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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, imid the gay cheer, Some kind voice had murmur’d, “I wish he were
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.
THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE.
A STREET there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields.
The New Street of the Little Fields.
But still in comfortable case;
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is
A sort of soup or broth or brew,
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace:
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis;
And true philosophers, methinks,
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 ?
Yes, here the lamp is, as before; The smiling red-cheek'd écaillère is
Still opening oysters at the door.
I recollect his droll grimace:
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;
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,
The table still is in the nook; Ah! vanish'd 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 wagg'd 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,
In this same place—but not alone.
A dear, dear face look'd fondly up,
- 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.