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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,
In the silence of night as I sit here alone-
I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair--
My FANNY I see in my cane-bottomed chair.

She comes from the past and revisits my room;
She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom;
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair,
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair.

STANZAS TO PALE ALE.

OH! I have loved thee fondly, ever

Preferr'd thee to the choicest wine;
From thee my lips they could not sever
By saying thou contain'dst strychnine.
Did I believe the slander? Never!

I held thee still to be divine.

For me thy color hath a charm,

Although 'tis true they call thee Pale;
And be thou cold when I am warm,
As late I've been-so high the scale
Of FAHRENHEIT and febrile harm
Allay, refrigerating Ale!

How sweet thou art !-yet bitter, too
And sparkling, like satiric fun;
But how much better thee to brew,
Than a conundrum or a pun,

It is, in every point of view,

Must be allow'd by every one.

PUNCH

Refresh my heart and cool my throat,
Light, airy child of malt and hops!
That dost not stuff, engross, and bloat
The skin, the sides, the chin, the chops,
And burst the buttons off the coat,

Like stout and porter-fattening. slops!

"CHILDREN MUST BE PAID FOR."

SWEET is the sound of infant voice;
Young innocence is full of charms:
There's not a pleasure half so choice,
As tossing up a child in arms.
Babyhood is a blessed state,
Felicity expressly made for;
But still, on earth it is our fate,
That even "Children must be paid for."

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,
Half suffocated in our seat,

We feel that "Children must be paid for."

There is about the sports of youth

A charm that reaches every heart,
Marbles or tops are games of truth,
The bat plays no deceiver's part.
But if we hear a sudden crash,

No explanation need be stay'd for,
We know there's something gone to smash;
We feel that "Children must be paid for."

How exquisite the infant's grace,
When, clambering upon the knee,
The cherub, smiling, takes his place
Upon his mother's lap at tea;

PUNCH

Perchance the beverage flows o'er,
And leaves a stain there is no aid for,
On carpet, dress, or chair. Once more
We feel that "Children must be paid for."

Presiding at the festive board,

With many faces laughing round,
Dull melancholy is ignored.

While mirth and jollity abound:
We see our table amply spread

With knives and forks a dozen laid for;
Then pause to think :-"How are they fed ?"
Yes, "Children must indeed be paid 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;
Thou gettest many a brush and many a curse,

For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and faint:
Even the old beggar, while he asks for food,
Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could.

I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween,
Has not the honor of so proud a birth—
Thou com'st from Jersey meadows, fresh and green,
The offspring of the gods, though born on earth;
For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she,
The ocean-nymph that nursed thy infancy.

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,
And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay.

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!
What do I hear thy slender voice complain?
Thou wailest when I talk of beauty's light,
As if it brought the memory of pain:

Thou art a wayward being-well—come near,
And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear.

What say'st thou, slanderer!-rouge makes thee sick?
And China Bloom at best is sorry food?

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;
To worship-not approach-that radiant white;
And well might sudden vengeance light on such

As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite.
Thou should'st have gazed at distance, and admired—
Murmured thy admiration, and retired.

Thou 'rt welcome to the town-but why come here
To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee?

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,
Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell.

Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood
Enriched by generous wine and costly meat;
On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud,

Fix thy light pump, and press thy freckled feet:
Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls,
The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls.

There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows,
To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now
The ruddy cheek, and now the ruddier nose

Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow;
And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings,
No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.

TO THE LADY IN THE CHEMISETTE WITH BLACK BUTTONS. .

N. P. WILLIS

I KNOW not who thou art, thou lovely one,
Thine eyes were drooped, thy lips half sorrowful,
Yet didst thou eloquently smile on me,
While handing up thy sixpence through the hole
Of that o'er-freighted omnibus!-ah, me !—
The world is full of meetings such as this;
A thrill-a voiceless challenge and reply,
And sudden partings after-we may pass,
And know not of each other's nearness now,
Thou in the Knickerbocker line, and I
Lone in the Waverley! Oh! life of pain;
And even should I pass where thou dost dwell-
Nay, see thee in the basement taking tea—
So cold is this inexorable world,

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
Venture to throw to thee my innocent card,
Not knowing thy papa.

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