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Even there I heard a strange wild strain
Sound high above the modern clamour, Above the cries of greed and gain,
The kerbstone war, the auction's hammei, And swift, on Music's misty ways,
It led, from all this strife for îmillions, To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days
Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians. And as it stilled the multitude,
And yet more joyous rose and shriller, I saw the minstrel, where he stood
At ease against a Doric pillar : One hand a droning organ played ; ?
The other held a Pan’s-pipe (fashioned Like those of old) to lips that made
The reeds give out that strain impassioned. 'Twas Pan himself had wandered here
A-strolling through this sordid city, And piping to the civic ear
The prelude of some pastoral ditty ! The demigod had crossed the seas,
From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr, And Syracusan times, --to these
Far shores and twenty centuries later. A ragged cap was on his head :
But-hidden thus—there was no doubting That, all with crispy locks o'erspread,
His gnarlèd horns were somewhere sprouting ; His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes,
Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them, And trousers, patched of divers hues,
Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them. He filled the quivering reeds with sound,
And o'er his mouth their changes shifted, And with his goat's-eyes looked around
Where'er the passing current drifted ; And soon, as on Trinacrian hills
The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him, Even now the tradesmen from their tills,
With clerks and porters, crowded near him. The bulls and bears together drew
From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley, As erst, if pastorals be true,
Came beasts from every wooded valley; The random passers stayed to list,
A boxer Ægon, rough and merry, A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst
With Nais at ihe Brooklyn Ferry.
F. BRET HARTE. [Born about 1835. A name now universally known, by the authorship, cf The Luck of Roaring Camp, and especially of the verses on That Heather Chinee].
THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS. I RESIDE at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James ; I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games; And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our society upon the Stanislow. But first I would remark that it is not a proper plan For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man, And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim, To lay for that same member for to “put a head” on him.
Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see
SIMPSON'S BAR, 1858.
And one answer won't do?
That I've struck, it is you.
cavortin' round 'yer in the dew.
Thar, -quit! Take a cheer.
Them theer cushings this year,-
they don't make such men about 'yer.
“Tell us of that scene,—the dim and watery woodland
Seems a periwinkle.
Speak ! thou oldest Primate !"
Ground the teeth together.
Of expectoration ;
Home to old Missouri !”
ROBERT H. NEWELL. [This popular writer is author of the Orpheus C. Kerr (i.e. Office-seeker) Papers; from which book the following piece is taken).
THE AMERICAN TRAVELLER.
All in the State of Maine,
One evening in the rain.
* Just started on a tour,