you shill find it, you shill find it to read thus: "And he played on a harp uv a thousand strings-sperits of just men made perfeck."

My tex, breethering, leads me to speak uv sperits. Now thar's a great many kinds of sperits in the world-in the fust place, thar's the sperits as some folks call ghosts, then thar's the sperits uv terpentime, and then thar's the sperits as some folks call liquor, an' I'v got as good an artikel of them kind uv sperits on my flat-boat as ever was fotched down the Mississippi River, but thar's a great many other kind of sperits, for the tex sez: He played on a harp uv a thou-sand strings-sperits of just men made perfeck."

66

But I'll tell you the kind uv sperits as is ment in the tex, it's fire. That is the kind of sperits as is ment in the tex, my breethering. Now thar's a great many kinds of fire in the world. In the fust place, thar's the common sort uv fire you lite your segar or pipe with, and then thar's camfire, fire before you're reddy, and fall back, and many other kinds uv fire, for the tex sez: He played on a harp uv a thou-sand strings--sperits uv just men made perfeck."

But I'll tell you the kind uv fire as is ment in the tex, my breethering-it's hell fire! an' that's the kind uv fire as a great many uv you'll come to, ef you don't do better nor what you have been doin'-for "He played on a harp of a thousand strings-sperits uv just men made perfeck."

Now the different sorts uv fire in the world may be likened unto the different persuasions of Christians in the world. In the fust place we have the Piscapalions; and they are a high sailin' and a high-falutin set, and they may be likened unto a turkey buzzard that flies up into the air, and he goes up and up till he looks no bigger than your finger nail, and the fust thing you know, he cums down and down, and is a fillin' himself on the karkiss of a dead hoss by the side of the road-and "He played on a harp of a thou-sand strings-sperits of just men made perfeck."

And then thar's the Methedis, and they may be likened Into the squirrel, runnin' up into a tree, for the Methedist beHeves in gwine on from one degree of grace to another, and finally on to perfeckshun, and the squirrel goes up and up, and up and up,and he jumps from lim' to lim,' and branch to branch,

and the fust thing you know he falls, and down he comes kerflummux, and that's like the Methedis, for they is allers fallin' from grace, ah! And-"He played on a harp of a thou-sand strings-sperits of just men made perfeck."

And then, my breethering, thar's the Baptist, ah-and they hev bin likened unto a possum on a 'simmon tree, and the thunders may roll, and the earth may quake, but that possum clings there still, ah-and you may shake one foot loose, and the other's thar, and you may shake all feet loose, and he laps his tail around the lim', and he clings furever, for-" He played on a harp uv a thou-sand stringssperits of just men made perfeck."

ONCE MORE.-O. W. HOLMES.

CLASS OF '29.

Condiscipulis, Coataneis, Harvardianis, Amicis.

"Will I come?" That is pleasant! I beg to inquire
If the gun that I carry has ever missed fire?

And which was the muster-roll-mention but one-
That missed your old comrade who carries the gun?

You see me as always, my hand on the lock,
The cap on the nipple, the hammer full cock.
It is rusty, some tell me; I heed not the scoff;
It is battered and bruised, but it always goes off!

-"Is it loaded?" I'll bet you! what doesn't it hold?
Rammed full to the muzzle with memories untold;
Why, it scares me to fire, lest the pieces should fly
Like the cannons that burst on the Fourth of July!

One charge is a remnant of College-day dreams
(Its wadding is made of forensics and themes);
Ah, visions of fame! what a flash in the pan

As the trigger was pulled by each clever young man!

And Love! bless my stars, what a cartridge is there!
With a wadding of rose-leaves and ribbons and hair,-
All crammed in one verse to go off at a shot!

-Were there ever such sweethearts? Of course there were not!

And next,-what a load! it will split the old gun,-
Three fingers,-four fingers,-five fingers of fun!
Come tell me, gray sages, for mischief and noise
Was there ever a lot like us fellows, The Boys?

goes,

Bump! bump! down the staircase the cannon-ball
Aha, Old Professor! Look out for your toes!
Don't think, my poor Tutor, to sleep in your bed,—
Two "Boys"-twenty-niners-room over your head!
Remember the nights when the tar-barrel blazed!
From red" Massachusetts" the war-cry was raised;
And "Hollis" and "Stoughton" re-echoed the call,
Till P poked his head out of Holworthy Hall!
Old P, as we called him,-at fifty or so,—
Not exactly a bud, but not quite in full blow;
In ripening manhood, suppose we should say,
Just hearing his prime, as we boys are to-day!
Oh, say, can you look through the vista of age
To the time when old Morse drove the regular stage?
When Lyon told tales of the long-vanished years,
And Lenox crept round with the rings in his ears?
And dost thou, my brother, remember indeed
The days of our dealings with Willard and Read?
When Dolly" was kicking and running away,
And punch came up smoking on Fillebrown's tray?
But where are the Tutors, my brother, Oh, tell!—
And where the Professors, remembered so well?
The sturdy old Grecian of Holworthy Hall,
And Latin and Logic and Hebrew and all?

"They are dead, the old fellows" (we called them so then,
Though we since have found out they were lusty young men).
-They are dead, do you tell me?-but how do
you know?
You've filled once too often. I doubt if it's so.

I'm thinking. I'm thinking. Is this 'sixty-eight?
It's not quite so clear. It admits of debate.
I may have been dreaming. I rather incline
To think-yes, I'm certain-it is 'twenty-nine!

"By George!" as friend Sales is accustomed to cry,-
You tell me they're dead, but I know it's a lie!

Is Jackson not President?- -What was 't you said?
It can't be; you're joking; what,-all of 'em dead?
Jim,-Harry,-Fred-Isaac,-all gone from our side?—
They couldn't have left us,-no, not if they tried.

-Look, there's our old Præses,-he can't find his text;
-See-P— rubs his leg, as he growls out," The Next!"

I told you 'twas nonsense. Joe, give us a song!

Go harness up " Dolly," and fetch her along!

Dead! Dead! You false graybeard, I swear they are not!
Hurrah for Old Hickory!Oh, I forgot!

Well, one we have with us (how could he contrive
To deal with us youngsters and still to survive?)
Who wore for our guidance authority's robe,-
No wonder he took to the study of Job!

-And now as my load was uncommonly large,
Let me taper it off with a classical charge;
When that has gone off, I shall drop my old gun,
And then stand at ease, for my service is done.
Bibamus ad Classem vocatam "The Boys"

Et eorum Tutorem cui nomen est “Noyes;"
Et fioreant, valeant, vigeant tam,

Non Peircius ipse enumeret quam !

THE DEATH OF MOSES.*-JESSIE G. M'CARTEE.

Led by his God, on Pisgah's height,
The pilgrim-prophet stood--

When first fair Canaan blessed his sight,

And Jordan's crystal flood.

Behind him lay the desert ground

His weary feet had trod;"

While Israel's host encamped around,

Still guarded by their God.

With joy the agéd Moses smiled
On all his wanderings past,

While thus he poured his accents mild
Upon the mountain-blast:

"I see them all before me now

The city and the plain,

From where bright Jordan's waters flow,

To yonder boundless main.

"Oh! there the lovely promised land

With milk and honey flows;

Now, now my weary murmuring band

Shall find their sweet repose.

*This poem will form a worthy prelude to Mrs. C. F. Alexander's "Burial of Moses." See No. 3, page 94.

"There groves of palm and myrtle spread O'er valleys fair and wide;

The lofty cedar rears its head

On every mountain-side.

"For them the rose of Sharon flings

Her fragrance on the gale;

And there the golden lily springs,-
The lily of the vale.

"Amid the olive's fruitful boughs

Is heard the song of love,

For there doth build and breathe her vows The gentle turtle-dove.

"For them shall bloom the clustering vine, The fig tree shed her flowers,

The citron's golden treasures shine
From out her greenest bowers.

"For them, for them, but not for me-
Their fruits I may not eat;

Not Jordan's stream, nor yon bright sea,
Shall lave my pilgrim feet.

"Tis well, 'tis well, my task is done,
Since Israel's sons are blest:
Father, receive thy dying one
To thine eternal rest!

Alone he bade the world farewell,

To God his spirit fled.

Now, to your tents, O Israel,

And mourn your prophet dead!

TEMPERANCE.-1776-1876.*

Our sires were rocked in Faneuil Hall,
The famous cradle of the free;
And shall we hear our brothers call
For help, and never heed the plea?
We heap the granite to the skies,
Over the graves on Bunker's hill;
But if the heroes there could rise,
While Rum is king, would they be still?

They would again renew their vows
To wipe away a nation's stain;

*G. w. BUNGAY.