Than in a given face However in she went Leaving the subject of her discontent To Mr. Jones's clerk at Number Ten; Who throwing up the sash, With accents rash, Thus hailed the most vociferous of men: "Come, come, I say, old fellow, stop your chant; I cannot write a sentence no one can't! So pack up your trumps, - Says he, "I shan't!" Down went the sash, As if devoted to "eternal smash." (Another illustration Of acted imprecation,) While close at hand, uncomfortably near, The thing was hard to stand! The music-master could not stand it, But rushing forth with fiddle-stick in hand, You have no business in a place so still! Your voice is strong enough to break some stones" "I say you ought to labor! You are in a young case, You have not sixty years upon your face, To come and beg your neighbor And discompose his music with a noise No coach, no horses, no postillion: Says he, "I must! I'm singing for the million!" T. Hood. CCCLVIII. ODE TO MY BOY, AGED THREE YEARS. HOU happy, happy elf! THOU (But stop, first let me kiss 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 (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin !) Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestruck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair !) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In love's dear chain, so strong and bright a link, Thou cherub, but of earth; Fit play-fellow for fays, by moonlight pale, (That dog will bite him if he pulls his tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey (He'll break the mirror with that skipping rope!) With pure heart, newly stampt from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are those 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, With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) I cannot write unless he's sent above.) CCCLIX. THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS. I WROTE some lines, once on a time In wondrous merry mood, And thought, as usual, men would say They were so queer, so very queer, Albeit in the general way, I called my servant, and he came ; "These to the printer," I exclaimed, And, in my humorous way, I added (as a trifling jest), "There'll be the devil to pay." He took the paper, and I watched, T. Hood. At the first line he read, his face He read the next; the grin grew broad, He read the third; a chuckling noise The fourth; he broke into a roar; Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, And since, I never dare to write As funny as I can. CCCLX. THE SEPTEMBER GALE. I'M not a chicken; I have seen And I, my kite pursuing, The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat ; It came as quarrels sometimes do, Before the fire was flashing,- Before they rent asunder, A little rocking of the trees, And then came on the thunder. O. W. Holmes. |