Through a letter of recommendation that's sign'd By a dozen respectable men.

You have merely to put a friend out of the way,

Or abstract the contents of his till,

To make yourself heartily welcome, they say,

At the House on the Top of a Hill.

There is lodging and board for the destitute poor,
With a diet nutritious though cheap ;

And at evening they kindly make sure of your door,
Just in case you should walk in your sleep.
There's a medical man to attend on the guests,
And a chaplain who strives to instil

The most laudable sentiments into their breasts

At the House on the Top of a Hill.

Ev'ry guest has a private apartment ;-in fact,

It's a kind of luxurious hotel,

Where a man who commits any praiseworthy act
Can be treated remarkably well.

Nay; it's better than many hotels you can find,
For they never present any bill;

But they patch you up gratis in body and mind
At the House on the Top of a Hill.

MEN I DISLIKE.

F all the bores whom now and then

OF

Society permits

To speak to literary men,

And mix among the wits,

The worst are those that will devote
Their little minds to anecdote.

I often listen (more or less)
To muffs of many kinds-
Including people who possess
Encyclopædic minds:

But oh! the biggest muff afloat

Is he who takes to anecdote.

I like the man who makes a pun,

Or drops a deep remark; I like philosophy or fun

A lecture or a lark;

But I despise the men who gloat

Inanely over anecdote.

I quake when some one recollects
A "little thing” he heard,
And, while he tells the tale, expects
A grin at every word.

Can any one on earth promote

Good fellowship through anecdote ?

Ah me! I'd rather live alone

Upon a desert isle,

Without a voice except my own

To cheer me all the while,

Than dwell with men who learn by rote

Their paltry funds of anecdote !

NOT QUITE FAIR.

UMMER and spring the lovely rose,
Unconscious of its beauty, blows-
Condemn'd, in summer and in spring,
To feel no pride at blossoming.

The hills, the meadows, and the lakes,
Enchant not for their own sweet sakes:
They cannot know, they cannot care
To know, that they are thought so fair.

The rainbow, sunset, cloud, and star,
Dream not how exquisite they are.
All dainty things of earth and sky
Delight us-but they know not why.

But I-a poet-who possess
The power of loving loveliness,
May ask, (and I may ask in vain,)
"Why am I so intensely plain?"

WISDOM AND WATER.

IELDS are green in the early light,

FIEL

When Morning treads on the skirts of Night:

Fields are gray when the sun's gone west,
Like a clerk from the City in search of rest.
"Flesh," they tell us, “is only grass ;"
And that is the reason it comes to pass
That mortals change in a life's long day

From the young and green to the old and gray.

Not long since-as it seems to me

I was as youthful as youth could be:
Cramming my noddle, as young folks do,
With a thousand things more nice than true.