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 ! WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
Saint Peïay.
ADDRESSED TO H. T. P.
WHEN to any saint I pray,
It shall be to Saint Peray.
He alone, of all the brood,
Ever did me any good:
Many I have tried that are
Humbugs in the calendar.
On the Atlantic, faint and sick,
Once I prayed Saint Dominick:
He was holy, sure, and wise;
Was't not he that did devise
Auto da Fes and rosaries?
But for one in my condition
This good saint was no physician.
Next, in pleasant Normandie,
I made a prayer to Saint Denis,
In the great cathedral, where
All the ancient kings repose;
But how I was swindled there
At the "Golden Fleece," he knows!
In my wanderings, vague and various,
Reaching Naples, as I lay
Watching Vesuvius from the bay,
I besought Saint Januarius;
But I was a fool to try him;
Naught I said could liquefy him ;
And I swear he did me wrong,
Keeping me shut up so long
In that pest-house, with obscene
Jews and Greeks and things unclean-
What need had I of quarantine?
In Sicily at least a score
In Spain about as many more —
And in Rome almost as many
As the loves of Don Giovanni,
Did I pray to-sans reply;
Devil take the tribe! said I.
Worn with travel, tired and lame,
To Assisi's walls I came;
Sad and full of homesick fancies,
I addressed me to Saint Francis;
But the beggar never did
Any thing as he was bid,
Never gave me aught - but fleas -
Plenty had I at Assise.
But in Provence, near Vaucluse,
Hard by the Rhone, I found a Saint Gifted with a wondrous juice,
Potent for the worst complaint.
'Twas at Avignon that first,
In the witching time of thirst,
To my brain the knowledge came
Of this blessed Catholic's name;
Forty miles of dust that day
Made me welcome Saint Peray.
Though till then I had not heard
Aught about him, ere a third
Of a litre passed my lips,
All saints else were in eclipse.
For his gentle spirit glided
With such magic into mine,
That methought such bliss as I did
Poet never drew from wine.
Rest he gave me, and refection,
Chastened hopes, calm retrospection,
Softened images of sorrow,
Bright forebodings for the morrow,
Charity for what is past,
Faith in something good at last.
Now, why should any almanack
The name of this good creature lack?
Or wherefore should the breviary
Omit a saint so sage and merry?
The busy deck is hushed, no sounds are waking
But the watch pacing silently and slow;
The waves against the sides incessant breaking,
And rope and canvas swaying to and fro.
The topmast sail, it seems like some dim pinnacle
Cresting a shadowy tower amid the air;
While red and fitful gleams come from the binnacle,
The only light on board to guide us—where?
My friends, my absent friends!
Far from my native land, and far from you.
On one side of the ship, the moonbeam's shimmer
In luminous vibrations sweeps the sea,
But where the shadow falls, a strange, pale glimmer
Seems, glow-worm like, amid the waves to be.
All that the spirit thinks of thought and feeling,
Takes visionary hues from such an hour;
But while some phantasy is o'er me stealing,
I start remembrance has a keener power:
My friends, my absent friends!
From the fair dream I start to think of you.
A dusk line in the moonlight - I discover What all day long I vainly sought to catch; Or is it but the varying clouds that hover
Thick in the air, to mock the eyes that watch? No; well the sailor knows each speck, appearing, Upon the tossing waves, the far-off strand; To that dark line our eager ship is steering, Her voyage done-to-morrow we shall land.
LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON.
The Journey Onwards.
As slow our ship her foamy track
Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still looked back
To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
So loth we part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts, as on we rove,
To those we've left behind us!
When, round the bowl, of vanished years
We talk with joyous seeming,
With smiles that might as well be tears,
So faint, so sad their beaming;
While memory brings us back again
Each early tie that twined us,
Oh sweet's the cup that circles then
To those we've left behind us!
And when, in other climes, we meet
Some isle or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,
And naught but love is wanting;
We think how great had been our bliss
If Heaven had but assigned us
To live and die in scenes like this,
With some we've left behind us!
As travellers oft look back at eve
When eastward darkly going,
To gaze upon that light they leave
Still faint behind them glowing,—
So when the close of pleasure's day
To gloom hath near consigned us,
We turn to catch one fading ray
Of joy that's left behind us.
The Good Time Coming.
THERE'S a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
We may not live to see the day,
But earth shall glisten in the ray
Of the good time coming.
Cannon-balls may aid the truth,
But thought's a weapon stronger; We'll win our battle by its aid ; Wait a little longer.
There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
The pen shall supersede the sword,
And Right, not Might, shall be the lord
In the good time coming.
Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind,
And be acknowledged stronger; The proper impulse has been given ;Wait a little longer.
There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
War in all men's eyes shall be
A monster of iniquity
In the good time coming.
Nations shall not quarrel then,
To prove which is the stronger;
Nor slaughter men for glory's sake;-
Wait a little longer.
There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
Hateful rivalries of creed
Shall not make their martyrs bleed
In the good time coming.
Religion shall be shorn of pride,
And flourish all the stronger; And Charity shall trim her lamp; Wait a little longer.
There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming: And a poor man's family Shall not be his misery
In the good time coming. Every child shall be a help
To make his right arm stronger; The happier he, the more he has ;Wait a little longer.
There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
Little children shall not toil
Under, or above, the soil
In the good time coming;
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