All's Well? Why that's a formal hail From Guard to Guard. "Not a mouse stirring," _Francisco_ cried, chill, sleepy, pale. No bat through night-wastes wheeling, whirring; No trumpet's shrill, no rocket's roar. And here all seems as calm and quiet As on the heights of Elsinore,-- Save for far sounds of wassail riot. Some "wake to-night and take their rouse" In England as in Denmark, doubtless, But here calm broods on midnight's brows; The flag clings to the flag-staff, floutless; And if ghosts walk--well, youngling Year, With hints of spectres why alarm you? Take your first watch, boy, void of fear, With hope, that inward fire, to warm you! The Old Guards know that youthful glow Is not the only thing that's needed For a long spell of Sentry-go; But when were veteran croakings heeded? And if they were, would carking care, Not wrinkle boy-brow prematurely? All's well--to-night. May your watch fare Serenely, steadfastly, securely. Angels and ministers of grace Defend you from all spooks alarming! There's something in your younker face That even ghosts should find disarming. They come in questionable shapes, Those phantoms of the Social Crisis. Are their cries menaces--or japes? These be _our_ Mysteries of Isis! The Citadel you have to ward Is old, and forces new are mustering. Vigilant valour will afford More help, my boy, than fear or flustering. Young HARRY with his beaver up Should be your model, my young "nipper!" _Punch_, lifting high a brimming cup, Tips the Young Guard a friendly flipper! * * * * * DISTINGUISHED INVALID.--The latest bulletin states that "Mr. C. A. PEARSON still continues weekly. Whether circulation is much impaired will be ascertained within a short time." Dr. STEPHENSON, his Medical Adviser, thinks the system must have sustained a severe shock, but hopes that entire rest, coupled with a liberal diet, may eventually be successful in combating the malady. * * * * * TO SOME EXPECTANT BARDS. God rest you, merry gentlemen! You twittering, chirping poetasters. What though you ply for praise the pen, 'Tis a mad world, you know, my masters. And therefore in our land of fools, Where genius starves in many a gutter, And all the lore of all the schools Scarce finds a man in bread-and-butter; Where rhymes abound, though small and few The prizes are that any bard won, Your lot, O facile rhyming crew Of would-be laureates, is a hard one. Go on and versify. God wot, With bards and rhymes I would not quarrel. You have my sympathies, but not (And may it so remain) the laurel. * * * * *