This moment round her empire's shores The winds of Austral winter sweep, And thousands lie in midnight sleep, At rest to-day.

O! awful is that crown of yours,

Queen of innumerable realms,

Sitting beneath the budding elms

Of English May!

A wondrous sceptre 'tis to bear,
Strange mystery of God which set

Upon her brow yon coronet,

The foremost crown

Of all the world on one so fair!

That chose her to it from her birth,

And bade the sons of all the earth

To her bow down.

The representatives of man

Here from the far Antipodes,

And from the subject Indian seas,

In Congress meet;

From Afric and from Hindustan,

From Western continent and isle,

The envoys of her empire pile

Gifts at her feet.

Our brethren cross the Atlantic tides,

Loading the gallant decks, which once
Roared a defiance to our guns,

With peaceful store;

Symbol of peace, their vessel rides! *
O'er English waves float Star and Stripe,
And firm their friendly anchors gripe

The father shore!

From Rhine and Danube, Rhone and Seine, As rivers from their sources gush,

The swelling floods of nations rush,

And seaward pour:,

From coast to coast in friendly chain,

With countless ships we bridge the straits, And angry ocean separates

Europe no more.

From Mississippi and from Nile

From Baltic, Ganges, Bosphorus,

In England's ark assembled thus

Are friend and guest.

Look down the mighty sunlit aisle,

The U. S. Frigate St. Lawrence.

And see the sumptuous banquet set,

The brotherhood of nations met

Around the feast!

Along the dazzling colonnade,

Far as the straining eye can gaze,

Gleam cross and fountain, bell and vase,

In vistas bright.

And statues fair of nymph and maid,

And steeds and pards and Amazons,

Writhing and grappling in the bronze,
In endless fight.

To deck the glorious roof and dome,

To make the Queen a canopy,

The peaceful hosts of industry

Their standards bear.

Yon are the works of Brahmin loom;
On such a web of Persian thread
The desert Arab bows his head,

And cries his prayer.

Look yonder where the engines toil;
These England's arms of conquest are,

The trophies of her bloodless war:

Brave weapons these.

Victorious over wave and soil,

With these she sails, she weaves, she tills,

Pierces the everlasting hills,

And spans the seas.

The engine roars upon its race,
The shuttle whirrs along the woof,

The people hum from floor to roof,

With Babel tongue.

The fountain in the basin plays,

The chanting organ echoes clear,

An awful chorus 'tis to hear,

A wondrous song!

Swell, organ, swell your trumpet blast,
March, Queen and Royal pageant, march
By splendid aisle and springing arch

Of this fair Hall;

And see! above the fabric vast,

God's boundless Heaven is bending blue,

God's peaceful sunlight is beaming through,

Shines over all.

THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE.

A STREET there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve des petits 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, muscles, saffern, Soles, onions, garlic, roach and dace; All these you eat at TERRÉ's tavern,

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.