the world that brisk, healthy current of common sense, which is to the mind what circulation is to the body."* We present the following as one of his most literally rejuvenating poems.

"THE BOYS."

HAS there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?
If there has, take him out, without making a noise.
Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite!
Old Time is a liar! We're twenty to-night!

We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more? He's tipsy,-young jackanapes!-show him the door! "Gray temples at twenty?"-Yes! white if we please; Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze!

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!
Look close, you will see not a sign of a flake!

We want some new garlands for those we have shed-
And these are white roses in place of the red.

We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told,
Of talking (in public) as if we were old:-

That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge;"
It's a neat little fiction,-of course it's all fudge.

That fellow's the "Speaker,"-the one on the right;
"Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night?
That's our 66
Member of Congress," we say when we chaff;
There's the Reverend" What's his name?-don't make me

laugh.

That boy with the grave mathematical look
Made believe he had written a wonderful book,
And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was true!

So they chose him right in,-a good joke it was too!

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain,
That could harness a team with a logical chain;
When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire,
We called him "The Justice," but now he's "The Squire."
*Duyckinck's Cyclopædia of American Literature.

And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith,——
Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith;
But he shouted a song for the brave and the free,-
Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee!"

You hear that boy laughing?-You think he's all fun;
But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done;
The children laugh loud as they troop at his call,
And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all!
Yes, we're boys,—always playing with tongue or with pen;
And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men?
Shall we always be youthful, and laughing and gay,
Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?

Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray!
The stars of its winter, the dews of its May!
And when we have done with our life-lasting toys,
Dear Father, take care of thy children, THE Boys!

It is not a little singular to note with what unanimity critics, both American and English, agree as touching Holmes' literary character, not only as a whole, but in respect also to its minor qualities. Let us briefly instance the testimony of a few.

"The most concise, apt, and effective poet of the school of Pope this country has produced is Oliver Wendell Holmes."*

"He possesses Swift's quaintness and motley merriment, Pope's polish and graceful point, and the solemn pathos and allied excruciating mirth of Hood."†

"His fancy teems with bright and appropriate images, and these are woven into his plan usually with exquisite finish and grace."‡

"His lyrics ring and sparkle like cataracts of silver, and his serious pieces-as successful in their way as those mirthful frolics of his muse for which he is best honored-arrest the attention by touches of the most genuine pathos and tenderness."§ As, for instance,

*H. T. Tuckerman.

+

North American Review, Jan., 1847.

Irish Quarterly Review.
R. W. Griswold.

UNDER THE VIOLETS.

HER hands are cold; her face is white;
No more her pulses come and go;
Her eyes are shut to life and light;
Fold the white vesture, snow on snow,
And lay her where the violets blow.

But not beneath a graven stone,

To plead for tears with alien eyes;
A slender cross of wood alone

Shall say, that here a maiden lies
In peace beneath the peaceful skies.

And gray old trees of hugest limb

Shall wheel their circling shadows round To make the scorching sunlight dim

That drinks the greenness from the ground, And drops their dead leaves on her mound.

When o'er their boughs the squirrels run,
And through their leaves the robins call,
And, ripening in the autumn sun,

The acorns and the chestnuts fall,
Doubt not that she will heed them all.

For her the morning choir shall sing
Its matins from the branches high,
And every minstrel voice of Spring,
That thrills beneath the April sky,
Shall greet her with its earliest cry.

When, turning round their dial-track,
Eastward the lengthening shadows pass,
Her little mourners, clad in black,
The crickets, sliding through the grass,
Shall pipe for her an evening mass.

At last the rootlets of the trees

Shall find the prison where she lies,
And bear the buried dust they seize
In leaves and blossoms to the skies.
So may the soul that warmed it rise!

If any, born of kindlier blood,

Should ask, What maiden lies below?
Say only this: A tender bud.

That tried to blossom in the snow.

Lies withered where the violets blow.

"His best lines are a series of rhymed pictures, witticisms, or sentiments, let off with the precision and brilliancy of the scintillations that sometimes illumine the northern horizon. The significant terms, the perfect construction, and acute choice of syllables and emphasis, render some passages of Holmes absolute models of versification, especially in the heroic measure. Besides these artistic merits, his poetry abounds with fine satire, beautiful delineations of nature, and amusing caricatures of manners."*

*H. T. Tuckerman.

12 *

POE.

EDGAR ALLAN POE was born in the city of Baltimore, January, 1811. In early youth he lost both parents, and was adopted by John Allan, a wealthy and generoushearted merchant of Richmond, Virginia, and by him afforded all the facilities for obtaining a liberal education.

In 1816, Poe accompanied his benefactor to England, and remained in London until his eleventh year, attending school. He then returned home, and after spending a short time at an academy in Richmond, entered the university at Charlottesville. Here he speedily became as notorious for intemperate habits as he was distinguished for proficiency in studies and athletic sports. For the former he was shortly expelled from the school.

This disgraceful event was followed, at no great interval, by a rupture with Mr. Allan, most probably because the latter's liberality refused to keep pace with his own prodigality; when he left home with the determination, like the illustrious Byron, of assisting the Greeks in their struggle for liberty.

His purpose, however—if indeed it was ever anything more than a momentary impulse-seems to have readily deserted him; for, although he spent a year in Europe, and traveled extensively, he did not so much as reach Greece.

On returning home, Mr. Allan magnanimously received him into former favor, and was instrumental in procuring him a cadetship at West Point. But in less than a year both his tastes and his dissolute habits demonstrated, beyond question, his utter unfitness for this school of stern discipline and practical life. Shortly after, he had a final disagreement with Mr. Allan, and thenceforth was com pelled to rely on his own resources.