Yon are the works of Brahmin loom; prayer. Look yonder where the engines toil; Brave weapons these. Victorious over wave and soil, With these she sails, she weaves, she tills, Pierces the everlasting hills The engine roars upon its race, With Babel tongue. The fountain in the basin plays, A wondrous song! Swell organ, swell, your trumpet blast, Of this fair Hall: And see! above the fabric vast, 'May, 1851. God's boundless Heaven is bending blue, God's peaceful sunlight's beaming through, And shines o'er all. THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. A STREET there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name isThe New Street of the Little Fields; And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable case; The which in youth I oft attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. ; This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is- Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis ; Should love good victuals and good drinks. And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, I wonder if the house still there is ? I recollect his droll grimace; He'd come and smile before your table, Bouillabaisse. We enter-nothing's changed or older. "How's Monsieur TERRÉ, Waiter, pray ?" The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder— "Monsieur is dead this many a day." "It is the lot of saint and sinner, So honest TERRÉ's run his race.' "What will Monsieur require for dinner ?" Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ? " 66 "Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ? " "Tell me a good one."—" That I can, Sir: The Chambertin with yellow seal." "SO TERRE's gone," I say, and sink in My old accustom'd corner-place; "He's done with feasting and with drinking, With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." My old accustom'd corner here is, This well-known chair since last I took. I'd scarce a beard upon my face, And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. Where are you, old companions trusty, There's JACK has made a wondrous marriage And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! I drink it as the Fates ordain it. Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes: Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it In memory of dear old times. Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is; And sit you down and say your grace With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. -Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse ! THE MAHOGANY TREE. CHRISTMAS is here; Icy and chill, Little care we: Weather without, The Mahogany Tree. Once on the boughs, Perched round the stem Of the jolly old tree. Here let us sport, When we are gone, |