Our brethren cross the Atlantic tides, With peaceful store; Symbol of peace, their vessel rides! 1 The father shore! From Rhine and Danube, Rhone and Seine, And seaward pour: From coast to coast in friendly chain, With countless ships we bridge the straits, And angry ocean separates Europe no more. From Mississippi and from Nile — Are friend and guest. Look down the mighty sunlit aisle, Around the feast! Along the dazzling colonnade, Far as the straining eye can gaze, Gleam cross and fountain, bell and vase, In vistas bright; And statues fair of nymph and maid, 1 The U. S. frigate "St. Lawrence." To deck the glorious roof and dome, Their standards bear. Yon are the works of Brahmin loom; And cries his prayer. Look yonder where the engines toil: Brave weapons these. Victorious over wave and soil, With these she sails, she weaves, she tills, And spans the seas. The engine roars upon its race, The fountain in the basin plays, The chanting organ echoes clear, A wondrous song! Swell, organ, swell your trumpet blast, March, Queen and Royal pageant, march By splendid aisle and springing arch Of this fair Hall: And see! above the fabric vast, God's boundless Heaven is bending blue, May, 1851. THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE STREET there is in Paris famous, A 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, The which in youth I oft attended, This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is -- A sort of soup or broth, or brew, Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 't is; Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, I wonder if the house still there is? Is TERRE still alive and able? He'd come and smile before your table, We enter-nothing's changed or older. "It is the lot of saint and sinner, So honest TERRE'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: 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 The kind old voices and old faces There's JACK has made a wondrous marriage; And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! I drink it as the Fates ordain it. Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes: up the lonely glass, and drain it Fill In memory of dear old times. Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is; |