His heart was open as the day,
His feelings were all true:

His hair was some inclined to gray,
He wore it in a queue.

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain,
His breast with pity burned:
The large, round head upon his cane
From ivory was turned.

Kind words he ever had for all;
He knew no base design:

His eyes were dark and rather small,
His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind,
In friendship he was true:
His coat had pocket-holes behind,

His pantaloons were blue.

Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes

He passed securely o'er,
And never wore a pair of boots
For thirty years or more.

But good old Grimes is now at rest,
Nor fears misfortune's frown:
He wore a double-breasted vest;
The stripes ran up and down.

He modest merit sought to find,
And pay it its desert:

He had no malice in his mind,

No ruffles on his shirt.

His neighbors he did not abuse,
Was sociable and gay:

He wore large buckles on his shoes,
And changed them every day.

His knowledge, hid from public gaze,
He did not bring to view,

Nor make a noise town-meeting days,
As many people do.

His worldly goods he never threw
In trust to Fortune's chances,
But lived (as all his brothers do)
In easy circumstances.

Thus, undisturbed by anxious cares,
His peaceful moments ran :
And everybody says he was

A fine old gentleman.

The author of the following poem, James Nack, occupies the anomalous position among American poets of having been deaf and dumb from childhood, in consequence of an accident. We could scarcely have expected so neat a bit of Anacreontic sentiment from a person so afflicted.

MARY'S BEE.

As Mary with her lips of roses

Is tripping o'er the flowery mead,
A foolish little bee supposes

The rosy lip a rose indeed,

And so, astonished at his bliss,
He steals the honey of her kiss.

A moment there he wantons; lightly
He sports away on careless wing;

But, ah! why swells that wound unsightly?

The rascal! he has left a sting!
She runs to me with weeping eyes,
Sweet images of April skies.

"Be this," said I, "to heedless misses
A warning they should bear in mind:
Too oft a lover steals their kisses,

Then flies, and leaves a sting behind."
"This may be wisdom, to be sure,"
Said Mary, "but I want a cure."

What could I do? To ease the swelling,
My lips with hers impassioned meet;
And, trust me, from so sweet a dwelling
I found the very poison sweet!
Fond boy! unconscious of the smart,
I sucked the poison to my heart!

The poem given below, though it may be objectionable to some readers on account of its freedom and boldness of language, is redeemed from vulgarity and irreverence by the truth of its sentiment, and by its pathos, which ill adapts it for the class in which it is usually placed, that of humorous poems.

IV.

LITTLE BREECHES.

I don't go much on religion,

I never ain't had no show;
But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir,
On the handful o' things I know.
I don't pan out on the prophets,

And free will, and that sort of thing,
But I b'lieve in God and the angels

Ever sence one night last spring.

27*

I came into town with some turnips,
And my little Gabe come along;
No four-year-old in the county

Could beat him for pretty and strong, Peart and chipper and sassy,

Always ready to swear and fight,— And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker, Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket
As I passed by Taggart's store;
I went in for a jug of molasses,
And left the team at the door.
They scared at something and started,—
I heard one little squall,

And hell-to-split over the prairie

Went team, Little Breeches and all.

Hell-to-split over the prairie!

I was almost froze with skeer; But we rousted up some torches,

And sarched for 'em far and near. At last we struck hosses and wagon, Snowed under a soft white mound, Upsot, dead beat,-but of little Gabe. No hide nor hair was found.

And here all hope soured on me
Of my fellow-critters' aid;

I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones,
Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed.

Went off for some wood to a sheepfold
That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed
Where they shut up the lambs at night.
We looked in, and seen them huddled thar,
So warm and sleepy and white;

And THAR Sot Little Breeches, and chirped,
As peart as ever you see,

"I want a chaw of terbacker,

And that's what's the matter of me."

How did he git thar? Angels.

He could never have walked in that storm.
They jest scooped down and toted him

To whar it was soft and warm.
And I think that saving a little child,
And bringing him to his own,
Is a derned sight better business
Than loafing around the Throne.

JOHN HAY.

The above may be fitly followed by a portion of Mrs. R. S. Nichols's satirical poem entitled

THE PHILOSOPHER TOAD.

Down deep in a hollow, so damp and so cold,

Where oaks are by ivy o'ergrown,

The gray moss and lichen creep over the mould

Lying loose on a ponderous stone.

Now within this huge stone, like a king on his throne, A toad has been sitting more years than is known; And strange as it seems, yet he constantly deems

The world standing still while he's dreaming his dreams,