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HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND? The fool who would quarrel for difference of

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FRIEND OF MY SOUL.

FRIEND of my soul! this goblet sip'T will chase the pensive tear; 'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip, But, oh! 't is more sincere. Like her delusive beam,

'T will steal away the mind, But unlike affection's dream, It leaves no sting behind.

Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade-
These flowers were culled at noon;
Like woman's love the rose will fade,
But ah! not half so soon:
For though the flower's decayed,

Its fragrance is not o'er;

But once when love's betrayed,
The heart can bloom no more.

THOMAS MOORE.

TO THOMAS MOORE.

My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea; But, before I go, Tom Moore, Here's a double health to thee!

Here's a sigh for those that love me, And a smile for those who hate; And, whatever sky's above me, Here's a heart for every fate.

Though the ocean roar around me,

Yet it still shall bear me on; Though a desert should surround me, It hath springs that may be won.

Were 't the last drop in the well, As I gasped upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell

'Tis to thee that I would drink.

With that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour Should be-Peace with thine and mine, And a health to thee, Tom Moore !

LORD BYRON.

FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR.

FAREWELL! but whenever you welcome the hour

That awakens the night-song of mirth in you. bower,

Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,

And forgot his own griefs to be happy with

you.

His griefs may return-not a hope may remain Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain

But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw

Its enchantment around him while lingering with you!

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up

To the highest top-sparkle each heart and each cup,

Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright My soul, happy friends! shall be with you that night

Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,

And return to me beaming all o'er with your

smiles;

Too blest if it tells me that, mid the gay cheer,

Some kind voice had murmured, "I wish he

were here!"

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy!

Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,

And bring back the features that joy used to

wear.

Long, long be my heart with such memories filled!

Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled;

You may break, you may ruin the vase if you will,

But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

THOMAS MOORE

THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE.

THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE.

A STREET there is in Paris famous,

For which no rhyme our language yields, Rae Neuve des petits Champs its name is

The New Street of the Little Fields; And there's an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable caseThe 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, muscles, 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 savory stew 't is;
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.

! wonder if the house still there is?
Yes, here the lamp is as before;
The smiling, red-cheeked 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 day."

"It is the lot of saint and sinner.

So honest Terré '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."

189

"So Terré's gone," I say, and sink in My old accustomed corner-place; "He's done with feasting and with drinking With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse."

My old accustomed corner here is-
The table still is in the nook;
Ah! vanished 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 ! WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

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