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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
Ye Natural Philosophers, full of abstractions,
Ye disciples of Gummere, who carry the chain, May rove without Jacob's staffs over the plain; Protractors and compass aside you may lay, And freely the beauties of nature survey.
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 wan
der so often, They'll find the best map in the world of old
The historians may put up their books on their
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, And broken up games that were just begun ! Good-bye to lessons that split the head, Good-bye! to the blackboard dark and dread;
Good-bye! to Latin, Greek, and French,
And now, boys, we'll try how a new scheme
Our study gymnastics, our school room below!
Or plunging beneath the red billows that glow,
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, And the health that hard study had stolen before, The sports of vacation shall fully restore.
. And stronger, and brighter, and fresher than ever, We'll come from the forest, the field, and the river, To meet our old books in the desks where they've
lain, And grapple anew with hard study again.
HORACE.BOOK 1. ODE XIII.
Oh Lydia, when you thoughtless speak
The praises of another,
Its bursting pain to smother!
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
In his too close embraces;
Have left their burning traces.