SAINT PERAY. 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. On the Atlantic, faint and sick, Next, in pleasant Normandie, All the ancient kings repose; At the "Golden Fleece," he knows! In my wanderings, vague and various, In that pest-house, with obscene In Sicily at least a score In Spain about as many more — Worn with travel, tired and lame, Sad and full of homesick fancies, Any thing as he was bid, Never gave me aught - but fleas - 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, Though till then I had not heard With such magic into mine, Rest he gave me, and refection, Now, why should any almanack 177 The busy deck is hushed, no sounds are waking Far from my native land, and far from you. On one side of the ship, the moonbeam's shimmer 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 From all the links that bind us; When, round the bowl, of vanished years And when, in other climes, we meet With some we've left behind us! As travellers oft look back at eve THOMAS MOORE. The Good Time Coming. THERE'S a good time coming, boys, 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, The pen shall supersede the sword, 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 In the good time coming. Nations shall not quarrel then, To prove which is the stronger; Nor slaughter men for glory's sake;- 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, In the good time coming; |