Don't be too savage with the boys, — the Primer does not say

The kitten ought to go to church because "the cat doth prey."

The law of merit and of age is not the rule of three; Non constat that A. M. must prove as busy as A. B. When Wise the father tracked the son, ballooning through the skies,

He taught a lesson to the old, go thou and do like

Wise !

Now then, old boys, and reverend youth, of high or low

degree,

Remember how we only get one annual out of three, And such as dare to simmer down three dinners into

one

Must cut their salads mighty short, and pepper well with fun.

I've passed my zenith long ago, it's time for me to set; A dozen planets wait to shine, and I am lingering yet, As sometimes in the blaze of day a milk-and-watery

moon

Stains with its dim and fading ray the lustrous blue of

noon.

Farewell! yet let one echo rise to shake our ancient

And "Expectantur" all mankind, to take their last

Degree!

THE PARTING SONG.

FESTIVAL OF THE ALUMNI, 1857.

THE noon of summer sheds its ray
On Harvard's holy ground;
The Matron calls, the sons obey,
And gather smiling round.

CHORUS.

Then old and young together stand,

The sunshine and the snow,

As heart to heart and hand in hand,
We sing before we go!

Her hundred opening doors have swung;
Through every storied hall

The pealing echoes loud have rung,

"Thrice welcome one and all!"

Then old and young, etc.

We floated through her peaceful bay,

To sail life's stormy seas;

But left our anchor where it lay

Beneath her green old trees.

As now we lift its lengthening chain,

That held us fast of old,

The rusted rings grow bright again,Their iron turns to gold.

Then old and young, etc.

Though scattered ere the setting sun, As leaves when wild winds blow,

Our home is here, our hearts are one, Till Charles forgets to flow.

Then old and young, etc.

BOSTON COMMON.-THREE PICTURES.

(FOR THE FAIR IN AID OF THE FUND TO PROCURE BALL'S STATUE OF WASHINGTON.)

1630.

ALL overgrown with bush and fern,

And straggling clumps of tangled trees, With trunks that lean and boughs that turn,

Bent eastward by the mastering breeze, With spongy bogs that drip and fill

A yellow pond with muddy rain, Beneath the shaggy southern hill

Lies wet and low the Shawmut plain. And hark! the trodden branches crack; A crow flaps off with startled scream; A straying woodchuck canters back;

A bittern rises from the stream;

Leaps from his lair a frightened deer;

An otter plunges in the pool;

Here comes old Shawmut's pioneer,
The parson on his brindled bull!