We've learned that oft the brownest hands will heap the biggest pile,

And met with many a "perfect brick" beneath a rimless "tile."

What dreams we've had of deathless name, as. scholars, statesmen, bards,

While Fame, the lady with the trump, held up her picture cards!

Till, having nearly played our game, she gayly whispered, "Ah!

I said you should be something grand, you 'll soon be grandpapa."

Well, well, the old have had their day, the young must take their turn;

There's something always to forget, and something still to learn ;

But how to tell what's old or young, the tap-root. from the sprigs,

Since Florida revealed her fount to Ponce de Leon Twiggs?

The wisest was a Freshman once, just freed from bar and bolt,

As noisy as a kettle-drum, as leggy as a colt; Don't be too savage with the boys,- the Primer does not say

The kitten ought to go to church because "the cat doth prey."

The law of merit and of age is not the rule of

three;

Non constat that A. M. must prove as busy as

A. B.

When Wise the father tracked the son, ballooning through the skies,

He taught a lesson to the old, go thou and do like Wise!

Now then, old boys, and reverend youth, of high or low degree,

Remember how we only get one annual out of three,

And such as dare to simmer down three dinners into one

Must cut their salads mighty short, and pepper well with fun.

I've passed my zenith long ago, it's time for me to set;

A dozen planets wait to shine, and I am lingering

yet,

As sometimes in the blaze of day a milk-and-watery

moon

Stains with its dim and fading ray the lustrous blue of noon.

Farewell! yet let one echo rise to shake our ancient

hall;

God save the Queen, - whose throne is here, - the

Mother of us all!

Till dawns the great commencement-day on every shore and sea,

And "Expectantur" all mankind, to take their last Degree!

THE PARTING SONG.

FESTIVAL OF THE ALUMNI, 1857.

HE noon of summer sheds its ray
On Harvard's holy ground;
The Matron calls, the sons obey,
And gather smiling round.

CHORUS.

- Then old and young together stand,
The sunshine and the snow,

As heart to heart, and hand in hand,
We sing before we go!

Her hundred opening doors have swung;
Through every storied hall

The pealing echoes loud have rung,
"Thrice welcome one and all!"
Then old and young, etc.

We floated through her peaceful bay,
To sail life's stormy seas;
But left our anchor where it lay
Beneath her green old trees.
Then old and young, etc.

As now we lift its lengthening chain,
That held us fast of old,

The rusted rings grow bright again,

Their iron turns to gold.

Then old and young, etc.

Though scattered ere the setting sun,

As leaves when wild winds blow,
Our home is here, our hearts are one,
Till Charles forgets to flow.
Then old and young, etc.

BOSTON COMMON. THREE PICTURES.

FOR THE FAIR IN AID OF THE FUND TO PROCURE BALL'S STATUE OF WASHINGTON.

1630.

LL overgrown with bush and fern,

And straggling clumps of tangled trees, With trunks that lean and boughs that turn,

Bent eastward by the mastering breeze,

With spongy bogs that drip and fill

A yellow pond with muddy rain,
Beneath the shaggy southern hill

Lies wet and low the Shawmut plain.
And hark! the trodden branches crack;
A crow flaps off with startled scream;
A straying woodchuck canters back;
A bittern rises from the stream;
Leaps from his lair a frightened deer;
An otter plunges in the pool;
Here comes old Shawmut's pioneer,
The parson on his brindled bull!

1774.

THE streets are thronged with trampling feet,
The northern hill is ridged with graves,
But night and morn the drum is beat

To frighten down the "rebel knaves."
The stones of King Street still are red,
And yet the bloody red-coats come :
I hear their pacing sentry's tread,

The click of steel, the tap of drum,
And over all the open green,

Where grazed of late the harmless kine, The cannon's deepening ruts are seen,

The war-horse stamps, the bayonets shine. The clouds are dark with crimson rain Above the murderous hirelings' den,

And soon their whistling showers shall stain The pipe-clayed belts of Gage's men.

186.....

AROUND the green, in morning light,
The spired and palaced summits blaze,
And, sunlike, from her Beacon-height

The dome-crowned city spreads her rays; They span the waves, they belt the plains, They skirt the roads with bands of white, Till with a flash of gilded panes

Yon farthest hill-side bounds the sight. Peace, Freedom, Wealth! no fairer view, Though with the wild-bird's restless wings We sailed beneath the noontide's blue

Or chased the moonlight's endless rings !