"That funeral must have been | And this is all I have to say

An Appeal for "the Old South."

"While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand;

When falls Coliseum, Rome shall fall."

FULL sevenscore years our city's | And pilgrim feet from every

"The home-bound wanderer of The spire still greets the morn

The First Fan.

READ AT A MEETING OF THE BOSTON BRIC-À-BRAC CLUB,
FEBRUARY 21, 1877.

WHEN rose the cry "Great Pan is dead!"
And Jove's high palace closed its portal,

The fallen gods, before they fled,

Sold out their frippery to a mortal.

"To whom?" you ask. I ask of you.
The answer hardly needs suggestion;
Of course it was the Wandering Jew,-
How could you put me such a question?
A purple robe, a little worn,

The Thunderer deigned himself to offer;
The bearded wanderer laughed in scorn,
You know he always was a scoffer.
"Vife shillins ! 'tis a monstrous price;

Say two and six and further talk shun." "Take it," cried Jove; 66 we can't be nice,"Twould fetch twice that at Leonard's auction."

The ice was broken; up they came,

All sharp for bargains, god and goddess,

Each ready with the price to name

For robe or head-dress, scarf or bodice.

First Juno, out of temper, too,—

Her queenly forehead somewhat cloudy; Then Pallas in her stockings blue,

Imposing, but a little dowdy.

The scowling queen of heaven unrolled
Before the Jew a threadbare turban :
"Three shillings." "One. "Twill suit some old
Terrific feminine suburban."

But as for Pallas,-how to tell

In seemly phrase a fact so shocking? She pointed,-pray excuse me,—well, She pointed to her azure stocking.

And if the honest truth were told,

Its heel confessed the need of darning;

"Gods!" low-bred Vulcan cried, "behold!

There! that's what comes of too much larning!

Pale Proserpine came groping round,

Her pupils dreadfully dilated

With too much living underground,

A residence quite overrated;

"This kerchief's what you want, I know,—

Don't cheat poor Venus of her cestus,-

You'll find it handy when you go

To-you know where ; it's pure asbestus."

Then Phoebus of the silver bow,

And Hebe, dimpled as a baby,

And Dian with the breast of snow,

Chaser and chased-and caught, it may be :

One took the quiver from her back,

One held the cap he spent the night in,

And one a bit of bric-a-brac,

Such as the gods themselves delight in. Then Mars, the foe of human kind,

Strode up and showed his suit of armour; So none at last was left behind

Save Venus, the celestial charmer. Poor Venus! What had she to sell? For all she looked so fresh and jaunty, Her wardrobe, as I blush to tell,

Already seemed but quite too scanty. Her gems were sold, her sandals gone,— She always would be rash and flighty,— Her winter garments all in pawn,

Alas for charming Aphrodite !

The lady of a thousand loves,

The darling of the old religion,

Had only left of all the doves

That drew her car one fan-tailed pigeon.

How oft upon her finger-tips

He perched, afraid of Cupid's arrow Or kissed her on the rosebud lips,

Like Roman Lesbia's loving sparrow!

"My bird, I want your train," she cried;
"Come, don't let's have a fuss about it;
I'll make it beauty's pet and pride,
And you'll be better off without it.
"So vulgar! Have you noticed, pray,
An earthly belle or dashing bride walk,
And how her flounces track her way,
Like slimy serpents on the sidewalk?
"A lover's heart it quickly cools;

In mine it kindles up enough rage
To wring their necks. How can such fools
Ask men to vote for woman suffrage?"
The goddess spoke, and gently stripped
Her bird of every caudal feather;
A strand of gold-bright hair she clipped,
And bound the glossy plumes together,
And lo, the Fan! for beauty's hand,
The lovely queen of beauty made it;
The price she named was hard to stand,
But Venus smiled: the Hebrew paid it.
Jove, Juno, Venus, where are you?

Mars, Mercury, Phoebus, Neptune, Saturn?
But o'er the world the Wandering Jew
Has borne the Fan's celestial pattern.

So everywhere we find the Fan,-
In lonely isles of the Pacific,
In farthest China and Japan,—
Wherever suns are sudorific.
Nay, even the oily Esquimaux

In summer court its cooling breezes,—
In fact in every clime 'tis so,

No matter if it fries or freezes.

And since from Aphrodite's dove
The pattern of the fan was given,
No wonder that it breathes of love

And wafts the perfumed gales of heaven!
Before this new Pandora's gift

In slavery woman's tyrant kept her,
But now he kneels her glove to lift,-
The fan is mightier than the sceptre.

The tap it gives how arch and sly!

The breath it wakes how fresh and grateful!
Behind its shield how soft the sigh!

The whispered tale of shame how fateful?

Its empire shadows every throne

And every shore that man is tost on;

It rules the lords of every zone,

Nay, even the bluest blood of Boston!

But every one that swings to-night,
Of fairest shape, from farthest region,
May trace its pedigree aright

To Aphrodite's fan-tailed pigeon.

To R. B. b.

AT THE DINNER TO THE PRESIDENT, BOSTON, JUNE 26, 1877. How to address him? awkward, it is true:

Call him "Great Father," as the Red Men do?

Borrow some title? this is not the place

That christens men Your Highness and Your Grace;
We tried such names as these awhile, you know,

But left them off a century ago.

His Majesty? We've had enough of that:
Besides, that needs a crown; he wears a hat.
What if, to make the nicer ears content,
We say His Honesty the President?

Sir, we believed you honest, truthful, brave,
When to your hands their precious trust we gave,
And we have found you better than we knew,
Braver, and not less honest, not less true!

So every heart has opened, every hand
Tingles with welcome, and through all the land
All voices greet you in one broad acclaim,
Healer of strife! Has earth a nobler name?
What phrases mean you do not need to learn;
We must be civil and they serve our turn:
"Your most obedient humble " means-means what?
Something the well-bred signer just is not.
Yet there are tokens, sir, you must believe;
There is one language never can deceive :
The lover knew it when the maiden smiled;
The mother knows it when she clasps her child;
Voices may falter, trembling lips turn pale,
Words grope and stumble; this will tell their tale
Shorn of all rhetoric, bare of all pretence,

But radiant, warm, with Nature's eloquence.

Look in our eyes! Your welcome waits you there,—
North, South, East, West, from all and everywhere!

"The Ship of State."

A SENTIMENT.

THE Ship of State! above her skies are blue,
But still she rocks a little, it is true,

And there are passengers whose faces white
Show they don't feel as happy as they might;
Yet on the whole her crew are quite content,
Since its wild fury the typhoon has spent,
And willing, if her pilot thinks it best,
To head a little nearer south by west.

And this they feel the ship came too near wreck,
In the long quarrel for the quarter-deck,

Now when she glides serenely on her way,

-The shallows past where dread explosives lay-
The stiff obstructive's churlish game to try:

Let sleeping dogs and still torpedoes lie!
And so I give you all the Ship of State;
Freedom's last venture is her priceless freight;

God speed her, keep her, bless her, while she steers
Amid the breakers of unsounded years;

Lead her through danger's paths with even keel, And guide the honest hand that holds her wheel! WOODSTOCK, CONN., July 4, 1877.

A Family Record.

WOODSTOCK, CONN., JULY 4, 1877.
NOT to myself this breath of vesper song,
Not to these patient friends, this kindly throng,