Mercantile Library Association. The last is a collection of brilliant thoughts, with many local allusions, in compact but flowing and harmonious versification, and is the longest poem Dr. HOLMES has published since the appearance of his " Metrical Essay" in 1835.

Dr. HOLMES is a poet of wit and humour and genial sentiment; with a style remarkable for its purity, terseness, and point, and for an exquisite

ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL.

THIS ancient silver bowl of mine-it tells of good old times

Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and merry Christas chimes;

They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true,

That dipp'd their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new.

A Spanish galleon brought the bar-so runs the ancient tale;

'Twas hammer'd by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail;

And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail,

He wiped his brow, and quaff'd a cup of good old Flemish ale.

'Twas purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame,

Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same;

And oft. as on the ancient stock another twig was found,

"T was fil'd with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round.

But, changing hands, it reach'd at length a Puritan divine,

Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine, But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps,

He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnaps.

And then, of course, you know what's next: it left the Dutchman's shore

With those that in the May-Flower came-a hundred souls and more

Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes

To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hun

dred loads.

"was on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim,

When old MILES STANDISH took the bowl, and fill'd it to the brim;

'he little captain stood and stirr'd the posset with his sword,

And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board.

He pour'd the fiery Hollands in-the man that never fear'd—

He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard:

And cae by one the musketeers-the men that fought and pray'd

All drank as 't were their mother's milk, and not a man afraid.

That night, affrighted from his test, the screaming eagle flew:

He heard the Pequot'e inging whoop, the soldier's wild halloo;

And there the sachem learn'd the rule he taught to kith and kin:

"Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin!"

A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows,

A thousand rubs had flatten'd down each little cherub's nose;

When once again the bowl was fill'd, but not in mirth or joy

'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy.

"Drink, JOHN," she said, "'t will do you good; poor

Blithe look'd the morning on cottage and spire; Hush'd was his parting sigh,

While from his noble eye

Flash'd the last sparkle of Liberty's fire.

On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is spring-
Calmly the first-born of g'ory have inet: [ing
Hark! the death-volley around them is ringing-
Look! with their life-blood the young grass is wet.
Faint is the feeble breath,
Murmuring low in death-

"Tell to our sons how their fathers have died;"
Nerveless the iron hand,
Raised for its native land,

Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side.

Over the hillsides the wi'd knell is tolling,

From their far hamlets the yeomanry come;
As thro' the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling,
Circles the beat of the mustering drum.
Fast on the soldier's path
Darken the waves of wrath;

Long have they gather'd, and loud shall they fall:
Red glares the musket's flash,
Sharp rings the rifle's crash,

Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall.
Gayly the plume of the horseman was dancing,
Never to shadow his cold brow again;
Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing,
Recking and panting he droops on the rein;

Pale is the lip of scorn,
Voiceless the trumpet-horn
Torn is the silken-fring'd red cross on high;
Many a belted breast

Low on the turf sha'l rest,

Ere the dark hunters the herd have pass'd by.
Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is raving,
Rocks where the weary floods murmur and wail,
Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving,
Reel'd with the echoes that rode on the gale;
Far as the tempest thrills
Over the darken'd hills,

Far as the sunshine streams over the plain,
Roused by the tyrant band,

Woke all the mighty land,

Girded for battle, from mountain to main.
Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying!
Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest;
While o'er their ashes the starry fold flying,
Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest.

Borne on her northern pine,
Long o'er the foaming brine
Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun;

Heaven keep her ever free

Wide as er land and sea
Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won!

A SONG OF OTHER DAYS.

As o'er the glacier's frozen sheet
Breathes soft the Alpine rose,

So, through life's desert springing sweet,
The flower of friendship grows;
And as, where'er the roses grow,

Some rain or dew descends,

"T is Nature's law that wine should flow To wet the lips of friends.

Then once again, before we part,

My empty glass shall ring;
And he that has the warmest heart
Shall loudest laugh and sing.

They say we were not born to eat,
But gray-haired sages think
It means " Be moderate in your meat,
And partly live to drink."

For baser tribes the rivers flow

That know not wine or song;
Man wants but little drink below,
But wants that little strong.
Then once again, &c.

If one bright drop is like the gem
That decks a monarch's crown,
One goblet holds a diadem

Of rubies melted down!
A fig for CESAR's blazing brow,
But, like the Egyptian queen,
Bid each dissolving jewel glow
My thirsty lips between.

Then once again, &c.

The Grecian's mound, the Roman's urn,
Are silent when we call,

Yet still the purple grapes return
To cluster on the wall;

It was a bright Immortal's head
They circled with the vine,
And o'er their best and bravest dead
They pour'd the dark-red wine.
Then once again, &c.
Methinks o'er every sparkling glass
Young EROS waves his wings,
And echoes o'er its dimples pass

From dead ANACREON'S strings;
And, tossing round its beaded brim
Their locks of floating gold,
With bacchant dance and choral hymn
Return the nymphs of old.
Then once again, &c.

A welcome, then, to joy and mi-th,
From hearts as fresh as ours,

To scatter o'er the dust of earth

Their sweetly mingled flowers;
"Tis Wisdom self the cup that fills,
In spite of Folly's frown;
And Nature, from her vine-clad hills,
That rains her life-blood down'
Then once again, before we part,
My empty glass shall ring;
And he that has the warmest heart
Shall loudest laugh and sing.

THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD

OUR ancient church! its lowly tower,
Beneath the loftier spire,

Is shadow'd when the sunset hour
Clothes the tall shaft in fire;
It sinks beyond the distant eye,

Long ere the glittering vane,
High wheeling in the western sky,
Has faded o'er the plain.

Like sentinel and nun, they keep

Their vigil on the green;

One seems to guard, and one to weep,
The dead that lie between;

And both roll out, so full and near.

Their music's mingling waves,

They shake the grass, whose pennon'd spear Leans on the narrow graves

The stranger parts the flaunting weeds,
Whose seeds the winds have strown
So thick beneath the line he reads,

They shade the sculptured stone;
The child unveils his cluster'd brow,
And ponders for a while

The graven willow's pendent bough,
Or rudest cherub's smile.

But what to them the dirge, the knell?

These were the mourner's share;
The sullen clang, whose heavy swell

Throbb'd through the beating air;
The rattling cord,--the rolling stone,-
The shelving sand that slid,
And, far beneath, with hollow tone

Rung on the coffin's lid.

The slumberer's mound grows fresh and green,

Then slowly disappears;

The mosses creep, the gray stones lean,
Earth hides his date and years;

But, long before the once-loved name
Is sunk or worn away,

No lip the silent dust may claim,

That press'd the breathing clay.
Go where the ancient pathway guides,
See where our sires laid down

Their smiling babes, their cherish'd brides,
The patriarchs of the town;

Hast thou a tear for buried love?
A sigh for transient power?

All that a century left above,

Go, read it in an nour!

The Indian's shaft, the Briton's ball.
The sabre's thirsting edge,

The hot shell, shattering in its fall,

The bayonet's rending wedge,— Here scatter'd death; yet seek the spot, No trace thine eye can see,

No altar, and they need it not

Who leave their children free!

Look where the turbid rain-drops stand
In many a chisell'd square,

The knightly crest, the shield, the brand Of honour'd names were there; Alas! for every tear is dried

Those blazon'd tablets knew, Save when the icy marble's side

Drips with the evening dew.

Or gaze upon yon pillar'd stone,*
The empty urn of pride;
There stands the goblet and the sun,-
What need of more beside?
Where lives the memory of the dead?
Who made their tomb a toy?

Whose ashes press that nameless bed?
Go, ask the village boy!

Lean o'er the slender western wall,
Ye ever-roaming girls;

The breath that bids the blossom fall
May lift your floating curls,
To sweep the simple lines that tell

An exile'st date and doom;
And sigh, for where his daughters dwell,
They wreathe the stranger's tomb.
And one amid these shades was born,
Beneath this turf who lies,
Once beaming as the summer's morn,
That closed her gentle eyes;
If sinless angels love as we,

Who stood thy grave beside,
Three seraph welcomes waited thee,
The daughter, sister, bride!

I wander'd to thy buried mound,
When earth was hid, below
The level of the glaring ground,

Choked to its gates with snow,
And when with summer's flowery waves
The lake of verdure roll'd,

As if a sultan's white-robed slaves

Had scatter'd pearls and gold.

Nay, the soft pinions of the air,

That lifts this trembling tone, Its breath of love may almost bear, To kiss thy funeral-stone;

And, now thy smiles have pass'd away,

For all the joy they gave,

May sweetest dews and warmest ray
Lie on thine early grave!

When damps beneath, and storms above,
Have bow'd these fragile towers,
Still o'er the graves yon locust-grove
Shall swing its orient flowers;
And I would ask no mouldering bust,
If o'er this humble line,
Which breathed a sigh o'er other's dust.
Might call a tear on mine.

The tomb of the VASSALL family is marked by a free stone tablet, supported by five pillars, and bearing nothing but the sculptured reliefs of the goblet and the sun,- Vas Sol, which designated a powerful family, now almost forgotten.

The exile referred to in this stanza was a native of Honfleur, in Normandy.

AN EVENING THOUGHT.

WRITTEN AT SEA.

If sometimes in the dark-blue eye,
Or in the deep-red wine,

Or soothed by gentlest melody,

Still warms this heart of mine, Yet something colder in the blood,

And calmer in the brain,

Have whisper'd that my youth's bright flood Ebbs, not to flow again.

If by Helvetia's azure lake,

Or Arno's yellow stream,

Each star of memory could awake,

As in my first young dream,

I know that when mine eye shall greet
The hill-sides bleak and bare,

That gird my home, it will not meet
My childhood's sunsets there.

O, when love's first, sweet, stolen kiss
Burn'd on my boyish brow,
Was that young forehead worn as this?

Was that flush'd cheek as now?
Where that wild pulse and throbbing heart
Like these, which vainly strive,
In thankless strains of soulless art,
To dream themselves alive?

Alas! the morning dew is gone,
Gone ere the full of day;

Life's iron fetter still is on,

Its wreaths all torn away;

Happy if still some casual hour

Can warm the fading shrine, Too soon to chill beyond the power Of love, or song, or wine!

LA GRISETTE.

AH, CLEMENCE! when I saw thee last
Trip down the Rue de Seine,

And turning, when thy form had pass'd
I said, "We meet again,"-

I dream'd not in that idle glance
Thy latest image came,

And only left to memory's trance

A shadow and a name.

The few strange words my lips had taught
Thy timid voice to speak;

Their gentler sighs, which often brought
Fresh roses to thy check;
The trailing of thy long, loose hair
Bent o'er my couch of pain,

All, all return'd, more sweet, more fair;
O, had we met again!

I walk'd where saint and virgin keep
The vigil lights of Heaven,

I knew that thou hadst woes to weep,
And sins to be forgiven;

I watch'd where GENEVIEVE was laid,

I knelt by MARY's shrine,

Beside me low, soft voices pray'd;
Ala! but where was thine?

And when the morning sun was bright,
When wind and wave were calm,
And flamed, in thousand-tinted light,

The rose of Notre Dame,

I wander'd through the haunts of men,
From Boulevard to Quai,
Till, frowning o'er Saint Etienne,
The Pantheon's shadow lay.

In vain, in vain; we meet no more,
Nor dream what fates befall;
And long upon the stranger's shore
My voice on thee may call,
When years have clothed the line in moss
That tells thy name and days,

And wither'd, on thy simple cross.
The wreaths of Pere-la-Chaise!

THE TREADMILL SONG.

THE stars are rolling in the sky,

The earth rolls on below,
And we can feel the rattling wheel
Revolving as we go.

Then tread away, my gallant boys,
And make the axle fly;

Why should not wheels go round about
Like planets in the sky?

Wake up, wake up, my duck-legg'd man,
And stir your solid pegs;

Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend,

And shake your spider-legs;

What though you're awkward at the traie! There's time enough to learn,

So lean upon the rail, my lad,

And take another turn.

They've built us up a noble wall,
To keep the vulgar out;
We've nothing in the world to dɔ,
But just to walk about;
So faster, now, you middle men,
And try to beat the ends:-
It's pleasant work to ramble round
Among one's honest friends.

Here, tread upon the long man's toes,
He sha'n't be lazy here;

And punch the little fellow's ribs,
And tweak that lubber's ear;
He's lost them both; don't pull his hair,
Because he wears a scratch,

But poke him in the farther eye,
That isn't in the patch.

Hark! fellows, there's the supper-bell,
And so our work is done;
It's pretty sport,-suppose we take
A round or two for fun!

If ever they should turn me out,
When I have better grown.
Now, hang me, but I mean to have
A treadmill of my own!

* Circular-stained windays are called roses

DEPARTED DAYS.

YES, dear, departed, cherish'd days,

Could Memory's hand restore
Your morning light, your evening rays,
From Time's gray urn once more,-
Then might this restless heart be still,

This straining eye might close,
And Hope her fainting pinions fold,
While the fair phantoms rose.
But, like a child in ocean's arms,

We strive against the stream, Each moment farther from the shore,

Where life's young fountains gleam Each moment fainter wave the fields,

And wilder rolls the sea;

The mist grows dark-the sun goes downDay breaks-and where are we?

THE DILEMMA.

Now, by the bless'd Paphian queen,
Who heaves the breast of sweet sixteen;
By every name I cut on bark
Before my morning-star grew dark;
By Hymen's torch, by Cupid's dart,
By all that thrills the beating heart;
The bright, black eye, the melting blue,-
I cannot choose between the two.

I had a vision in my dreams;
! saw a row of twenty beams;
from every beam a rope was hung,
In every rope a lover swung.
I ask'd the hue of every eye
That bade each luckless lover die;
Ten livid lips said, heavenly blue,
And ten accused the darker hue.

I ask'd a matron, which she deem'd
With fairest light of beauty beam'd;
She answer'd, some thought both were air-
Give her blue eyes and golden hair.
I might have liked her judgment well,
But as she spoke, she rung the bell,
And all her girls, nor small nor few,
Came marching in-their eyes were blue.
I ask'd a maiden; back she flung
The locks that round her forehead hung,
And turn'd her eye, a glorious one,
Bright as a diamond in the sun,
On me, until, beneath its rays,
I felt as if my hair would blaze;
She liked all eyes but eyes of green;
She look'd at me; what could she mean ?
Ah! many lids Love lurks between,
Nor heeds the colouring of his screen;
And when his random arrows fly,
The victim falls, but knows not why.
Gaze not upon his shield of jet,
The shaft upon the string is set;
Look not beneath his azure veil,
Though every limb were cased in mail.

THE Sun stepp'd down from his golden throne
And lay in the silent sea,

And the Lily had folded her satin leaves
For a sleepy thing was she;
What is the Lily dreaming of?

Why crisp the waters blue?
See, see, she is lifting her varnish'd lid!
Her white leaves are glistening through!
The Rose is cooling his burning cheek
In the lap of the breathless tide;
The Lily hath sisters fresh and fair,

That would lie by the Rose's side;
He would love her better than all the rest,
And he would be fond and true;
But the Lily unfolded her weary lids,
And look'd at the sky so blue.
Remember, remember, thou silly one,

How fast will thy summer glide,
And wilt thou wither a virgin pale,

Or flourish a blooming bride? "O, the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold, And he lives on earth," said she; "But the Star is fair and he lives in the air, And he shall my bridegroom be."

But what if the stormy cloud should come, And ruffle the silver sea?

Would he turn his eye from the distant sky, To smile on a thing like thee?

O, no! fair Lily, he will not send

One ray from his far-off throne; The winds shall blow and the waves shall flow And thou wilt be left alone.

There is not a leaf on the mountain-top,
Nor a drop of evening dew,

or & golden sand on the sparkling shore,
Nor a pearl in the waters blue,
That he has not cheer'd with his fickle smile
And warm'd with his faithless beam,
And will he be true to a pallid flower,
That floats on the quiet stream?
Alas, for the Lily! she would not heed,
But turn'd to the skies afar,
And bared her breast to the trembling ray
That shot from the rising star;
The cloud came over the darken'd sky,
And over the waters wide,

She look'd in vain through the leating ra
And sank in the stormy tida