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CCCCXXIV.

WHERE ARE SIGHS?

UNLESS my senses are more dull,
Sighs are become less plentiful.
Where are they all ? these many years
Only my own have reach'd my ears.

Walter Savage Landor.

CCCCXXV.

CHILDREN PLAYING IN A CHURCHYARD,

CHILDREN, keep up that harmless play,

our kindred angels plainly say, By God's authority, ye may.

Be prompt His holy word to hear,
It teaches you to banish fear ;
The lesson lies on all sides near.

Ten summers hence the sprightliest lad
In Nature's face will look more sad,
And ask, where are those smiles she had ?

Ere many days the last will close,
Play on, play on, for then (who knows?)
Ye who play here may here repose.

Walter Savage Landor.

CCCCXXVI.

PEACE,

A Study.

He stood, a worn-out City clerk

Who'd toil'd, and seen no holiday,
For forty years from dawn to dark

Alone beside Caermarthen Bay.

He felt the salt spray on his lips ;

Heard children's voices on the sands; Up the sun's path he saw the ships

Sail on and on to other lands;

And laugh'd aloud. Each sight and sound

To him was joy too deep for tears ; He sat him on the beach, and bound

A blue bandanna round his ears ;

And thought how, posted near his door,

His own green door on Camden Hill, Two bands at least, most likely more,

Were mingling at their own sweet will

Verdi with Vance. And at the thought

He laugh'd again, and softly drew
That Morning Herald that he'd bought
Forth from his breast, and read it through.

C. S. Calverley.

CCCCXXVII.

HIC VIR, HIC EST.

OFTEN, when o'er tree and turret,

Eve a dying radiance flings, By that ancient pile I linger,

Known familiarly as “ King's. And the ghosts of days departed

Rise, and in my burning breast All the undergraduate wakens,

And my spirit is at rest.

What, but a revolting fiction,

Seems the actual result Of the Census's enquiries,

Made upon the 15th ult. ? Still my soul is in its boyhood;

Nor of year or changes recks, Though my scalp is almost hairless,

And my figure grows convex.

:

Backward moves the kindly dial ;

And I'm numbered once again With those noblest of their species

Called emphatically " Men ” Loaf, as I have loafed aforetime,

Through the streets, with tranquil mind, And a long-backed fancy-mongrel

Trailing casually behind.

Past the Senate-house I saunter,

Whistling with an easy grace ; Past the cabbage stalks that carpet

Still the beefy market-place ; Poising evermore the eye-glass

In the light sarcastic eye, Lest, by chance, some breezy nursemaid

Pass, without a tribute, by.

Once, an unassuming Freshman,

Thro' these wilds I wandered on, Seeing in each house a College,

Under every cap a Don ; Each perambulating infant

Had a magic in its squall, For my eager eye detected

Senior Wranglers in them all. By degrees my education

Grew, and I became as others; Learned to blunt my moral feelings

By the aid of Bacon Brothers; Bought me tiny boots of Mortlock,

And colossal prints of Roe ; And ignored the proposition,

That both time and money go.
Learned to work the wary dogcart,

Artsully thro' King's Parade ;
Dress, and steer a boat, and sport with

Amaryllis in the shade :
Struck, at Brown's, the dashing hazard ;

Or (more curious sport than that) Dropped, at Callaby's, the terrier

Down upon the prisoned rat.

I have stood serene on Fenner's

Ground, indifferent to blisters,
While the Buttress of the period

Bowled me his peculiar twisters :
Sung, “We won't go home till morning;

Striven to part my backhair straight;
Drunk (not lavishly) of Miller's

Old dry wines at 787 :

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When within my veins the blood ran,

And the curls were on my brow,
I did, oh ye undergraduates,

Much as ye are doing now.
Wherefore bless ye, O beloved ones :-
Now unto mine inn must I,
poor moralist,” betake

me,
In my “solitary fly.”

C. S. Calverley.

Your

CCCCXXVIII.

THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE.

A STREET there is in Paris famous,

For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des Petit Champs its name is-

The New Street of the Little Fields. And here's an inn, not rich and splendid,

But still in comfortable case ; The which in youth I oft attended,

To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is

A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,

That Greenwich never could outdo; Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron,

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace : All these you eat at TERRÉ's tavern,

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis ;

And true philosophers, methinks, 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 ?

Yes, here the lamp is, as before ; The smiling red-cheeked écaillère is

Still opening oysters at the door.
Is TERRÈ still alive and able?

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 ;

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 ola fogy, I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.

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