THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. From THACKERAY'S Miscellaneous Works, lately published. Humour is finely mingled with touches of pathos. A STREET there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, The which in youth I oft attended, This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is- Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis ; Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks. And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. I wonder if the house still there is ? I recollect his droll grimace; And hoped you liked your Bouillabaisse. Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! I drink it as the Fates ordain it, Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is; THE OLD MAN'S COUNSEL. By W. C. BRYANT. AMONG Our hills and valleys, I have known Seedtime and harvest, or the vernal shower That darken'd the brown tilth, or snow that beat Who veils his glory with the elements. One such I knew long since, a white-hair'd man, Pithy of speech, and merry when he would; A genial optimist, who daily drew From what he saw his quaint moralities. Kindly he held communion, though so old, The sun of May was bright in middle heaven, Stood cluster'd, ready to burst forth in bloom, For hours, and wearied not. Within the woods, A shade, gay circles of anemones Danced on their stalks; the shadbrush, white with flowers, Brighten'd the glens; the new-leaved butternut And quivering poplar to the roving breeze Gave a balsamic fragrance. In the fields I saw the pulses of the gentle wind On the young grass. My heart was touch'd with joy Into a fuller beauty; but my friend, The thoughtful ancient, standing at my side, Gazed on it mildly sad. I ask'd him why. "Well mayst thou join in gladness," he replied, "With the glad earth, her springing plants and flowers, And this soft wind, the herald of the green Luxuriant summers. Thou art young like them, And well mayst thou rejoice. But while the flight Of seasons fills and knits thy spreading frame, It withers mine, and thins mine hair, and dims These eyes, whose fading light shall soon be quench'd In utter darkness. Hearest thou that bird ?" I listen'd, and from midst the depth of woods Partridge they call him by our northern streams, 'Gainst his barr'd sides his speckled wings, and made At first, then fast and faster, till at length 66 "There hast thou," said my friend, a fitting type Of human life. 'Tis an old truth, I know, But images like these revive the power Of long familiar truths. Slow pass our days In childhood, and the hours of light are long Betwixt the morn and eve; with swifter lapse They glide in manhood, and in age they fly; Till days and seasons flit before the mind As flit the snow-flakes in a winter storm, Seen rather than distinguished. Ah! I seem As if I sat within a helpless bark By swiftly running waters hurried on To shoot some mighty cliff. Along the banks Bare sands, and pleasant homes, and flowery nooks, . "Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long, Long since that white-hair'd ancient slept-but still, When the red flower-buds crowd the orchard bough, And the ruff'd grouse is drumming far within The woods, his venerable form again Is at my side, his voice is in my ear. |