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To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,
But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure;
And the view I behold on a sunshiny day
Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way.
This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks,
With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books,
And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,
Cracked bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.

Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked),
Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed;
A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see;
What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.

No better divan need the Sultan require,
Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire;
And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.
That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp;
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp;
A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn:
'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.

Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes,
Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times;
As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie
This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.
But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,
There's one that I love and I cherish the best;
For the finest of couches that's padded with hair
I never would change thee, my cane-bottomed chair.
'Tis a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat,
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet;
But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there,
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair.
If chairs have but feeling in holding such charms,
A thrill must have passed through your withered old arms!
I looked, and I longed, and I wished in despair;
I wished myself turned to a cane-bottomod chair.

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.

PUNCH.

On! 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.

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 !

“CHILDREY MUST BE PAID FOR."

PUNCH,

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;

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 bave 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.

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