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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,
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,
That 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-cheek'd 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 year." "It is the lot of saint and sinner,

So honest Terré's run his race.'

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"What will Monsieur require for dinner ?" "Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ?"

"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; Quel vin Monsieur désire-t-il ?"

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"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 tedious 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,
But 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 look'd 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 OLD MAN'S COUNSEL.

By W. C. BRYANT.

AMONG Our hills and valleys, I have known
Wise and grave men, who, while their diligent hands
Tended or gather'd in the fruits of earth,
Were reverend learners in the solemn school
Of nature. Not in vain to them were sent

Seedtime and harvest, or the vernal shower
That darken'd the brown tilth, or snow that beat
On the white winter hills. Each brought in turn
Some truth, some lesson on the life of man,

Or recognition of the Eternal mind

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,
With me a dreaming boy, and taught me much
That books tell not, and I shall ne'er forget.

The sun of May was bright in middle heaven,
And steep'd the sprouting forests, the green hills,
And emerald wheatfields, in his yellow light.
Upon the apple-tree, where rosy buds

Stood cluster'd, ready to burst forth in bloom,
The robin warbled forth his full clear note

For hours, and wearied not. Within the woods,

Whose young and half transparent leaves scarce cast

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
At so much beauty, flushing every hour

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
Heard the love-signal of the grouse, that wears
A sable ruff around his mottled neck;

Partridge they call him by our northern streams,
And pheasant by the Delaware. He beat

'Gainst his barr'd sides his speckled wings, and made
A sound like distant thunder; slow the strokes

At first, then fast and faster, till at length
They passed into a murmur and were still.

"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
Grove after grove, rock after frowning rock,

Bare sands, and pleasant homes, and flowery nooks, .
And isles and whirlpools in the stream appear
Each after each; but the devoted skiff
Darts by so swiftly that their images
Dwell not upon upon the mind, or only dwell
In dim confusion: faster yet I sweep
By other banks, and the great gulf is near.

"Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long,
And this fair change of seasons passes slow,
Gather and treasure up the good they yield-
All that they teach of virtue, of pure thoughts
And kind affections, reverence for thy God
And for thy brethren; so when thou shalt come
Into these barren years, thou mayst not bring
A mind unfurnish'd and a wither'd heart."

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.

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