English

President Hoover
Felt in need of a soother
After his little tiff
With Governor Al Smith.

When I faced the bowling of Hirst
I ejaculated, " Do your worst!"
He said, " Right you are, Sid."

IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT .

Of all sensations pity brings,
To proudly swell the ample heart,
From which the willing sorrow springs,
In others grief that bear a part.

Of all sad sympathy's delights,
The manly dignity of grief
A joy in mourning that excites,
And gives the anxious mind relief:
Of these wou'd you the feeling know,
Most gen'rous, noble, greatly brave,
That ever taught a heart to glow,
'Tis the tear that bedews a soldier's grave.

II.

Inspiration visited Herrick
During a mixed foursome at North Berwick.
When his partner had sliced into a drain
He wrote " To Anthea, Who Gives Him a Pain."

Henry the Eighth
Took a thuctheththion of mateth.
He inthithted that the monkth
Were a lathy lot of thkunkth.

In my first yeeres, and prime yet not at hight,
When sweet conceits my wits did entertaine,
Ere beautie's force I knew or false delight,
Or to what oare shee did her captiues chaine,
Led by a sacred troupe of Phaebus' traine,
I first beganne to reade, then loue to write,
And so to praise a perfect red and white,
But, God wot, wist not what was in my braine:
Loue smylde to see in what an awfull guise
I turn'd those antiques of the age of gold,
And, that I might moe mysteries behold,
Hee set so faire a volumne to mine eyes,

Thy country! blast it, if it once disdains,
To prop thy virtues, or reward thy pains!
If there I prosper, here was only born,
That claims my duty! this deserves my scorn!
O muse! 'tis mean to stoop to helpless moan!
Try, if no clime is gentler, than thy own!
Offer, on distant shores, a faithful hand,
In vain, not useless, in thy mother land!
When fortune frowns, and care's black harvest springs,
A change of place, a change of prospect brings!
Far off, thy reason's force, uncurb'd, may reign;

Love is by Fancy led about,
From hope to fear, from joy to doubt;
Whom we now an angel call,
Divinely grac'd in ev'ry feature,
Straight 's a deform'd, a perjur'd creature.
Love and hate are fancy all.

'Tis but as Fancy shall present
Objects of grief or of content,
That the lover 's bless'd or dies,
Visions of mighty pain or pleasure,
Imagin'd want, imagin'd treasure,
All in pow'rful Fancy lies.

A LEGEND OF THE LOWER HUDSON .

The days were at their longest,
The heat was at its strongest,

People wondered why Harley
Sang — Wae's me for Prince Charlie. —
— It is childish — , they said, — to mourn
For a person not yet born. —

'T was upon a Southern desert, and beneath a burning sky,
That a pilgrim to the gold-clime sunk, o'erwearied, down to die!
He was young, and fair, and slender, but he bore a gallant heart,—
Through the march so long and toilsome he had bravely held his part.
His companions round him gathered, with kind word and pitying look,
As in fever-thirst he panted, like “the hart for the water-brook”;
While their last cool drops outpouring on his brow and parched lips,
Sorrowed they to mark his glances growing dim with death's eclipse.