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“My father's trade! by heaven, that's too bad !
My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad ?
My father, sir, did never stoop so low-
He was a gentleman, I'd have you know.”
“Excuse the liberty I take,”

Modestus said, with archness on his brow, “Pray, why did not your father make

A gentleman of you ?”

BILL AND JOE.--0. W. HOLMES.

NYOME, dear old comrade, you and I

Will steal an hour from days gone by-.
The shining days when life was new,
And all was bright is morning dew-
The lusty days of long ago,
When you were Bill and I was Joe.

Your name may flaunt a titled trail,
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail ;
And mine as brief appendix wear
As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare;
To-day, old friend, remember still
That I am Joe, and you are Bill.
You've won the great world's envied prize,
And grand you look in people's eyes,
With H O N. and LLD.,
In big brave letters, fair to see-
Your fist, old fellow! off they go!
How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe ?
You've worn the Judge's ermine robe;
You've taught your name to half the globe;

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The chaffing young folks stare, and say,
“ See those old buffers, bent and gray;
They talk like fellows in their teens !
Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means,"
And shake their heads: they little know
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe-

How Bill forgets his hour of pride,
While Joe sits smiling at his side ;
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise,
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes-
Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.

Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame ?
A fitful tongue of leaping flame;
A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust,
That lifts a pinch of mortal dust:
A few swift years, and who can show
Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe ?

The weary idol takes his stand,
Holds out his bruised and aching hand,
While gaping thousands come and go-
How vain it seeins, this empty show!
Till all at once his pulses thrill:
'Tis poor old Joe's “God bless you, Bill!”

And shall we breathe in happier spheres
The names that pleased our mortal ears,
In some sweet lull of harp and song,
For earth-born spirits none too long,
Just whispering of the world below,
Where this was Bill, and that was Joe ?

THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.

383

No matter; while our home is here,
No sounding name is half so dear;
When fades at length our lingering day,
Who cares what pompous tombstones say?
Read on the hearts that love us still,
Hic jacet Joe. Hic jacet Bill.

THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.

T AM a fay, and rest on a spray,
1. Or ride on a rocky cloud;
On the rainbow sit, in the moonbeam flit,

And sing in the thunder loud.
Sometimes I dwell in the nectar bell

Of the wild flowers in the lea,
And again I ride on the surging tide,

And hark to the chiming sea.
And oft I lie, and softly sigh,

In a shell by the wave-watched shore, And listen at noon to the quiet tune

That breaks from the fisherman's oar. .
Or swiftly I fleet in the diamond sleet,

Or flash in the blinding hail,
Or mantle my form in the white snow warm,

As I sweep on the winter gale.
At morn I rise, when the sun Heaven dyes

I drink his first beam in,
And often I dream by a silent stream,

Or list to a cataract’s din. :
I glance in the fount, and, enthroned on the mount,

My realms in the valleys behold;
Sometimes I stay till the waning day

Shall robe me in crimson and gold. By night I stray in some moonlit way,

To bathe in her clear cold light; On the lakes I float in a silver boat,

And am woo'd by the water-sprite.

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I ascend the stair of some star-beam rare

And far from the earth I climb,
Till, with ravished soul, I hear the roll

Of the mighty spheric chime.
In the graveyard too, when wet with dew,

I hover awhile o’er the tomb;
On the virgin's bed where my tears are shed

The sweetest of blossoms bloom.
In the house of prayer I still am there;

O’er the pure in spirit I bend,
And straight, like a dove, to the realm of love,

With the maiden's vow I wend;
To the heart of grief I bring relief,

With hope the fainting feed,
And sing a song of patience strong,

That is balm to the hearts that bleed.
There is no spot where I am not,

All the ways of men I have trod,
And the false and the true alike I woo,

To the bosom of their God.

THE BACHELOR'S DREAM.—IIood.
M Y pipe is lit, my grog is mixed,

M My curtains drawn, and all is snug;
Old puss is in her elbow-chair,
And Tray is sitting on the rug.
Last night I had a curious dreamı,--
Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg! -

What d'ye think of that, my cat ?

What d'ye think of that, my dog?
She looked so fair, she sang so well,
I could but woo, and she was won;
Myself in blue, the bride in white,
The ring was placed, the deed was done!
Away we went in chaise-and-four,
As fast as grinning boys could flog.

What d'ye think of that, my cat ?
What d’ye think of that, my dog ?

THE BACHELOR'S DREAM.

385

What loving tête-à-têtes to come!
But tête-à-têtes must still defer!
When Susan came to live with me,
Her mother came to live with her!
With sister Bell she couldn't part,
But all my friends had leave to jog !

What d'ye think of that, my cat?

What d’ye think of that, my dog?
The mother bought a Pretty Poll,
A monkey too,—what work' he made!
The sister introduced a beau,-
My Susan brought a favorite maid;
She had a tabby of her own,
A snappish mongrel christened Gog.

What d'ye think of that, my cat ?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?

The monkey bit,—the parrot screamed,--
All day the sister strummed and sung;
The petted maid was such a scold
My Susan learned to use her tongue;
Her mother had such wretched health,
She sat and croaked like any frog.

What d'ye think of that, my cat ?

What d'ye think of that, my dog ?
No longer Deary, Duck, and Love,
I soon came down to simple “M—;"
The very servants crossed my wish, .
My Susan let me down to them;
The poker hardly seemed my own,'
I might as well bave been a log.

What d'ye think of that, my cat ?
What d'ye think of that, my dog ?

At times we had a spar, and then.
Mamma must mingle in the song,
The sister took a sister's part,-
The maid declared her master wrong,

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