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From Rhine and Danube, Rhone and the fountain in the basin plays,
The chanting organ echoes clear,
A wondrous song! And seaward pour : From coast to coast in friendly chain, Swell, organ, swell your trumpet blast, With countless ships we bridge the March, Queen and Royal pageant, straits,
march And angry ocean separates
By splendid aisle and springing arch Europe 110 more.
Of this fair Hall :
And see! above the fabric vast, From Mississippi and from Nile –
God's boundless Heaven is bending From Baltic, Ganges, Bosphorous,
blue, In England's ark assembled thus
God's peaceful sunlight's beaming Are friend and guest.
through, Look down the mighty sunlit aisle,
And shines o'er all.
Around the feast !
Along the dazzling colonnade,
THE BALLAD OF BOUILLAFar as the straining eye can gaze,
BAISSE. Gleam eross and fountain, bell and vase,
A STREET there is in Paris famous, Iu vistas bright;
For which no rhyme our language And statues fair of nymph and maid, And steeds and pards and Ainazons, Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its
yields, Writhing and grappling in the
name is brouze,
The New Street of the Little Fields. In endless fight.
And here's an inn, not rich anıl To deck the glorious roof and dome,
But still in comfortable case ; To make the Queen a canopy,
The which in youth I oft attended, The peaceful hosts of industry
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
On such a web of Persian thread
A sort of soup or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, And cries his prayer.
That Greenwich never could outdo; Look yonder where the engines toil :
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, These England's arms of conquest
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace: are, The trophies of her bloodless war :
All these you eat at TERRÊ's taverni, Brave weapons these.
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. Victorious over wave and soil, With these she sails, she weaves, Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis ; she tills,
And true philosophers, methinks, Pierces the everlasting hills
Who love all sorts of natural beauties, And spans the seas.
Should love good victuals and good
drinks. The engine roars upon its race,
And Cordelier or Benedictine The shuttle whirs along the woof, Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, The people hum from Hoor to roof, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,
With Babel tongue. Which served him upa Bouillabaisse.
I wonder if the house still there is ? Around the board they take their Yes, here the lamp is, as before ;
places, The smiling red-cheeked écaillère is And share the wine and BouillaStill opening oysters at the door.
baisse. Is TERRI still alive and able ?
I recollect his croll grimace : There's Jack has made a wondrons He'd come and smile before your table, marriage ; And hope you liked your Bouilla There's laughing Tom is laughing baisse.
There's brave Augustus drives his We enter- nothing'schanged or older.
carriage ; “How's Monsieur TERRÉ, waiter,
There's poor old FRED in the
Gazette; The waiter stares and shrugs his On James's head the grass is growing ; shoulder
Good Lord ! the world has wagged “Monsieur is dead this many a
Since here we set the Claret fowing, “ It is the lot of saint and sinner,
And drank, and ace the BouillaSo honest TERRÉ's run his race.
baisse. “What will Monsieur require for dinner?"
Ah me! how quick the days are “Say, do you still cook Bouilla flitting ! baisse?”
I mind me of a time that's
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, “Oh, oui, Monsieur,” 's the waiter's
In this same place but not alone.
A fair young form was nestled near me, answer;
A clear, dear face looked foully up, “Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ?" “ Tell me a good one.
" That 1
And sweetly spoke and smiled to
cheer me The Chambertin with yellow seal.”
- There's no one now to share my “So TERRÉ's gone," I say, and sink in
сир. My old accustom'il corner-place ; “He's done with feasting and with I drink it as the Fates onlain it. drinking,
Come, fill it, and have done with With Burgundy and Bonillabaisse."
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it My old accustom'd corner here is,
In memory of clear old times.
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is; The table still is in the nook ; Ah! vanish'd many a busy year is
And sit you down anıl say your This well-known chair since last I
With thankful heart, whate'er the
meal is. When first I saw ye, cari luoghi, I'd scarce a beard upon my face,
– Here comes the smoking Bouilla
baisse ! And now a grizzled, grim old fogy,
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.
THE MAHOGANY TREE.
Where are you, old companions trusty
Of early days here met to dine ? Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty. I'll pleulge them in the good old
wine. The kind old voices and old faces
My memory can quick retrace ;
CHRISTMAS is here :
Little we fear
Once on the boughs Birds of rare plume Sang, in its bloom ; Night-birds are we : Here we carouse, Singing like them, Perched round the stem Of the jolly old tree.
Here let us sport, Boys, as we sit; Laughter and wit Flashing so free. Life is but short – When we are gone, Let them sing on, Round the old tree.
Evenings we knew,
Care, like a dun, Lurks at the gate : Let the dog wait ; Happy we'll be ! Drink, every one ; Pile up the coals, Fill the red bowls, Round the old tree !
Drain we the cup.
Sorrows, begone! Life and its ills, Duns and their bills, Bid we to flee.
Come with the dawn,
THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS.
A surgeon of the United States' army says that on inquiring of the Captain of his company, he found that nine-tenths of the men had en isted on necount of soune female difficulty." — Morning Paper.
Ye Yankee Volunteers !
Though oft 'tis told one.
As in the Old one !
in this company
With life and horn,
This Hope Forlorn ?
Deserters froin the realm
Fled and out-ran her.
Embroider'd banner !
And is it so with all
And swords gold-hilted -
Has each been jilted ?
Come, each man of this line,
“I've writ the foolish fancy of his
brain ; THE PEN AND THE ALBUM. The aimnless jest that, striking, hath
caused pain; “I AM Miss Catherine's book," the The idle word that he'd wish back album speaks ;
again. “I've lain aniong your tomes these I'm tired of their old coats and yellow “I've help'd him to pen many a line cheeks.
many weeks ;
To joke with sorrow aching in his “ Kind lady! till my last of lines is
penn'd, And make your laughter when his own My master's love, grief, laughter, at an heart bled.
end, Whene'er I write your naine, may
I "I've spoke with men of all degree write friend !
and sort Peers of the land, and ladies of the “ Not all are so that were so in past (ourt ;
years ; Oh, but I've chronicled a deal of sport! Voices, familiar once, no
hears ; "Feasts that were ate a thousand days Names, often writ, are blotted out in ago,
tears. Biddings to wine that long hath ceased to flow,
“So be it :- joys will end and tears Gay meetings with good fellows long
will dry laid low;
Album ! my master bids me wish
good-by, "Summons to bridal, banquet, burial, He'll send you to your mistress presball,
ently. Tradesman's polite reminders of his small
“And thus with thankful heart he Account due Christmas last — I've
closes you ; answered all.
Blessing the happy hour when a friend
he knew "Poor Diddler's tenth petition for a So gentle, and so generous, and so true.
halfGuinea ; Miss Bunyau's for an auto- “Nor pass the words as idle phrases by; graph ;
Stranger ! I never writ a flattery, So I refuse, accept, lament, or laugh, Nor sign'd the page that register'd a
lie." “ Condole, congratulate, invite, praise,
scoff. Day after day still dipping in my trough,
MRS. KATHERINE'S LANTERN. And scribbling pages after pages off.
WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM. “Day after day the labor's to be done, And sure as comes the postman and “Coming from a gloomy court,
Place of Israelite resort, The indefatigable ink must run. This old lamp I've brought with me.
Madam, on its panes you'll see
The initials K and E. “Go back, my pretty little gilded tome,
“An old lantern brought to me? To a fair mistress and a pleasant home, Ugly, dingy, battered, black !" Where soft hearts greet us whenso- (Here a lady I suppose e'er we come!
Turning up a pretty nose)
Pray, sir, take the old thing back. "Dear, friendly eyes, with constant I've no taste for bricabrac.”
kindness lit, However rude my verse, or poor my
“ Please to mark the letters twain " wit,
(I'm supposed to speak again) – Or sador gay my mood, you welcome it. Graven on the lantern pane.