly little ones.

THE MODERN HIPPOLYTE.

'A woman should be both a wife and mother:
She that lies here was neither one nor t'other!'
So reads a quaint old epitaph, that may
Be said, at once, to 'turn from grave to gay.'
Let her peruse it whom I now arraign,
The pertest, rudest of all Folly's train:

Were Folly dead, you'd think she had not died,
So to the life is she personified.

A strapping beauty, with a flowing tongue,

You may not call her old, you dare not-young!

Who frequents parties made for the élite,

And PETRARCH Tetrarch' calls, and thinks him 'sweet;' Hears Grecian scholars talking of old Passow,

And gallops down with praises meant for Tasso !

She's always found at festivals and fairs,

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Where the beaux shun her, and she calls them 'bears;'
Runs up the rostrum, and runs down the WHIGS,
And styles the DEMOCRATS a set of pigs;'
MARSHFIELD-a swamp; and BUFFALO - -no better;
DETROIT-defunct; ST. LOUIS - a dead letter!
Talks like a maelström about WOMAN'S RIGHTS,'
And loves the negroes better than the whites!
The Union terms a kindling wisp of straw;
The highest crimes, duty to 'HIGHER LAW!'
If she converse, she's heard across the
way;
Her tread is tramping, and her laugh a neigh.
Such are not women, as they are not men:
Kind Fortune save us from a crowing hen!

EPILOGUE.

ALAS! how long will my unbridled muse,
With her wild song, your patient ear abuse!
It were far better she had held her peace,
Than, ere she ceases, that your patience cease.

Make way for PEGASUS

to freely pass!
to grass!

Undo the girths and let him go

While this you do, ere I dismount, I'll say
But a short word, then slide my harp away;
Which if I break, in some unlucky fall,

I, like a cobbler, lose my little all.

Sons of the SIGMA PHI, that second mother,
Through whom I proudly own myself your brother,
It rests with you to guard her ancient fame,
And bid fresh fires upon her altar flame.
Be true to her, and to yourselves be true,
And while she triumphs you will triumph too.
To you, her children, with whom first I drew
Hope's bracing air, and into manhood grew,
May she, through life, her tender counsels give,
And guard your memory when you cease to live.
Nor think the Poet's love one thrill the less,
If his rude harp do not that love express.
Love is reserved and shy, and may not show
To the world's eye how ardent is its glow:
Round the old hearth-stone circled, brothers meet,
Nor let affection block the crowded street.
In that bright HALL you consecrate to-night,
While the first stars put on their crowns of light,
Secret, familliar, shall the speech betray
What the heart covers in the glare of day;
And there, hereafter, if the olden fire
Burn in your veins, nor in your hearts expire,
Shall Genius find his own appropriate home,

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And plume his pinions from the BETA's' dome;
There droll-eyed Humor and quaint Mirth shall sit,
And Wisdom point the subtle shaft of Wit:

For you shall Fancy her light baton wave,
And call Ambition from his sculptured grave,
Once more, with royal mien and stern command,
To tread the earth, and in your presence stand:
Again Love wander in the woods at noon,
Or plaintive sing beneath the silent moon;
While Beauty watching, through her casement-bars,
Sees rosy morn eclipse the waning stars.

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Thus will THE MOTHER,' in her sons, live o'er,
In happy pride, her young, sweet days of yore!
And, now, the BETA' through my verse extends
A warm and hearty welcome to her friends:

Long may you cull with her Life's choicest flowers,
To crown with joy the fairy-footed hours;
And when its scenes and acts draw near their close,
May your sweet sunset mar the beauty of the rose !

Ingleside, July, 1851.

FINIS.

HANS VON SPIEGEL.

SEEKING DINNER UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

BY FRANCIS COPCUTT.

AURORA and I loved each other, and we also loved Mrs. Jones, for she had made us acquainted: beside, Mrs. Jones was chatty, kind and sensible; very sensible, for she never saw nor heard any thing that we did n't want her to see nor hear; so we often met in Mrs. Jones' back parlor, without the fear of Aurora's father before our eyes, who disliked me exceedingly on account of some false facts which had reached his ears, and he wished me at the no, not there, but any part of the world I happened to have a liking for, except his house. But, alas! for sublunary bliss, Mrs. Jones had an only son in Milwaukie, the son of a husband and first love, (wonderful conjunction;) and Mr. Jones, having made a 'pile' out west, had sent for his mother, offering her a home in his house for life, in addition to the one she already occupied in his heart. So our dear friend sent for Mr. Leeds, who a few days afterward hung his red* banner on the outer wall,' and 'Going, going, gone,' ringing out loudly and clearly from the loved abode, sounded in our ears as the sad knell of all our 'tête-à-têtes.'

The following Friday Mrs. Jones was to leave town. So on Thursday Aurora told Ma that she would take an early walk in the morning, and breakfast at 'aunt's,' and possibly not come back until dinner time; and she did take an early walk, but she breakfasted on board the 'Alida,' and as to returning to dinner, we shall see.

Well, the captain cried, All aboard,' 'All ashore,' and our morning accident, as one may call an American steamer, sprang out from the wharf into the stream, and between the river-banks, covered with their June draperies of fresh emerald green, we wended our way toward WestPoint, with the intention of saying good-bye to Mrs. Jones there, and returning in the afternoon. Passing Cullock-houk, the High Torn, and so

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on, (names unknown to gazetteers, but sacred to boyhood's memories of vacation weeks in the country,) grave and gay by turns, we kept our place on the promenade deck until the boat reached West-Point. Then came the hurried farewell, the tears from the weaker vessels, and the dash and foam and spray from the strong one. Handkerchiefs waved; Mrs. Jones' face grew less in the distance, and was soon lost to our sight for ever.

As an hour and a half would elapse before the down boat from Albany would stop to take us back again, we wandered about that paradise of beautiful walks, listening to the birds that were carolling their songs of love in the sunshine, to the cannon which the cadets were firing at the target across the bay, and to the music of our beating hearts; and in this atmosphere of affection and cannon-smoke, our souls shut out the memory of the past, the anticipation of the future, and revelled in the dreamy bliss of the hour.

'Hark!' cried Aurora. Hark, indeed! It was the bell of the steamer as she approached the wharf, and we half a mile away. Putting spurs to our will, we indulged in the luxury of a hard run, and succeeded in reaching one end of the wharf as the plank was hauled in from the other, and the thing of life' dashed on her course quite as indifferently as if no 'Niobe all tears' had been standing fifty yards off, praying for a place on her receding deck. Alas! poor Aurora; she turned her flushed face and tearful eyes upon me with a look of utter, hopeless despair, worthy of a more important cause; but it was not an unimportant one, however. The link which bound me to her father's indulgence was weak enough in itself; and keeping his darling and only daughter away all night, as now seemed inevitable, I felt would break a dozen such links. I should be forbidden the house, that was clear; and as to Aurora, poor girl, her fate was dreadful, for would she ever be allowed to go to her aunt's again to breakfast? No, decidedly not. It was a moment of intense and feverish thought; but I had had such fevers too often during a strange and eventful life to be dismayed now. I remember a very acute attack some years ago that came near being cured with cold water. It was on Lake St. Peter, when two steamers ran into each other in the middle of the night and both sunk, and I thought I was being drowned: a mistake, by the way, and an unfortunate one too, perhaps, for Aurora; for, had I become a dinner for St. Peter's fishes, would she not have been home to her own in time?

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But now, clearly defined, yet leading to no mode of getting to NewYork, except in imagination, my head was crowded with all manner of race-horses, wagons, wings, rail-roads, balloons, steamers, row-boats boats? Oh, row-boat? It came paddling into my brain, and made fast to the long wharf of memory, and its freight was a dim twilight recollection of an old advertisement in the Sun newspaper. I went to the end of the wharf, and asked the gaping idlers who had been smiling at our 'fix,' 'Whose boats are those?' But they all belonged to Captain this and Lieutenant that, and could not be had. I felt angry and nonplussed, and looked toward New-York with 'infinite longings,' as the novels say, or as I have seen a child look through the glass of a confectioner's window, or a loafer through that of a Broadway broker's office; but "T will never do to give it up so,' I thought, and glancing from my wondering neigh

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