Bubbles From an Ancient Pipe

ONCE I journeyed while the mavis
O’er the English meadows sang;
It was bounteous summer weather, —
All the roads with music rang.

Hiram Hays was my companion, —
Straight from Boston he had come, —
Purse as long as John J. Astor’s,
Head as hollow as a drum.

Toward the leafy lanes of Warwick
Merrily the stage-coach flew, —
How I clapped my hands and shouted,
“ Soon in Stratford we ’ll be due ! ”

“What of that?” asked weary Hiram.
“ Shakespeare’s county ! glorious Will!
We shall see the spire of Avon
When we mount up yonder hill!

“ There his home was ; there his grave is ;
There his fancies grew sublime ;
There he plumed his mighty pinions,
Built his fame up for all time.”

“ Drive on faster! I sha’n’t stop there !”
Muttered Mr. Hiram Hays ;
“ Shakespeare never would be thought of,
If he had n't writ them plays ! ”

RIENZI BROWN, from Cambridge, went with us down to Rome;
Rienzi was a classic, and felt there “ quite at home.”

He talked of Julius Cæsar and other ancient “Deads”
In such a strain we hid away our own untutored heads.

One night,— I can’t forget it, — Rienzi entered late
The tavern of Costanza, quite blown, and cursing fate.

“What ails thee, poor Rienzi,” we ventured to inquire,
“That thus thou art so ‘out of sorts’ and red with savage ire?”

Then thus replied Rienzi: “All day, by your advice,
I’ve spent to find the Lupercal, where the crown was ‘offered thrice’;

“To find the hill I’ve mounted the top of every dome.”
And then we laughed; and on the morn Rienzi fled from Rome.

“ COLORED son of Carolina,
John G. Whittier was thy friend;
In thy darkest days of danger
He stood by thee to defend.

“ To thy cause he gave his genius,
And the influence of his fame ;
Speak, and tell me, dusky brother,
Hast thou ever heard his name ? ”

Spake the son of Carolina,
With an elbow on each knee:
“ Neber heered the name o’ Whityar,—
T’ink I heered, tho’, o’ John G.”