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The sparkling juice now pour,

SAINT PERAY.

With fond and liberal hand;
O raise the laughing rim once more,
Here's to our Fatherland!
Up, every soul that hears,

Hurrah! with three times three;
And shout aloud, with deafening cheers,
The "Island of the Free!"

Then fill the wine-cup high,
The sparkling liquor pour;
For we will care and grief defy,
They ne'er shall plague us more,
And ere the snowy foam

From off the wine departs,

The precious draught shall find a homeA dwelling in our hearts.

ROBERT FOLKESTONE WILLIAMS.

SAINT PERAY.

ADDRESSED TO H. T. P.

WHEN to any saint I pray, It shall be to Saint Peray. He alone, of all the brood, Ever did me any good: Many I have tried that are Humbugs in the calendar.

On the Atlantic, faint and sick,
Once I prayed Saint Dominick:
He was holy, sure, and wise;—
Was 't not he that did devise
Auto da Fes and rosaries?--
But for one in my condition
This good saint was no physician.

Next, in pleasant Normandie,
I made a prayer to Saint Denis,
In the great cathedral, where

All the ancient kings repose;
But, how I was swindled there

At the "Golden Fleece," he knows!

In my wanderings, vague and various,
Reaching Naples-as I lay
Watching Vesuvius from the bay,
I besought Saint Januarius.

But I was a fool to try him;
Naught I said could liquefy him;
And I swear he did me wrong,
Keeping me shut up so long
In that pest-house, with obscene
Jews and Greeks and things unclean-
What need had I of quarantine?

In Sicily at least a score-
In Spain about as many more-
And in Rome almost as many
As the loves of Don Giovanni,
Did I pray to-sans reply;
Devil take the tribe!-said I.

Worn with travel, tired and lame,
To Assisi's walls I came:
Sad and full of homesick fancies,
I addressed me to Saint Francis ;
But the beggar never did
Any thing as he was bid,

Never gave me aught—but fleas―
Plenty had I at Assise.

But in Provence, near Vaucluse,

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Hard by the Rhone, I found a Saint Gifted with a wondrous juice,

Potent for the worst complaint.
'Twas at Avignon that first—
In the witching time of thirst-
To my brain the knowledge came
Of this blessed Catholic's name;
Forty miles of dust that day
Made me welcome Saint Peray.

Though till then I had not heard
Aught about him, ere a third
Of a litre passed my lips,
All saints else were in eclipse.
For his gentle spirit glided

With such magic into mine,
That methought such bliss as I did
Poet never drew from wine.

Rest he gave me, and refection—
Chastened hopes, calm retrospection—
Softened images of sorrow,

Bright forebodings for the morrow—
Charity for what is past-
Faith in something good at last.

Now, why should any almanack
The name of this good creature lack?

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NIGHT AT SEA.

How it turns back with tenderest endeavor

To fix the past within the heart of hearts. Absence is full of memory, it teaches

The value of all old familiar things; The strengthener of affection, while it reaches

O'er the dark parting, with an angel's wings.

My friends, my absent friends!

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Like some new island on the ocean springing,

Floats on the surface some gigantic whale, From its vast head a silver fountain flinging, Bright as the fountain in a fairy tale. My friends, my absent friends!

I read such fairy legends while with you.

Do you think of me, as I think of you? Light is amid the gloomy canvas spreading,

The world, with one vast element omitted-
Man's own especial element, the earth;
Yet, o'er the waters is his rule transmitted
By that great knowledge whence has power
its birth.

How oft on some strange loveliness while gazing,

Have I wished for you-beautiful as new, The purple waves like some wild army raising

Their snowy banners as the ship cuts through.

My friends, my absent friends!

Do you think of me, as I think of you?

Bearing upon its wings the hues of morning,

The moon is whitening the dusky sails, From the thick bank of clouds she masters, shedding

The softest influence that o'er night pre

vails.

Pale is she like a young queen pale with splendor,

Haunted with passionate thoughts too fond, too deep;

The very glory that she wears is tender, The very eyes that watch her beauty fain would weep.

My friends, my absent friends!

Do you think of me, as I think of you?

Sunshine is ever cheerful, when the morning Wakens the world with cloud-dispelling eyes;

Up springs the flying fish like life's false The spirits mount to glad endeavor, scorning joy, What toil upon a path so sunny lies. Which of the sunshine asks that frail adorn- Sunshine and hope are comrades, and their

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Are creatures, huge, and terrible and The topmast sail, it seems like some dim pin

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