Love the bronzed pipes of thy men,
And the bronzed cheeks of thy lasses!

Oh, que j'aime the "oui," the "bah,"
From thy motley crowds that flow,
With the universal "ja,"

And the allgemeine "so"!

THE DEATH OF THE SEA SERPENT.

Arma virumque cano, qui first in Monongahela

Tarnally squampushed the sarpent, mittens horrentia tella.

Musa, look sharp with your Banjo! I guess to relate this event, I
Shall need all the aid you can give; so nunc aspirate canenti.

Mighty slick were the vessels progressing, Jactata per æquora ventis,
But the brow of the skipper was sad, cum solicitudine mentis;

For whales had been scarce in those parts, and the skipper, so long as

he'd known her,

Ne'er had gathered less oil in a cruise to gladden the heart of her owner. "Darn the whales," cries the skipper at length, "with a telescope forte

videbo

Aut pisces, aut terras." While speaking, just two or three points on the lea bow,

He saw coming towards them as fast as though to a combat 'twould tempt 'em,

A monstrum horrendum informe (qui lumen was shortly ademptum).
On the taffrail up jumps in a hurry, dux fortis, and seizing a trumpet,
Blows a blast that would waken the dead, mare turbat et aera rumpit-
"Tumble up all you lubbers," he cries, "tumble up, for careering be-

fore us

Is the real old sea sarpent himself, cristis maculisque decorus."

"Consarn it," cried one of the sailors, "if e'er we provoke him he'll kill us,
He'll certainly chaw up hos morsu, et longis, implexibus illos."
Loud laughs the bold skipper, and quick premit alto corde dolorem ;
(If he does feel like running, he knows it won't do to betray it before 'em).
"O socii", inquit. "I'm sartin you're not the fellers to funk, or
Shrink from the durem certamen, whose fathers fit bravely at Bunker
You, who have waged with the bears, and the buffalo, proelia dura,
Down to the freshets, and licks of our own free enlightened Missourer;
You could whip your own weight, catulus sævis sine telo,
Get your eyes skinned in a twinkling, et ponite tela phæsello!"
Talia voce refert, curisque ingentibus æger,

Marshals his cute little band, now panting their foes to beleaguer
Swiftly they lower the boats, and swiftly each man at the oar is,
Excipe Britanni timidi duo, virque coloris.

(Blackskin, you know, never feels, how sweet, 'tis pro patria mori; Ovid had him in view when he said, "Nimium ne crede colori.")

Now swiftly they pull towards the monster, who seeing the cutter and gig nigh,

Glares at them with terrible eyes, suffectis sanguine et igni,

And, never conceiving their chief will so quickly deal him a floorer,
Opens wide to receive them at once, his linguis vibrantibis ora;
But just as he's licking his lips, and gladly preparing to taste 'em,
Straight into his eyeball the skipper stridentem conjicit hastam.
Straight as he feels in his eyeball the lance, growing mightly sulky,
At 'em he comes in a rage, ora minax, lingua trusulca.

"Starn all," cry the sailors at once, for they think he has certainly caught 'em,

Præsentemque viris intentant omnia mortem.

But the bold skipper exclaims, "O terque quaterque beati!
Now with a will dare viam, when I want you, be only parati;

This hoss feels like raising his hair, and in spite of his scaly old cortex,
Full soon you shall see that his corpse rapidus vorat æquore vortex.”
Hoe ait, and choosing a lance: "With this one I think I shall hit it,
He cries, and straight into his mouth, ad intima viscera mittit.
Screeches the creature in pain, and writhes till the sea is commotum,
As if all its waves had been lashed in a tempest por Eurum et Notum.
Interea terrible shindy Neptunus sensit, et alto

Prospiciens sadly around, wiped his eye with the cuff of his paletôt;
And, mad at his favorite's fate, of oaths uttered one or two thousand,
Such as "Corpo di Bacco! Mehercle! Sacre! Mille Tonnerres! Potz-
tausend!"

But the skipper, who thought it was time to this terrible fight dare finem,
With a scalping-knife jumps on the neck of the snake secat et dextrâ

crinem,

And hurling the scalp in the air, half mad with delight to possess it,
Shouts "Darn it-I've fixed up his flint, for in ventos vita recessit!"

Concatenation or Chain Verse.

LASPHRISE'S NOVELTIES.

LASPHRISE, a French poet of considerable merit, claims the invention of several singularities in verse, and among them the following, in which it will be found that the last word of every line is the first word of the following line:

Falloit-it que le ciel me rendit amoureux,
Amoureaux, jouissant d'une beauté craintive,
Craintive à recevoir douceur excessive,
Excessive au plaisir qui rend l'amant heureux?
Heureux si nous avions quelques paisibles lieux,
Lieux où plus surement l'ami fidèle arrive,
Arrive sans soupçon de quelque ami attentive,
Attentive à vouloir nous surprendre tous deux.

Subjoined are examples in our own vernacular :

TO DEATH.

The longer life, the more offence;
The more offence, the greater pain;
The greater pain, the less defence;
The less defence, the lesser gain-
The loss of gain long ill doth try,
Wherefore, come, death, and let me die.

The shorter life, less count I find;

The less account, the sooner made;
The count soon made, the merrier mind;
The merrier mind doth thought invade-
Short life, in truth, this thing doth try,
Wherefore, come, death, and let me die.

Come, gentle death, the ebb of care;

The ebb of care the flood of life;
The flood of life, the joyful fare;

The joyful fare, the end of strife-
The end of strife that thing wish I,
Wherefore, come, death and let me die.

TRUTH.

Nerve thy soul with doctrines noble,

Noble in the walks of Time,
Time that leads to an eternal,
An eternal life sublime;
Life sublime in moral beauty,
Beauty that shall ever be,
Ever be to lure thee onward,
Onward to the fountain free;
Free to every earnest secker,
Seeker at the Fount of Youth,

Youth exultant in its beauty,

Beauty found in the quest of Truth.

TRYING SKYING.

Long I looked into the sky,

Sky aglow with gleaming stars,
Stars that stream their courses high,
High and grand, those golden cars,
Cars that ever keep their track,
Track untraced by human ray,
Ray that zones the zodiac,
Zodiac with milky-way,
Milky-way where worlds are sown,
Sown like sands along the sea,
Sea whose tide and tone e'er own,
Own a feeling to be free,

Free to leave its lowly place,

Place to prove with yonder spheres,
Spheres that trace athrough all space,
Space and years-unspoken years.

A RINGING SONG.

The following gem is from an old play of Shakspeare's time, called The True Trojans :

The sky is glad that stars above
Do give a brighter splendor;
The stars unfold their flaming gold,
To make the ground more tender:
The ground doth send a fragrant smell,
That air may be the sweeter;
The air doth charm the swelling seas

With pretty chirping metre;

The sea with rivers' water doth

Feed plants and flowers so dainty;
The plants do yield their fruitful seed,
That beasts may live in plenty;
The beasts do give both food and cloth,
That men high Jove may honor;
And so the World runs merrily round,
When Peace doth smile upon her!
Oh, then, then oh! oh then, then oh!
This jubilee last forever;
That foreign spite, or civil fight,
Our quiet trouble never!

Bouts Rimés.

BOUTS RIMÉS, or Rhyming Ends, afford considerable amusement. They are said by Goujet to have been invented by Dulot, a French poet, who had a custom of preparing the rhymes of sonnets, leaving them to be filled up at leisure. Having been robbed of his papers, he was regretting the loss of three hundred sonnets. His friends were astonished that he had written so many of which they had never heard. "They were blank sonnets," said he, and then explained the mystery by describing his "Bouts Rimés." The idea appeared ridiculously amusing, and it soon became a fashionable pastime to collect some of the most difficult rhymes, and fill up the lines. An example is appended :

nettle,

pains.

mettle.

remains.

natures.

rebel.

graters.
well.

The rhymes may be thus completed :

Tender-handed stroke a nettle,

And it stings you for your pains;
Grasp it like a man of mettle,

And it soft as silk remains.

"Tis the same with common natures,
Use them kindly, they rebel;
But be rough as nutmeg-graters,
And the rogues obey you well.

A sprightly young belle, who was an admirer of poetry, would often tease her beau, who had made some acquaintance with the muses, to write verses for her. One day, becoming quite importunate, she would take no denial. "Come, pray, do now write some poetry for me-won't you? I'll help you out. I'll