THE SMACK IN SCHOOL. A DISTRICT School, not far away, Mid Berkshire's hills, one winter's day, Was humming with its wonted noise Of threescore mingled girls and boys; Some few upon their tasks intent, But more on furtive mischief bent. The while the master's downward look Was fastened on a copy-book; When suddenly, behind his back, Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack! As 't were a battery of bliss Let off in one tremendous kiss! "What's that?" the startled master cries; "That, thir," a little imp replies, "Wath William Willith, if you pleathe, I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe!" With frown to make a statue thrill, The master thundered, "Hither, Will!" Like wretch o'ertaken in his track, That you, my biggest pupil, should "I did not mean to be so bad; I thought she kird o' wished me to!" THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS. SAINT PERAY. ADDRESSED TO H. T. P. WHEN to any saint I pray, On the Atlantic faint and sick, Next in pleasant Normandie, All the ancient kings repose; knows! Worn with travel, tired and lame, Sad and full of homesick fancies, But in Provence, near Vaucluse, Gifted with a wondrous juice, Potent for the worst complaint. In my wanderings, vague and vari ous, Reaching Naples - as I lay What need had I of quarantine? In Sicily at least a score- With such magic into mine, That methought such bliss as I did, Poet never drew from wine. Rest he gave me, and refection, Softened images of sorrow, Faith in something good at last. Now, why should any almanac But since no day hath been appointed WHITTLING. JOHN PIERPONT. THE Yankee boy, before he's sent to school, Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool, The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eye Turns, while he hears his mother's lullaby; His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it, Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it; And in the education of the lad No little part that implement hath had. His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings A growing knowledge of material things. Full rigged, with raking masts, and timbers staunch, And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch. Thus, by his genius and his jackknife driven Ere long he'll solve you any problem given; Make any gimcrack, musical or mute, A plough, a couch, an organ, or a flute; Make you a locomotive or a clock, Cut a canal, or build a floatingdock, Or lead forth beauty from a marble block; Make anything, in short, for sea or shore, From a child's rattle to a seventyfour: Make it, said I?-Ay, when he undertakes it, He'll make the thing and the machine that makes it. poetry, and Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, And curses wit, and Pope. Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong, The world had wanted many an idle song) What drop or nostrum can this plague remove? Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love? A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped, If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead. Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I! Who can't be silent, and who will not lie: To laugh, were want of goodness and And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years." Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury Lane, Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends, Obliged by hunger, and request of friends: "The piece, you think, is incorrect? Why, take it, I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it." Three things another's modest wishes bound, My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. Pitholeon sends to me: "You know his Grace, I want a patron; ask him for a place." Pitholeon libelled me- "but here's a letter Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better. Dare you refuse him? Curl invites to dine, He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine." Bless me! a packet. stranger sues, -"'Tis a A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse." stage." "Commend it to the There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, The players and I are, luckily, no friends. Fired that the house reject him, "Sdeath, I'll print it, And shame the fools-Your interest, sir, with Lintot." Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much: "Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch." All my demurs but double his attacks; At last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks." |