222 Ye, knights of the blackboard, accustomed to ponder The mysteries of Davies and awful Legendre, May part with your chalk and your problems pro found, And, like Newton, make figures awhile on the ground. Ye Natural Philosophers, full of abstractions, Ye disciples of Gummere, who carry the chain, And O! ye poor wretches, forever who hammer At the persons, and moods, and hard cases of grammar; Who have sighed over mysteries made only to bother, And groaned interjections from one end to t'other; Rejoice that your star at last mounts the ascendant, And you're in the "nominative case independent!" But why need we mention each class in its order? Let geographers study their own native border; 'Mongst the hills and sweet vales, where they wander so often, They'll find the best map in the world of old Dauphin. The historians may put up their books on their shelves, And enact a small history heroic themselves; go into PRACTICE and FELLOWSHIP too! But why do we linger? no parting sigh Disturbs the joy of our glad good-bye! Good-bye to the books!—the eternal books, That have stood in our paths with threatening looks, And haunted our ever-aching sight, From dawning day to dusky night! Good-bye to the ring of the study-bell, Its morning chimes-ah, who can tell How oft they have thrilled through the heart of fun, Good-bye! to the blackboard dark and dread; Good-bye! to Latin, Greek, and French, Big' 'G's' the reward of studious zeal, Long 'F's' like a whip for the dunce to feel, We bid you all at last farewell! And now, boys, we'll try how a new scheme will go, Our study gymnastics, our school room below! Nor need "Explanations" that come after school. No lawyer in Harrisburg easy could beat. Our boats o'er the surface shall merrily glide; Or plunging beneath the red billows that glow, While nibbles are plenty, with patience we'll wait; The squirrels shall suffer a terrible rout, And no woodpecker dare from his hole to look out. We'll find where the apples are mellow to eat, Where the berties are thickest and earliest sweet, Where the peach soonest ripens, where melons are fine, And the clusters of wild grapes hang thick on the vine. And over the mountain, and valley, and plain, As we rove with the breezes new vigour we'll gain, lain, And grapple anew with hard study again. TRANSLATIONS. HORACE.-BOOK I. ODE XIII. Oh Lydia, when you thoughtless speak And praise his form and glowing cheek, Then reason drowned in passion's tide, And pale brow clothed in mourning, And down these cheeks the tears that glide, Betray the grief that fain would hide, In this sad bosom burning. I've wept to see thy gentle form To see the track of passion's storm Have left their burning traces. |