It was but a moment she sat in this place, She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face! A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, And she sat there, and bloomed in my cane-bottomed chair. And so I have valued my chair ever since, Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince; Saint FANNY, my patroness sweet I declare, The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed chair. When the candles burn low, and the company 's gone, She comes from the past and revisits my room; STANZAS TO PALE ALE. OH! I have loved thee fondly, ever Preferr'd thee to the choicest wine; I held thee still to be divine. For me thy color hath a charm, Although 'tis true they call thee Pale; How sweet thou art !-yet bitter, too It is, in every point of view, Must be allow'd by every one. PUNCH Refresh my heart and cool my throat, Like stout and porter-fattening. slops! "CHILDREN MUST BE PAID FOR." SWEET is the sound of infant voice; If in an omnibus we ride, It is a beauteous sight to see, When full the vehicle inside, Age taking childhood on its knee. But in the dog-days' scorching heat, When a slight breath of air is pray'd for, We feel that "Children must be paid for." There is about the sports of youth A charm that reaches every heart, No explanation need be stay'd for, How exquisite the infant's grace, PUNCH Perchance the beverage flows o'er, Presiding at the festive board, With many faces laughing round, While mirth and jollity abound: With knives and forks a dozen laid for; THE MUSQUITO. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Fair insect! that, with thread-like legs spread out, And blood-extracting bill, and filmy wing, Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about, In pitiless ears full many a plaintive thing, And tell how little our large veins should bleed, Would we but yield them to thy bitter need. Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse, Full angrily men hearken to thy plaint; For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and faint: I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween, Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung, And when, at length, thy gauzy wings grew strong, Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung, Rose in the sky, and bore thee soft along; The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way, Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence Came the deep murmur of its throng of men, And as its grateful odors met thy sense, They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen. Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight. At length thy pinion fluttered in Broadway— Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray Shone through the snowy vails like stars through mist; And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin, Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin. Sure these were sights to tempt an anchorite! Thou art a wayward being-well—come near, What say'st thou, slanderer!-rouge makes thee sick? And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick, Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood? Go! 't was a just reward that met thy crime-But shun the sacrilege another time. That bloom was made to look at-not to touch; As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite. Thou 'rt welcome to the town-but why come here Alas! the little blood I have is dear, And thin will be the banquet drawn from me. Look round-the pale-eyed sisters in my cell, Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood Fix thy light pump, and press thy freckled feet: There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows, Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow; TO THE LADY IN THE CHEMISETTE WITH BLACK BUTTONS. . N. P. WILLIS I KNOW not who thou art, thou lovely one, I must glide on, I dare not feast mine eye, I dare not make articulate my love, Nor o'er the iron rails that hem thee in |