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The sparkling juice now pour,

SAINT PERAY.

With fond and liberal hand;
Oh raise the laughing rim once more,
Here's to our Fatherland!
Up, every soul that hears,

Hurrah! with three times three;
And shout aloud, with deafening cheers,
The "Island of the Free!

Then fill the wine-cup high,

The sparkling liquor pour;

For we will care and grief defy,
They ne'er shall plague us more.
And ere the snowy foam

From off the wine departs,

The precious draught shall find a homeA dwelling in our hearts.

ROBERT FOLKESTONE WILLIAMS.

SAINT PERAY.

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

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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?

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Whate'er I see is linked with thoughts The busy deck is hushed, no sounds are wak

of you.

No life is in the air, but in the waters

Are creatures, huge, and terrible, and

strong;

ing

But the watch pacing silently and slow;

The waves against the sides incessant break

ing,

And rope and canvas swaying to and fro.

The sword-fish and the shark pursue their The topmast sail, it seems like some dim pin

slanghters,

War universal reigns these depths along.

nacle

Cresting a shadowy tower amid the air;

While red and fitful gleams come from the binnacle.

The only light on board to guide uswhere ?

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 feel

ing,

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 vainly I 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.

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.

THOMAS MOoan

THE MAHOGANY TREE.

CHRISTMAS is here;
Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill,

Little care we;
Little we fear
Weather without,
Sheltered about
The Mahogany Tree.

Once on the boughs

Birds of rare plume

Sang, in its bloom;

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 't was 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!

Night birds are we;

Here we carouse, Singing, like them, Perched round the stem

Of the jolly old tree.

Here let us sport,
Boys, as we sit-
Laughter and wit
Flashing so free.

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