A Plea for the Classics.

A Boston gentleman declares

By all the gods, above, below,

That our degenerate sons and heirs

Must let their Greek and Latin go!

Forbid, O Fate! we loud implore,

A dispensation harsh as that—

What! wipe away the sweets of yore—

The dear “Amo, amas, amat”?

The sweetest hour the student knows,

Is not while poring over French,

Or when, in harsh Teutonic throes,

He writhes upon collegiate bench:

’Tis when on roots and kais and gars

He feeds his soul, and feels it glow,

Or when his mind transcends the stars

With “Zoa mou, sas agapo!”

So give our bright, ambitious boys

An inkling of these pleasures too—

A little smattering of the joys

Their old but knowing fathers knew;

And let them sing—whilst glorying that

Their sires so sang, long years ago—

The songs “Amo, amas, amat,”

And “Zoa mou, sas agapo!”

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