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Yon are the works of Brahmin loom ;

On such a web of Persian thread
The desert Arab bows his head,

And cries his prayer.

Look yonder where the engines toil ;

These England's arms of conquest are,
The trophies of her bloodless war:

Brave weapons these.
Victorious over wave and soil,

With these she sails, she weaves, she tills,
Pierces the everlasting hills

And spans the seas.

The engine roars upon its race,

The shuttle whirrs along the woof,
The people hum from floor to roof,

With Babel tongue.
The fountain in the basin plays,

The chanting organ echoes clear,
An awful chorus 'tis to hear,

A wondrous song!

Swell organ, swell, your trumpet blast,

March, Queen and Royal pageant, march
By splendid aisle and springing arch

Of this fair Hall :
And see! above the fabric vast,

God's boundless Heaven is bending blue,
God's peaceful sunlight's beaming through,

And shines o'er all, 'May, 1851.


A STREET there is in Paris famous,

For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is—

The 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

A sort of soup or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,

Tha Greenwich never could outdo; Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffern,

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace; All these you eat at TERRÉ’s tavern,

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis ;

And true philosophers, methinks, Who love all sorts of natural beauties,

Should love good victuals and good drinks. And Cordelier or Benedictine

Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,

Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.

I wonder if the house still there is ?

Yes, here the lamp is, as before; The smiling red-cheeked écaillère is

Still opening oysters at the door.
Is TERRÉ still alive and able ?

I recollect his droll grimace;
He'd come and smile before your table,

And hoped you liked your 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 ?”

“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 TERRÉ’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,

The table still is in the nook; Ah! vanish'd many a busy year is,

This well-known chair since last I took. When first I saw ye, Cari luoghi,

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,

Of early days, here met to dine ? Come, Waiter ! quick, a flagon crusty

I'll pledge them in the good old wine. The kind old voices and old faces

My memory can quick retrace ; Around the board they take their places,

And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.

There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage

There's laughing Tom is laughing yet; There's brave AUGUSTUS drives his carriage;

There's poor old Fred in the Gazette ; On James's head the grass is growing:

Good Lord! the world has wagged apace Since here we set the Claret flowing,

And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.

Ah me! how quick the days are flitting !

I mind me of a time that's gone,
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting,

In this same place—but not alone.
A fair young form was nestled near me,

A dear, dear face looked fondly up, And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me -There's no one now to share my cup. * *


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 ;
Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill,
Little care we:
Little we fear
Weather without,
Sheltered about
The Mahogany Tree.

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.

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