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 murmur'd, "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 fill'd! Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd; 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. A STREET there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields. This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is- Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, Indeed, a rich and savory 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, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. I wonder if the house still there is? I recollect his droll grimace: He'd come and smile before your table, And hope 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; 66 Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ? ” "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, 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 I'll pledge them in the good old wine. 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; On JAMES'S head the grass is growing: And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! In this same place-but not alone. Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes: Fill up the lonely glass and drain it In memory of dear old times. |