THE ROMANCE OF NICK VAN STANN.
True-true, 'twas a story for ages of pride;
He died in his glory-but, oh, he has died!
The dead-bells are tolling in sad Malahide,
The death-wail is rolling along the sea-side;
The crowds, heavy-hearted, withdraw from the green,
For the sun has departed that brighten'd the scene!
THE ROMANCE OF NICK VAN STANN.-JOHN G. SAXE.
CANNOT vouch my tale is true,
Nor say, indeed, 'tis wholly new ;
But true or false, or new or old,
I think you'll find it fairly told.
A Frenchman, who had ne'er before
Set foot upon a foreign shore,
Weary of home, resolved to go
And see what Holland had to show.
He didn't know a word of Dutch,
But that could hardly grieve him much;
He thought, as Frenchmen always do,
That all the world could "parley-voo."
At length our eager tourist stands
Within the famous Netherlands,
And, strolling gayly here and there,
In search of something rich or rare,
A lordly mansion greets his eyes;
"How beautiful!" the Frenchman cries,
And, bowing to the man who sate
In livery at the garden-gate,
"Pray, Mr. Porter, if you please,
Whose very charming grounds are these?
And, pardon me, be pleased to tell
Who in this splendid house may dwell ?"
To which, in Dutch, the puzzled man
Replied what seemed like "Nick Van Stann."
"Thanks!" said the Gaul," the owner's taste
Is equally superb and chaste;
THE ROMANCE OF NICK VAN STANN.
So fine a house, upon my word,
Not even Paris can afford;
With statues, too, in every niche;
Of course Monsieur Van Stann is rich,
And lives, I warrant, like a king,—
Ah! wealth must be a charming thing!"
In Amsterdam the Frenchman meets
A thousand wonders in the streets,
But most he marvels to behold
A lady dressed in silk and gold;
Gazing with rapture on the dame,
He begs to know the lady's name,
And hears, to raise his wonder more,
The very words he heard before!
"Mercie!" he cries, "well, on my life,
Milord has got a charming wife;
'Tis plain to see this Nick Van Stann
Must be a very happy man."
Next day our tourist chanced to pop
His head within a lottery shop,
And there he saw, with staring eyes,
The drawing of the mammoth prize.
"Ten millions! 'tis a pretty sum;
I wish I had as much at home:
I'd like to know, as I'm a sinner,
What lucky fellow is the winner?"
Conceive our traveller's amaze
To hear again the hackneyed phrase.
"What? no! not Nick Van Stann again?
Faith! he's the luckiest of men.
You may be sure we don't advance
So rapidly as that in France:
A house, the finest in the land;
A lovely garden, nicely planned;
A perfect angel of a wife,
And gold enough to last a life;
There never yet was mortal man
So blest as Monsieur Nick Van Stann!"
Next day the Frenchman chanced to meet
A pompous funeral in the street;
And, asking one who stood close by
What nobleman had pleased to die,
Was stunned to hear the old reply.
The Frenchman sighed and shook his head,
"Mon Dieu! poor Nick Van Stann is dead;
With such a house, and such a wife,
It must be hard to part with life;
And then, to lose that mammoth prize,-
He wins, and, pop,-the winner dies!
Ah, well! his blessings came so fast,
I greatly feared they could not last:
And thus, we see, the sword of Fate
Cuts down alike the small and great."
NDER the lamp-light, dead in the street,
Delicate, fair, and only twenty,
There she lies,
Face to the skies,
Starved to death in a city of plenty.
Spurned by all that is pure and sweet,
Passed by busy and careless feet;
Hundreds bent upon folly and pleasure,
Hundreds with plenty of time and leisure,—
Leisure to speed Christ's mission below,
To teach the erring and raise the lowly;
Plenty in Charity's name to show
That life has something divine and holy.
Boasted charms, classical brow,
Delicate features, look at them now;
Look at her lips,-once they could smile;
Eyes, well, ne'vermore shall they beguile;
Nevermore, nevermore words of hers
A blush shall bring to the saintliest face.
She had found, let us hope and trust,
Peace in a higher and better place.
And yet, despite of all, still I ween
Joy of some hearth she must have been.
Some fond mother, fond of the task,
Has stooped to finger the dainty curl;
Some proud father has bowed to ask
A blessing for her, his darling girl.
Hard to think, as we look at her there,
Of all the tenderness, love, and care,
Lonely watching and sore heartache,—
All the agony, burning tears,
Joys and sorrows, hopes and fears,
Breathed and suffered for her sweet sake.
Fancy will picture a home afar,
Out where the daisies and buttercups are;
Out where life-giving breezes flow,
Far from those sodden streets, foul and low;
Fancy will picture a lonely hearth,
And an aged couple, dead to mirth,
Kneeling beside a bed to pray,
Or lying awake o' nights to hark
For things that may come in the rain and dark,-
A hollow-eyed woman with weary feet:
Better they never know
She whom they cherished so
Lies this night lone and low,-
Dead in the street.
BORRIOBOOLA-GHA.
ASTRANGER preached last Sunday,
And of people came,
To hear a two hours' sermon
With a barbarous-sounding name; "Twas all about some heathen,
Thousands of miles afar,
Who live in a land of darkness,
Called "Borrioboola-Gha."
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