Where the gray colts and the ten-year-old fillies,

Saturday's triumph and joy?

Gone like our friend módas wxus Achilles,
Homer's ferocious old boy.

Die-away dreams of ecstatic emotion,
Hopes like young eagles at play,
Vows of unheard of and endless devotion,
How ye have faded away!

Yet, though the ebbing of Time's mighty river
Leave our young blossoms to die,

Let him roll smooth in his current for ever,
Till the last pebble is dry.

A SONG

FOR THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF HARVARD COLLEGE, 1836.

WHEN the Puritans came over,

Our hills and swamps to clear,
The woods were full of catamounts,
And Indians red as deer,
With tomahawks and scalping-knives,
That make folks' heads look queer;
O the ship from England used to bring
A hundred wigs a year!

The crows came cawing through the air
To pluck the pilgrims' corn,
The bears came snuffing round the door
Whene'er a babe was born,

The rattlesnakes were bigger round

Than the butt of the old ram's horn

The deacon blew at meeting time
every "Sabbath" morn.

On

But soon they knocked the wigwams down,

And pine-tree trunk and limb

Began to sprout among the leaves

In shape of steeples slim ;

And out the little wharves were stretcned

Along the ocean's rim,

And

up

the little schoolhouse shot

To keep the boys in trim.

And, when at length the College rose,

At

The sachem cocked his eye

every tutor's meagre ribs

Whose coat-tails whistled by;

But, when the Greek and Hebrew words

Came tumbling from their jaws,

The copper-colored children all

Kan screaming to the squaws.

And who was on the Catalogue
When college was begun ?

Two nephews of the President,

And the Professor's son, (They turned a little Indian by, As brown as any bun ;)

Lord! how the seniors knocked about

The freshman class of one!

They had not then the dainty things

That commons now afford,

But succotash and homony

Were smoking on the board; They did not rattle round in gigs, Or dash in long-tail blues,

But always on Commencement days The tutors blacked their shoes.

God bless the ancient Puritans!

Their lot was hard enough; But honest hearts make iron arms,

And tender maids are tough;

So love and faith have formed and fed Our true-born Yankee stuff,

And keep the kernel in the shell

The British found so rough!

TERPSICHORE.*

In narrowest girdle, O reluctant Muse,
In closest frock and Cinderella shoes,
Bound to the foot-lights for thy brief display,
One zephyr step, and then dissolve away!

SHORT is the space that gods and men can spare
To Song's twin brother when she is not there.
Let others water every lusty line,

As Homer's heroes did their purple wine;
Pierian revellers! Know in strains like these
The native juice, the real honest squeeze,
Strains that, diluted to the twentieth power,
In yon grave templet might have filled an hour.

*Read at the Annual Dinner of the . B. K. Society, at Cambridge, August 24, 1843.

+ The Annual Poem is always delivered in the neighbouring church.