HUMOROUS POEMS.

SIEGE OF BELGRADE.

An Austrian army, awfully arrayed, Boldly by battery besieged Belgrade. Cossack commanders cannonading come, Dealing destruction's devastating doom. Every endeavor engineers essay, For fame, for fortune fighting,—furious fray! Generals 'gainst generals grapple—gracious God! How honors Heaven heroic hardihood! Infuriate, indiscriminate in ill, Kindred kill kinsmen, kinsmen kindred kill. Labor low levels longest loftiest lines; Men march mid mounds, mid moles, mid murderous mines; Now noxious, noisy numbers nothing, naught Of outward obstacles, opposing ought; Poor patriots, partly purchased, partly pressed, Quite quaking, quickly "Quarter! Quarter!" quest. Reason returns, religious right redounds, Suwarrow stops such sanguinary sounds. Truce to thee, Turkey! Triumph to thy train, Unwise, unjust, unmerciful Ukraine! Vanish, vain victory! vanish, victory vain! Why wish we warfare? Wherefore welcome were Xerxes, Ximenes, Xanthus, Xavier? Yield, yield, ye youths! ye yeomen, yield your yell! Zeus's, Zarpater's, Zoroaster's zeal, Attracting all, arms against acts appeal!

ANONYMOUS.

METRICAL FEET.

Trochee trips from long to short; From long to long in solemn sort Slow Spondee stalks; strong foot! yet ill able Ever to come up with dactyl trisyllable. Iambics march from short to long;— With a leap and a bound the swift Anapæsts throng; One syllable long, with one short at each side, Amphibrachys hastes with a stately stride;— First and last being long, middle short, Amphimacer Strikes his thundering hoofs like a proud high-bred racer.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

NOCTURNAL SKETCH. BLANK VERSE IN RHYME.

Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark, The signal of the setting sun—one gun! And six is sounding from the chime, prime time To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,— Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,— Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade, Denying to his frantic clutch much touch; Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride Four horses as no other man can span; Or in the small Olympic pit sit split Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.

Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung; The gas upblazes with its bright white light, And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl About the streets, and take up Pall-Mall Sal, Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.

Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash, Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep, But, frightened by Policeman B. 3, flee, And while they're going, whisper low, "No go!"

Now puss, when folks are in their beds, treads leads, And sleepers, waking, grumble, "Drat that cat!" Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.

Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;— But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed, Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games, And that she hears—what faith is man's!—Ann's banns And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice; White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out, That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes!

THOMAS HOOD.

RAILROAD RHYME.

Singing through the forests, Rattling over ridges; Shooting under arches, Rumbling over bridges; Whizzing through the mountains, Buzzing o'er the vale,— Bless me! this is pleasant, Riding on the rail!

Men of different "stations" In the eye of fame, Here are very quickly Coming to the same; High and lowly people, Birds of every feather, On a common level, Travelling together.

Gentleman in shorts, Looming very tall; Gentleman at large Talking very small; Gentleman in tights, With a loose-ish mien; Gentleman in gray, Looking rather green;

Gentleman quite old, Asking for the news, Gentleman in black, In a fit of blues; Gentleman in claret, Sober as a vicar; Gentleman in tweed, Dreadfully in liquor!

Stranger on the right Looking very sunny, Obviously reading Something rather funny. Now the smiles are thicker,— Wonder what they mean! Faith, he's got the Knicker- Bocker Magazine!

Stranger on the left Closing up his peepers; Now he snores amain, Like the Seven Sleepers; At his feet a volume Gives the explanation, How the man grew stupid From "Association"!

Ancient maiden lady Anxiously remarks, That there must be peril 'Mong so many sparks; Roguish-looking fellow, Turning to the stranger, Says it's his opinion She is out of danger!

Woman with her baby, Sitting vis-à-vis; Baby keeps a-squalling, Woman looks at me; Asks about the distance, Says it 's tiresome talking, Noises of the cars Are so very shocking!

Market-woman, careful Of the precious casket, Knowing eggs are eggs, Tightly holds her basket; Feeling that a smash, If it came, would surely Send her eggs to pot, Rather prematurely. Singing through the forests, Rattling over ridges; Shooting under arches, Rumbling over bridges; Whizzing through the mountains, Buzzing o'er the vale,— Bless me! this is pleasant, Riding on the rail!

JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

PHYSICS. (THE UNCONSCIOUS POETIZING OF A PHILOSOPHER.)

There is no force however great Can stretch a cord however fine Into a horizontal line That shall be accurately straight.

WILLIAM WHEWELL.

THE COLLEGIAN TO HIS BRIDE: BEING A MATHEMATICAL MADRIGAL IN THE SIMPLEST FORM.

Charmer, on a given straight line, And which we will call B C, Meeting at a common point A, Draw the lines A C, A B. But, my sweetest, so arrange it That they're equal, all the three; Then you'll find that, in the sequel, All their angles, too are equal. Equal angles, so to term them, Each one opposite its brother! Equal joys and equal sorrows, Equal hopes, 'twere sin to smother, Equal,—O, divine ecstatics,— Based on Hutton's mathematics!

PUNCH.

THE LAWYER'S INVOCATION TO SPRING

Whereas, on certain boughs and sprays Now divers birds are heard to sing, And sundry flowers their heads upraise, Hail to the coming on of spring!

The songs of those said birds arouse The memory of our youthful hours, As green as those said sprays and boughs, As fresh and sweet as those said flowers.

The birds aforesaid,—happy pairs,— Love, mid the aforesaid boughs, inshrines In freehold nests; themselves, their heirs, Administrators, and assigns.

O busiest term of Cupid's Court, Where tender plaintiffs actions bring,— Season of frolic and of sport, Hail, as aforesaid, coming spring!

HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

THE COSMIC EGG.

Upon a rock yet uncreate, Amid a chaos inchoate, An uncreated being sate; Beneath him, rock, Above him, cloud. And the cloud was rock, And the rock was cloud. The rock then growing soft and warm, The cloud began to take a form, A form chaotic, vast, and vague, Which issued in the cosmic egg. Then the Being uncreate On the egg did incubate, And thus became the incubator; And of the egg did allegate, And thus became the alligator; And the incubator was potentate, But the alligator was potentator.

ANONYMOUS.

THE HEN.

A famous hen's my story's theme, Which ne'er was known to tire Of laying eggs, but then she'd scream So loud o'er every egg, 't would seem The house must be on fire. A turkey-cock, who ruled the walk, A wiser bird and older, Could bear 't no more, so off did stalk Right to the hen, and told her: "Madam, that scream, I apprehend, Adds nothing to the matter; It surely helps the egg no whit; Then lay your egg, and done with it! I pray you, madam, as a friend, Cease that superfluous clatter! You know not how 't goes through my head." "Humph! very likely!" madam said, Then proudly putting forth a leg,— "Uneducated barnyard fowl! You know, no more than any owl, The noble privilege and praise Of authorship in modern days— I'll tell you why I do it: First, you perceive, I lay the egg, And then—review it."

From the German of MATTHAIAS CLAUDIUS.

ODE—TO THE ROC.

O unhatched Bird, so high preferred, As porter of the Pole, Of beakless things, who have no wings, Exact no heavy toll. If this my song its theme should wrong, The theme itself is sweet; Let others rhyme the unborn time, I sing the Obsolete.

And first, I praise the nobler traits Of birds preceding Noah, The giant clan, whose meat was Man, Dinornis, Apteryx, Moa. These, by hints we get from prints Of feathers and of feet, Excelled in wits the later tits, And so are obsolete.

I sing each race whom we displace In their primeval woods, While Gospel Aid inspires Free-Trade To traffic with their goods. With Norman Dukes the still Sioux In breeding might compete; But where men talk the tomahawk Will soon grow obsolete.

I celebrate each perished State; Great cities ploughed to loam; Chaldæan kings; the Bulls with wings; Dead Greece, and dying Rome. The Druids' shrine may shelter swine, Or stack the farmer's peat; 'Tis thus mean moths treat finest cloths, Mean men the obsolete.

Shall nought be said of theories dead? The Ptolemaic system? Figure and phrase, that bent all ways Duns Scotus liked to twist 'em? Averrhoes' thought? and what was taught, In Salamanca's seat? Sihons and Ogs? and showers of frogs? Sea-serpents obsolete?

Pillion and pack have left their track; Dead is "the Tally-ho;" Steam rails cut down each festive crown Of the old world and slow; Jack-in-the-Green no more is seen, Nor Maypole in the street; No mummers play on Christmas-day; St. George is obsolete.

O fancy, why hast thou let die So many a frolic fashion? Doublet and hose, and powdered beaux? Where are thy songs whose passion Turned thought to fire in knight and squire, While hearts of ladies beat? Where thy sweet style, ours, ours erewhile? All this is obsolete.

In Auvergne low potatoes grow Upon volcanoes old; The moon, they say, had her young day, Though now her heart is cold; Even so our earth, sorrow and mirth, Seasons of snow and heat, Checked by her tides in silence glides To become obsolete.

The astrolabe of every babe Reads, in its fatal sky, "Man's largest room is the low tomb— Ye all are born to die." Therefore this theme, O Bird, I deem The noblest we may treat; The final cause of Nature's laws Is to grow obsolete.

WILLIAM JOHN COURTHOPE.

MOTHERHOOD.

She laid it where the sunbeams fall Unscanned upon the broken wall. Without a tear, without a groan, She laid it near a mighty stone, Which some rude swain had haply cast Thither in sport, long ages past, And time with mosses had o'erlaid, And fenced with many a tall grass-blade, And all about bid roses bloom And violets shed their soft perfume. There, in its cool and quiet bed, She set her burden down and fled: Nor flung, all eager to escape, One glance upon the perfect shape, That lay, still warm and fresh and fair, But motionless and soundless there. No human eye had marked her pass Across the linden-shadowed grass Ere yet the minster clock chimed seven: Only the innocent birds of heaven— The magpie, and the rook whose nest Swings as the elm-tree waves his crest— And the lithe cricket, and the hoar And huge-limbed hound that guards the door, Looked on when, as a summer wind That, passing, leaves no trace behind, All unapparelled, barefoot all, She ran to that old ruined wall, To leave upon the chill dank earth (For ah! she never knew its worth), Mid hemlock rank, and fern and ling, And dews of night, that precious thing! And then it might have lain forlorn From morn to eve, from eve to morn: But, that, by some wild impulse led, The mother, ere she turned and fled, One moment stood erect and high; Then poured into the silent sky A cry so jubilant, so strange, That Alice—as she strove to range Her rebel ringlets at her glass— Sprang up and gazed across the grass; Shook back those curls so fair to see, Clapped her soft hands in childish glee; And shrieked—her sweet face all aglow, Her very limbs with rapture shaking— "My hen has laid an egg, I know; And only hear the noise she's making!"

CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.

DISASTER.

'Twas ever thus from childhood's hour My fondest hopes would not decay: I never loved a tree or flower Which was the first to fade away! The garden, where I used to delve Short-frocked, still yields me pinks in plenty; The pear-tree that I climbed at twelve, I see still blossoming, at twenty.

I never nursed a dear gazelle. But I was given a paroquet— How I did nurse him if unwell! He's imbecile but lingers yet. He's green, with an enchanting tuft; He melts me with his small black eye: He'd look inimitable stuffed, And knows it—but he will not die!

I had a kitten—I was rich In pets—but all too soon my kitten Became a full-sized cat, by which I've more than once been scratched and bitten: And when for sleep her limbs she curled One day beside her untouched plateful, And glided calmly from the world, I freely own that I was grateful.

And then I bought a dog—a queen! Ah, Tiny, dear departing pug! She lives, but she is past sixteen, And scarce can crawl across the rug. I loved her beautiful and kind; Delighted in her pert bow-wow: But now she snaps if you don't mind; 'T were lunacy to love her now.

I used to think, should e'er mishap Betide my crumple-visaged Ti, In shape of prowling thief, or trap, Or coarse bull-terrier—I should die. But ah! disasters have their use; And life might e'en be too sunshiny: Nor would I make myself a goose, If some big dog should swallow Tiny.

CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

[A farmers daughter, during the rage for albums, handed to the author an old account-book ruled for pounds, shillings, and pence, and requested a contribution.]

ON THE BRINK.

I watched her as she stooped to pluck A wild flower in her hair to twine; And wished that it had been my luck To call her mine;

Anon I heard her rate with mad, Mad words her babe within its cot, And felt particularly glad That it had not.

I knew (such subtle brains have men!) That she was uttering what she shouldn't; And thought that I would chide, and then I thought I wouldn't.

Few could have gazed upon that face, Those pouting coral lips, and chided: A Rhadamanthus, in my place, Had done as I did.

For wrath with which our bosoms glow Is chained there oft by Beauty's spell; And, more than that, I did not know The widow well.

So the harsh phrase passed unreproved: Still mute—(O brothers, was it sin?)— I drank unutterably moved, Her beauty in.

And to myself I murmured low, As on her upturned face and dress The moonlight fell, "Would she say No,— By chance, or Yes?"

She stood so calm, so like a ghost, Betwixt me and that magic moon, That I already was almost A finished coon.

But when she caught adroitly up And soothed with smiles her little daughter; And gave it, if I'm right, a sup Of barley-water;

And, crooning still the strange, sweet lore Which only mothers' tongues can utter, Snowed with deft hand the sugar o'er Its bread-and-butter;

And kissed it clingingly (ah, why Don't women do these things in private?)— I felt that if I lost her, I Should not survive it.

And from my mouth the words nigh flew,— The past, the future, I forgat 'em,— "Oh, if you'd kiss me as you do That thankless atom!"

But this thought came ere yet I spake, And froze the sentence on my lips: "They err who marry wives that make Those little slips."

It came like some familiar rhyme, Some copy to my boyhood set; And that's perhaps the reason I'm Unmarried yet.

Would she have owned how pleased she was, And told her love with widow's pride? I never found out that, because I never tried.

Be kind to babes and beasts and birds, Hearts may be hard though lips are coral; And angry words are angry words: And that's the moral.

CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.

THE V-A-S-E.

From the maddening crowd they stand apart, The maidens four and the Work of Art;

And none might tell from sight alone In which had culture ripest grown,—

The Gotham Millions fair to see, The Philadelphia Pedigree,

The Boston Mind of azure hue, Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo,—

For all loved Art in a seemly way, With an earnest soul and a capital A.
————

Long they worshipped; but no one broke The sacred stillness, until up spoke

The Western one from the nameless place, Who blushingly said: "What a lovely vace!"

Over three faces a sad smile flew, And they edged away from Kalamazoo.

But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred To crush the stranger with one small word

Deftly hiding reproof in praise, She cries: "'T is, indeed, a lovely vaze!"

But brief her unworthy triumph when The lofty one from the home of Penn,

With the consciousness of two grand papas, Exclaims: "It is quite a lovely vahs!"

And glances round with an anxious thrill, Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee, And gently murmurs: "Oh pardon me!

"I did not catch your remark, because I was so entranced with that charming vaws!"

Dies erit prægelida Sinistra quum Bostonia.

JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.

LARKS AND NIGHTINGALES.

Alone I sit at eventide: The twilight glory pales, And o'er the meadows far and wide Chant pensive bobolinks. (One might say nightingales!)

Song-sparrows warble on the tree, I hear the purling brook, And from the old "manse o'er the lea" Flies slow the cawing crow. (In England 'twere a rook!)

The last faint golden beams of day Still glow on cottage panes, And on their lingering homeward way Walk weary laboring men. (Oh, would that we had swains!)

From farm-yards, down fair rural glades Come sounds of tinkling bells, And songs of merry brown milkmaids, Sweeter than oriole's. (Yes, thank you—Philomel's!)

I could sit here till morning came, All through the night hours dark, Until I saw the sun's bright flame And heard the chickadee. (Alas we have no lark!)

We have no leas, no larks, no rooks, No swains, no nightingales, No singing milkmaids (save in books): The poet does his best— It is the rhyme that fails!

NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.

OF BLUE CHINA.

There's a joy without canker or cark, There's a pleasure eternally new, 'T is to gloat on the glaze and the mark Of china that's ancient and blue; Unchipped, all the centuries through It has passed, since the chime of it rang, And they fashioned it, figure and hue, In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.

These dragons (their tails, you remark, Into bunches of gillyflowers grew),— When Noah came out of the ark, Did these lie in wait for his crew? They snorted, they snapped, and they slew, They were mighty of fin and of fang, And their portraits Celestials drew In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.

Here's a pot with a cot in a park, In a park where the peach-blossoms blew, Where the lovers eloped in the dark, Lived, died, and were changed into two Bright birds that eternally flew Through the boughs of the may, as they sang; 'T is a tale was undoubtedly true In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.

ENVOY Come, snarl at my ecstasies, do, Kind critic; your "tongue has a tang," But—a sage never heeded a shrew In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.

ANDREW LANG.

A RIDDLE. [14] THE LETTER "H".

'T was in heaven pronounced, and 't was muttered in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell; On the confines of earth 't was permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed; 'T will be found in the sphere when 't is riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder. 'T was allotted to man with his earliest breath, Attends him at birth, and awaits him in death, Presides o'er his happiness, honor and health, Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth. In the heaps of the miser 't is hoarded with care, But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir. It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crowned. Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home! In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned. 'T will not soften the heart; but though deaf be the ear, It will make it acutely and instantly hear. Yet in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower, Ah, breathe on it softly,—it dies in an hour.

CATHARINE FANSHAWE.

A THRENODY. "The Ahkoond of Swat is dead." —London Papers.

What, what, what, What's the news from Swat? Sad news, Bad news, Comes by the cable led Through the Indian Ocean's bed, Through the Persian Gulf, the Red Sea and the Med- Iterranean—he's dead; The Ahkoond is dead!

For the Ahkoond I mourn, Who wouldn't? He strove to disregard the message stern, But he Ahkoodn't. Dead, dead, dead; (Sorrow Swats!) Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled, Swats whom he had often led Onward to a gory bed, Or to victory, As the case might be, Sorrow Swats! Tears shed, Shed tears like water, Your great Ahkoond is dead! That Swats the matter!

Mourn, city of Swat! Your great Ahkoond is not, But lain 'mid worms to rot. His mortal part alone, his soul was caught (Because he was a good Ahkoond) Up to the bosom of Mahound. Though earthy walls his frame surround (Forever hallowed be the ground!) And sceptics mock the lowly mound And say "He's now of no Ahkoond!" His soul is in the skies,— The azure skies that bend above his loved Metropolis of Swat. He sees with larger, other eyes, Athwart all earthly mysteries— He knows what's Swat.

Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond With a noise of mourning and of lamentation! Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation!

Fallen is at length Its tower of strength, Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned; Dead lies the great Ahkoond, The great Ahkoond of Swat Is not!

GEORGE THOMAS LANIGAN.

MY LOVE.
I only knew she came and went	Lowell.
Like troutlets in a pool;	Hood.
She was a phantom of delight,	Wordsworth.
And I was like a fool.	Eastman.
One kiss, dear maid, I said, and sighed,	Coleridge.
Out of those lips unshorn:	Longfellow.
She shook her ringlets round her head,	Stoddard.
And laughed in merry scorn.	Tennyson.
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,	Tennyson.
You heard them, O my heart;	Alice Carey.
'T is twelve at night by the castle clock,	Coleridge.
Belovèd, we must part.	Alice Carey.
"Come back, come back!" she cried in grief,	Campbell.
"My eyes are dim with tears,	Bayard Taylor.
How shall I live through all the days?	Osgood.
All through a hundred years?	T. S. Perry.
'T was in the prime of summer time	Hood.
She blessed me with her hand;	Hoyt.
We strayed together, deeply blest,	Edwards.
Into the dreaming land.	Cornwall.
The laughing bridal roses blow,	Patmore.
To dress her dark-brown hair;	Bayard Taylor.
My heart is breaking with my woe,	Tennyson.
Most beautiful! most rare!	Read.
I clasped it on her sweet, cold hand,	Browning.
The precious golden link!	Smith.
I calmed her fears, and she was calm,	Coleridge.
"Drink, pretty creature, drink."	Wordsworth.
And so I won my Genevieve,	Coleridge.
And walked in Paradise;	Hervey.
The fairest thing that ever grew	Wordsworth.
Atween me and the skies.	Osgood.
ANONYMOUS

ODE TO THE HUMAN HEART.
Blind Thamyris, and Blind Mæonides,	Milton.
Pursue the triumph and partake the gale!	Pope.
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees,	Shakespeare.
To point a moral or adorn a tale.	Johnson.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,	Gray.
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears,	Tennyson.
Like angels' visits, few and far between,	Campbell.
Deck the long vista of departed years.	???
Man never is, but always to be blessed;	Pope.
The tenth transmitter of a foolish face,	Savage.
Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest,	Pope.
And makes a sunshine in the shady place.	Spenser.
For man the hermit sighed, till the woman smiled,	Campbell.
To waft a feather or to drown a fly,	Young.
(In wit a man, simplicity a child,)	Pope.
With silent finger pointing to the sky.	???
But fools rush in where angels fear to tread,	Pope.
Far out amid the melancholy main;	Thomson.
As when a vulture on Imaus bred,	???
Dies of a rose in aromatic pain.	Pope.
LAMAN BLANCHARD.

	£.	s.	d.
This world's a scene as dark as Styx,
Where hope is scarce worth		2	6
Our joys are borne so fleeting hence
That they are dear at			18
And yet to stay here most are willing,
Although they may not have		1

WILLIS GAYLORD