Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron,

  Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace:

  All these you eat at TERR�'S tavern,

  In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

  Indeed, a rich and savory 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-checked �caill�re is

  Still opening oysters at the door.

  Is TERR� still alive and able?

  I recollect his droll grimace:

  He'd come and smile before your table,

  And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.

  We enter--nothing's changed or older.

  "How's Monsieur TERR�, 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 TERR�'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 TERR�'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.

  Evenings we knew,

  Happy as this;

  Faces we miss,

  Pleasant to see.

  Kind hearts and true,

  Gentle and just,

  Peace to your dust!

  We sing round the tree.

  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.--

  Friend, art afraid?

  Spirits are laid

  In the Red Sea.

  Mantle it up;

  Empty it yet;

  Let us forget,

  Round the old tree.

  Sorrows, begone!

  Life and its ills,

  Duns and their bills,

  Bid we to flee.

  Come with the dawn,

  Blue-devil sprite,

  Leave us to-night,

  Round the old tree.

  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 enlisted on account of some female difficulty."--Morning Paper.

  Ye Yankee Volunteers!

  It makes my bosom bleed

  When I your story read,

  Though oft 'tis told one.

  So--in both hemispheres

  The women are untrue,

  And cruel in the New,

  As in the Old one!

  What--in this company

  Of sixty sons of Mars,

  Who march 'neath Stripes and Stars,

  With fife and horn,

  Nine-tenths of all we see

  Along the warlike line

  Had but one cause to join

  This Hope Forlorn?

  Deserters from the realm

  Where tyrant Venus reigns,

  You slipp'd her wicked chains,

  Fled and out-ran her.

  And now, with sword and helm,

  Together banded are

  Beneath the Stripe and Star

  Embroider'd banner!

  And is it so with all

  The warriors ranged in line,

  With lace bedizen'd fine

  And swords gold-hilted--

  Yon lusty corporal,

  Yon color-man who gripes

  The flag of Stars and Stripes--

  Has each been jilted?

  Come, each man of this line,

  The privates strong and tall,

  "The pioneers and all,"

  The fifer nimble--

  Lieutenant and Ensign,

  Captain with epaulets,

  And Blacky there, who beats

  The clanging cymbal--

  O cymbal-beating black,

  Tell us, as thou canst feel,

  Was it some Lucy Neal

  Who caused thy ruin?

  O nimble fifing Jack,

  And drummer making din

  So deftly on the skin,

  With thy rat-tattooing--

  Confess, ye volunteers,

  Lieutenant and Ensign,

  And Captain of the line,

  As bold as Roman--

  Confess, ye grenadiers,

  However strong and tall,

  The Conqueror of you all

  Is Woman, Woman!

  No corselet is so proof

  But through it from her bow

  The shafts that she can throw

  Will pierce and rankle.

  No champion e'er so tough,

  But's in the struggle thrown,

  And tripp'd and trodden down

  By her slim ankle.

  Thus always it was ruled:

  And when a woman smiled,

  The strong man was a child,

  The sage a noodle.

  Alcides was befool'd,

  And silly Samson shorn,

  Long, long ere you were horn,

  Poor Yankee Doodle!

  THE PEN AND THE ALBUM.

  "I am Miss Catherine's book," the album speaks;

  "I've lain among your tomes these many weeks;

  I'm tired of their old coats and yellow cheeks.

  "Quick, Pen! and write a line with a good grace:

  Come! draw me off a funny little face;

  And, prithee, send me back to Chesham Place."

  PEN.

  "I am my master's faithful old Gold Pen;

  I've served him three long years, and drawn since then

  Thousands of funny women and droll men.

  "O Album! could I tell you all his ways

  And thoughts, since I am his, these thousand days,

  Lord, how your pretty pages I'd amaze!"

  ALBUM.

  "His ways? his thoughts? Just whisper me a few;

  Tell me a curious anecdote or two,

  And write 'em quickly off, good Mordan, do!"

  PEN.

  "Since he my faithful service did engage

  To follow him through his queer pilgrimage,

  I've drawn and written many a line and page.

  "Caricatures I scribbled have, and rhymes,

  And dinner-cards, and picture pantomimes;

  And merry little children's books at times.

  "I've writ the foolish fancy of his brain;

  The aimless jest that, striking, hath caused pain;

  The idle word that he'd wish back again.

  . . . . . .

  "I've help'd him to pen many a line for bread;

  To joke with sorrow aching in his head;

  And make your laughter when his own heart bled.

  "I've spoke with men of all degree and sort--

  Peers of the land, and ladies of the Court;

  Oh, but I've chronicled a deal of sport!

  "Feasts that were ate a thousand days ago,

  Biddings to wine that long hath ceased to flow,

  Gay meetings with good fellows long laid low;

  "Summons to bridal, banquet, burial, ball,

  Tradesman's polite reminders of his small

  Account due Christmas last--I've answered all.

  "Poor Diddler's tenth petition for a half-

  Guinea; Miss Bunyan's for an autograph;

  So I refuse, accept, lament, or laugh,

  "Condole, congratulate, invite, praise, scoff.

  Day after day still dipping in my trough,

  And scribbling pages after pages off.

  "Day after day the labor's to be done,

  And sure as comes the postman and the sun,

  The indefatigable ink must run.

  . . . . .

  "Go back, my pretty little gilded tome,

  To a fair mistress and a pleasant home,

  Where soft hearts greet us whensoe'er we come!

  "Dear, friendly eyes, with constant kindness lit,

  However rude my verse, or poor my wit,

  Or sad or gay my mood, you welcome it.

  "Kind lady! till my last of lines is penn'd,

  My master's love, grief, laughter, at an end,

  Whene'er I write your name, may I write friend!

  "Not all are so that were so in past years;

  Voices, familiar once, no more he hears;

  Names, often writ, are blotted out in tears.

  "So be it:--joys will end and tears will dry--

  Album! my master bids me wish good-by,

  He'll send you to your mistress presently.

  "And thus with thankful heart he closes you;

  Blessing the happy hour when a friend he knew

  So gentle, and so generous, and so true.

  "Nor pass the words as idle phrases by;

  Stranger! I never writ a flattery,

  Nor sign'd the page that register'd a lie."

  MRS. KATHERINE'S LANTERN.

  WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM.

  "Coming from a gloomy court,

  Place of Israelite resort,

  This old lamp I've brought with me.

  Madam, on its panes you'll see

  The initials K and E."

  "An old lantern brought to me?

  Ugly, dingy, battered, black!"

  (Here a lady I suppose

  Turning up a pretty nose)--

  "Pray, sir, take the old thing back.

  I've no taste for bricabrac."

  "Please to mark the letters twain"--

  (I'm supposed to speak again)--

  "Graven on the lantern pane.

  Can you tell me who was she,

  Mistress of the flowery wreath,

  And the anagram beneath--

  The mysterious K E?

  "Full a hundred years are gone

  Since the little beacon shone

  From a Venice balcony:

  There, on summer nights, it hung,

  And her Lovers came and sung

  To their beautiful K E.

  "Hush! in the canal below

  Don't you hear the plash of oars

  Underneath the lantern's glow,

  And a thrilling voice begins

  To the sound of mandolins?

  Begins singing of amore

  And delire and dolore--

  O the ravishing tenore!

  "Lady, do you know the tune?

  Ah, we all of us have hummed it!

  I've an old guitar has thrummed it,

  Under many a changing moon.

  Shall I try it? Do Re MI . .

  What is this? Ma foi, the fact is,

  That my hand is out of practice,

  And my poor old fiddle cracked is,

  And a man--I let the truth out,--

  Who's had almost every tooth out,

  Cannot sing as once he sung,

  When he was young as you are young,

  When he was young and lutes were strung,

  And love-lamps in the casement hung."

  LUCY'S BIRTHDAY.

  Seventeen rosebuds in a ring,

  Thick with sister flowers beset,

  In a fragrant coronet,

  Lucy's servants this day bring.

  Be it the birthday wreath she wears

  Fresh and fair, and symbolling

  The young number of her years,

  The sweet blushes of her spring.

  Types of youth and love and hope!

  Friendly hearts your mistress greet,

  Be you ever fair and sweet,

  And grow lovelier as you ope!

  Gentle nursling, fenced about

  With fond care, and guarded so,

  Scarce you've heard of storms without,

  Frosts that bite or winds that blow!

  Kindly has your life begun,

  And we pray that heaven may send

  To our floweret a warm sun,

  A calm summer, a sweet end.

  And where'er shall be her home,

  May she decorate the place;

  Still expanding into bloom,

  And developing in grace.

  THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR.

  In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars,

  And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars,

  Away from the world and its toils and its cares,

  I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.

  To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,

  But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure;

  And the view I behold on a sunshiny day

  Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way.

  This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks

  With worthless old knick-knacks and silly old books,

  And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,

  Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.

  Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china, (all crack'd,)

  Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed;

  A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see;

  What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.

  No better divan need the Sultan require,

  Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire;

  And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get

  From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.

  That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp;

  By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp;

  A mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn:

  'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.

  Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes,

  Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times;

  As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie

  This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.

  But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,

  There's one that I love and I cherish the best:

  For the finest of couches that's padded with hair

  I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair.

  'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat,

  With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet;

  But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there,

  I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair.

  If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms,

  A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old arms!

  I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair;

  I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair.

  It was but a moment she sat in this place,

  She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face!

  A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair,

  And she sat there, and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair.

  And so I have valued my chair ever since,

  Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince;

  Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare,

  The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair.

  When the candles burn low, and the company's gone,

  In the silence of night as I sit here alone--

  I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair--

  My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair.

  She comes from the past and revisits my room;

  She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom;

  So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair,

  And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair.

  PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX.

  LINES WRITTEN TO AN ALBUM PRINT.

  As on this pictured page I look,

  This pretty tale of line and hook

  As though it were a novel-book

  Amuses and engages:

  I know them both, the boy and girl;

  She is the daughter of the Earl,

  The lad (that has his hair in curl)

  My lord the County's page as.

  A pleasant place for such a pair!

  The fields lie basking in the glare;

  No breath of wind the heavy air

  Of lazy summer quickens.

  Hard by you see the castle tall;

  The village nestles round the wall,

  As round about the hen its small

  Young progeny of chickens.

  It is too hot to pace the keep;

  To climb the turret is too steep;

  My lord the earl is dozing deep,

  His noonday dinner over:

  The postern-warder is asleep

  (Perhaps they've bribed him not to peep):

  And so from out the gate they creep,

  And cross the fields of clover.

  Their lines into the brook they launch;

  He lays his cloak upon a branch,

  To guarantee his Lady Blanche

  's delicate complexion:

  He takes his rapier, from his haunch,

  That beardless doughty champion staunch;

  He'd drill it through the rival's paunch

  That question'd his affection!

  O heedless pair of sportsmen slack!

  You never mark, though trout or jack,

  Or little foolish stickleback,

  Your baited snares may capture.

  What care has SHE for line and hook?

  She turns her back upon the brook,

  Upon her lover's eyes to look

  In sentimental rapture.

  O loving pair! as thus I gaze

  Upon the girl who smiles always,

  The little hand that ever plays

  Upon the lover's shoulder;

  In looking at your pretty shapes,

  A sort of envious wish escapes

  (Such as the Fox had for the Grapes)

  The Poet your beholder.

  To be brave, handsome, twenty-two;

  With nothing else on earth to do,

  But all day long to bill and coo:

  It were a pleasant calling.

  And had I such a partner sweet;

 

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