The dyer dyes a while, then dies-
To dye he's always trying;
Until upon his dying bed

He thinks no more of dyeing.

A son of Mars mars many a son, And Deys must have their days;

Thou young domestic dove !

And every knight should pray each night To Him who weighs his ways.

'Tis meet that man should mete out meat To feed one's future son;

The fare should fare on love alone,

Else one cannot be won.

The springs shoot forth each spring, and shoots
Shoot forward one and all;

Though summer kills the flowers, it leaves
The leaves to fall in fall.

I would a story here commence,

But you might think it stale;

So we'll suppose that we have reached

The tail end of our tale.

TO MY INFANT SON

HOU 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; (My dear, the child is swallowing a pin !)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that rings 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!

In love's dear chain so bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents; (Drat the boy!
There goes my ink.)

Thou cherub, but of earth;

Fit playfellow for fairies 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'll break that mirror with that skipping rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint ?)

(He'll have that ring off with another shove,) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!

(Are these 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!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove; (I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write unless he's sent above.)

THOMAS HOOD.

THE PUZZLED DUTCHMAN.

''M a broken-hearted Deutscher,
Vot's villed mit crief und shame,
I dells you vot der drouple ish :
I doosn't know my name.

You dinks dis fery vunny, eh?
Ven you der schtory hear,
You vill not vonder den so mooch,
It vas so schtrange und queer.

Mine moder had dwo leedle twins;
Dey vas me und mine broder :
Ve lookt so fery mooch alike,
No von knew vich vrom toder.

Von off der poys vas "Yawcob,"
Und "Hans" der oder's name:
But den it made no tifferent:
Ve both got called der same.
Vell! von off us got tead-
Yaw, Mynheer, dot ish so!
But vedder Hans or Yawcob,
Mine moder she don'd know.

Und so I am in drouples:
I gan't kit droo mine hed
Vedder I'm Hans vot's lifing,
Or Yawcob vot is tead!

CHARLES F. Adams,

Waves gray
Where play

Winds gay-
All asleep.
Hark a sound,
Far and slight,
Breathes around
On the night-

High and higher,
Nigh and nigher,
Like a fire
Roaring bright.
Now on it is sweeping
With rattling beat

Like dwarf imp leaping
In gallop fleet;
He flies, he prances,
In frolic fancies-

On wave crest dances
With pattering feet.

Hark, the rising swell,
With each nearer burst!

Like the toll of bell

Of a convent cursed;

Like the billowy roar

On a storm-lashed shore-
Now hushed, now once more
Maddening to its worst,
Oh God! the deadly sound
Of the djinns' fearful cry!

Quick, 'neath the spiral round
Of the deep staircase, fly!
See, our lamplight fade!
And of the balustrade

Mounts, mounts the circling shade
Up to the ceiling high !

'Tis the djinns' wild streaming swarm
Whistling in their tempest flight;
Snap the tall yews 'neath the storm,
Like a pine-flame crackling bright;
Swift and heavy, low, their crowd
Through the heavens rushing loud!-
Like a lurid thunder cloud
With its hold of fiery night!
Ha! they are on us, close without!
Shut tight the shelter where we lie!
With hideous din the monster rout,
Dragon and vampire, fill the sky!
The loosened rafter overhead

Trembles and bends like quivering reed;

Shakes the old door with shuddering dread,
As from its rusty hinge 'twould fly!
Oh prophet! if thy hand but now
Save from these foul and hellish things,
A pilgrim at thy shrine I'll bow,
Laden with pious offerings.
Bid their hot breath its fiery rain
Stream on my faithful door in vain,
Vainly upon my blackened pane

Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings!
They have passed!-and their wild legion
Cease to thunder at my door;

Fleeting through night's rayless region,
Hither they return no more.
Clanking chains and sounds of woe
Fill the forests as they go;
And the tall oaks cower low,
Bent their flaming flight before.
On! on! the storm of wings
Bears far the fiery fear,
Till scarce the breeze now brings
Dim murmurings to the ear;
Like locusts humming hail,

Or thrash of tiny flail
Plied by the pattering hail

On some old roof-tree near.
Fainter now are borne
Fitful murmurings still
As, when Arab horn
Swells its magic peal,
Shoreward o'er the deep
Fairy voices sweep,
And the infant's sleep
Golden visions fill.

Each deadly djinn,
Dark child of fright,
Of death and sin,
Speeds the wild flight,
Hark, the dull moan!
Like the deep tone
Of ocean's groan,
Afar by night!

More and more
Fades it now,
As on shore
Ripples flow-
As the plaint,
Far and faint,
Of a saint,
Murmured low.
Hark! hist!

Around

I list!

The bounds

Of space
All trace

Efface

Of sound.

VICTOR HUGO.

THE IRISH ECLIPSE.

N Watherford, wanst, lived Profissor MacShane, The foinest asthronomer iver was sane;

For long before noight, wid the scoience he knew,

Wheriver wan shtar was, sure he could see two

Quoite plain,

Could Profissor MacShane.

More power to him! iv'ry claare noight as would pass,

He'd sit by the windy, a-showing his glass;

A poke at the dipper, that plaised him the laist,
But a punch in the milky way suited his taste-
Small blame

To his sowl for that same!

Now wan toime in Watherford, not long ago,
They had what the loike was not haard of, I know,
Since Erin was undher ould Brian Borrhoime:
The sun was ayclipsed for three days at wan toime!
It's thrue

Her fine husband has white fingers,

Mine has not:

He could give his bride a palace,

Mine a cot;

Her's comes beneath the star-light,

Ne'er cares she:

Mine comes in the purple twilight,
Kisses me.

And prays that He who turns life's sands
Will hold his loved ones in His hands.

Mrs. Lofty has her jewels,

So have I ;
She wears hers upon her bosom,
Inside I;

She will leave her's at death's portals,
By and by:

I shall bear the treasure with me,
When I die;

For I have love, and she has gold;
She counts her wealth, mine can't be told.
She has those that love her station,

None have I;

But I've one true heart beside me,

Glad am I ;

I'd not change it for a kingdom,

No, not I;

God will weigh it in his balance,

By and by;

And then the difference 't will define 'Twixt Mrs. Lofty's wealth and mine.

THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE STRANGER.

N Broad street buildings (on a winter night), Snug by his parlor fire, a gouty wight Sat all alone, with one hand rubbing His feet rolled up in fleecy hose, With t'other he'd beneath his nose The "Public Ledger," in whose columns grubbing, He noted all the sales of hops,

Ships, shops, and slops;

Gum, galls, and groceries; ginger, gin,

Tar, tallow, tumeric, turpentine, and tin ;
When lo! a decent personage in black,

Entered and most politely said—

"Your footman, sir, has gone his nightly track To the King's Head,

And left your door ajar, which I

Observed in passing by ;

And thought it neighborly to give you notice." "Ten thousand thanks !" the gouty man replied; "You see, good sir, how to my chair I'm tied ;Ten thousand thanks how very few do get, In time of danger,

Such kind attention from a stranger!

Assuredly, that fellow's throat is

Doomed to a final drop at Newgate;

He knows, too, (the unconscionable elf),
That there's no soul at home except myself."
"Indeed," replied the stranger, (looking grave,)
"Then he's a double knave:

He knows that rogues and thieves by scores
Nightly beset unguarded doors;

And see, how easily might one

Of these domestic foes,

Even beneath your very nose, Perform his knavish tricks!

Enter your room as I have done,

Blow out your candles-thus-and thus-
Pocket your silver candlesticks:

And-walk off-thus"—

So said, so done; he made no more remark,
Nor waited for replies,

But marched off with his prize,
Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark.

HORACE SMITH.

BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT.

T was six men of Indostan

To learning much inclined,

Who went to see the elephant

(Though all of them were blind,)
That each by observation
Might satisfy his mind.

The First approached the elephant,
And, happening to fail
Against his broad and sturdy side,
At once began to bawl:

"God bless me! but the elephant
Is very like a wall!"

The Second, feeling of the tusk,

Cried: "Ho! what have we here
So very round and smooth and sharp?
To me 'tis mighty clear

This wonder of an elephant
Is very like a spear!"

The Third approached the animal,
And, happening to take

The squirming trunk within his hands,
Thus boldly up and spake :

"I see," quoth he, "the elephant
Is very like a snake!"

The Fourth reached out his eager hand, And felt about the knee, "What most this wondrous beast is like Is mighty plain," quoth he; "Tis clear enough the elephant Is very like a tree!"

The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear,
Said: "E'en the blindest man

Can tell what this resembles most;

Deny the fact who can, This marvel of an elephant

Is very like a fan!"

The Sixth no sooner had begun
About the beast to grope,
Than, seizing on the swinging tail
That fell within his scope,
"I see," quoth he, "the elephant
Is very like a rope!"

And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion

Exceeding stiff and strong, Though each was partly in the right And all were in the wrong!

MORAL.

So, oft in theologic wars
The disputants, I ween,
Rail on in utter ignorance

Of what each other mean, And prate about an elephant Not one of them has seen!

JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

THE HOUSEKEEPER'S SOLILOQUY.

'ERE'S a big washing to be done—
One pair of hands to do it-
Sheets, shirts and stockings, coats and pants,
How will I e'er get through it?
Dinner to get for six or more,
No loaf left o'er from Sunday;
And baby cross as he can live-
He's always so on Monday.

'Tis time the meat was in the pot,

The bread was worked for baking,
The clothes were taken from the boil-
Oh dear! the baby's waking!

Hush, baby dear! there, hush-sh-sh!
I wish h'd sleep a little,

Till I could run and get some wood,
To hurry up the kettle.

Oh dear! oh dear! if P- comes home,
And finds things in this pother,
He'll just begin and tell me all
About his tidy mother!

How nice her kitchen used to be,
Her dinner always ready
Exactly when the noon-bell rang-
Hush, hush, dear little Freddy!
And then will come some hasty words,
Right out before I'm thinking—