Thy mouth-that fissure in thy face
By something like a chin,—

May be a very useful place
To put thy victual in.

I know thou hast a wife at home,
I know thou hast a child,
By that subdued, domestic smile
Upon thy features mild.

That wife sits fearless by thy side,
That cherub on thy knee;
They do not shudder at thy looks,
They do not shrink from thee.

Above thy mantel is a hook,—
A portrait once was there;
It was thine only ornament,-
Alas! that hook is bare.

She begged thee not to let it go,
She begged thee all in vain:

She wept,—and breathed a trembling prayer
To meet it safe again.

It was a bitter sight to see

That picture torn away;

It was a solemn thought to think
What all her friends would say !

And often in her calmer hours,
And in her happy dreams,

Upon its long-deserted hook

The absent portrait seems.

Thy wretched infant turns his head
In melancholy wise,

And looks to meet the placid stare
Of those unbending eyes.

I never saw thee, lovely one,—
Perchance I never may;

It is not often that we cross
Such people in our way;

But if we meet in distant years,
Or on some foreign shore,
Sure I can take my Bible oath
I've seen that face before.

MY AUNT.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt!

Long years have o'er her flown;
Yet still she strains the aching clasp
That binds her virgin zone;

I know it hurts her-though she looks
As cheerful as she can;

Her waist is ampler than her life,
For life is but a span.

My aunt! my poor deluded aunt!
Her hair is almost gray;
Why will she train that winter curl
In such a spring-like way?
How can she lay her glasses down,
And say she reads as well,
When, through a double convex lens,
She just makes out to spell?

Her father-grandpapa! forgive

This erring lip its smiles -
Vowed she should make the finest girl
Within a hundred miles;

He sent her to a stylish school;

'T was in her thirteenth June;

And with her, as the rules required,
Two towels and a spoon."

They braced my aunt against a board,
To make her straight and tall;

They laced her up, they starved her down,
To make her light and small.

They pinched her feet, they singed her hair,
They screwed it up with pins;-

O never mortal suffered more

In penance for her sins.

So, when my precious aunt was done,
My grandsire brought her back;
(By daylight, lest some rabid youth
Might follow on the track;)
"Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook
Some powder in his pan,
"What could this lovely creature do
Against a desperate man!"

Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche,
Nor bandit cavalcade,

Tore from the trembling father's arms
His all-accomplished maid.

For her how happy had it been!
And heaven had spared to me

To see one sad, ungathered rose
On my ancestral tree.

COMIC MISERIES.

JOHN G. SAXE.

My dear young friend, whose shining wit

Sets all the room a-blaze,

Don't think yourself a "happy dog,"

For all your merry ways;

But learn to wear a sober phiz,

Be stupid, if you can,

It's such a very serious thing

To be a funny man!

You're at an evening party, with
A group of pleasant folks,-
You venture quietly to crack
The least of little jokes,-
A lady does n't catch the point,
And begs you to explain—
Alas for one that drops a jest
And takes it up again!

You're talking deep philosophy

With very special force,

To edify a clergyman.

With suitable discourse,

You think you 've got him-when he calls

A friend across the way,

And begs you'll say that funny thing

You said the other day!

You drop a pretty jeu-de-mot
Into a neighbor's ears,

Who likes to give you credit for

The clever thing he hears,
And so he hawks your jest about,

The old authentic one,

Just breaking off the point of it,
And leaving out the pun!

By sudden change in politics,
Or sadder change in Polly,
You, lose your love, or loaves, and fall
A prey to melancholy,

While every body marvels why

Your mirth is under ban,—

They think your very grief "a joke,”
You're such a funny man!

You follow up a stylish card

That bids you come and dine,

And bring along your freshest wit (To pay for musty wine),

You're looking very dismal, when
My lady bounces in,

And wonders what you 're thinking of,
And why you don't begin!

You're telling to a knot of friends

A fancy-tale of woes

That cloud your matrimonial sky,

And banish all repose

A solemn lady overhears

The story of your strife,

And tells the town the pleasant news:
You quarrel with your wife!

My dear young friend, whose shining wit
Sets all the room a-blaze,
Don't think yourself "a happy dog,"

For all your merry ways;
But learn to wear a sober phiz,

Be stupid, if you can,

It's such a very serious thing
To be a funny man!

IDÉES NAPOLÉONIENNES.

WILLIAM AYTOUN.

The impossibility of translating this now well-known expression (imperfectly rendered in a companion-work, "Ideas of Napoleonism'), will excuse the title and burden of the present ballad being left in the original French.-TRANS

LATOR.

COME, listen all who wish to learn

How nations should be ruled,

From one who from his youth has been
In such-like matters school'd;

From one who knows the art to please,

Improve and govern men—

Eh bien ! Ecoutez, aux Idées,
Napoléoniennes !

To keep the mind intently fixed

On number One alone