Wishing, as we turned them o'er,
Like poor Oliver, for "more,"
And the creatures of thy brain
In our memory remain,

Till through them we seem to be
Old acquaintances of thee.
Much we hold it thee to greet,
Gladly sit we at thy feet;

On thy features we would look,
As upon a living book,

And thy voice would grateful hear,
Glad to feel that Boz were near,
That his veritable soul

Held us by direct control:

Therefore, author loved the best,
Welcome, welcome to the West.

In immortal Weller's name,
By the rare Micawber's fame,

By the flogging wreaked on Squeers,
By Job Trotter's fluent tears,
By the beadle Bumble's fate
At the hands of shrewish mate,
By the famous Pickwick Club,
By the dream of Gabriel Grubb,
In the name of Snodgrass' muse,
Tupman's amorous interviews,
Winkle's ludicrous mishaps,
And the fat boy's countless naps;
By Ben Allen and Bob Sawyer,
By Miss Sally Brass, the lawyer,
In the name of Newman Noggs,
River Thames, and London fogs,
Richard Swiveller's excess,
Feasting with the Marchioness,
By Jack Bunsby's oracles

By the chime of Christmas bells,
By the cricket on the hearth,
By the sound of childish mirth,
By spread tables of good cheer,
Wayside inns and pots of beer,
Hostess plump and jolly host,
Coaches for the turnpike post,

Chambermaid in love with Boots,
Toodles, Traddles, Tapley, Toots,
Betsey Trotwood, Mister Dick,
Susan Nipper, Mistress Chick,
Snevellicci, Lilyvick,
Mantalini's predilections

To transfer his warm affections
By poor Barnaby and Grip,
Flora, Nora, Nic and Gip,
Perrybingle, Pinch and Pip-
Welcome, long expected guest,
Welcome to the grateful West.

In the name of gentle Nell,
Child of Light, beloved well-
Weeping, did we not behold
Roses on her bosom cold?
Better we for every tear

Shed beside her snowy bier

By the mournful group that played

Round the grave where Smike was laid,

By the life of Tiny Tim,

And the lesson taught by him,

Asking in his plaintive tone

66

God to bless us every one,"

By the sounding waves that bore
Little Paul to heaven's shore,
By thy yearning for the human
Good in every man and woman,
By each noble deed and word
That thy story-books record,
And each noble sentiment
Dickens to the world hath lent,
By the effort thou hast made
Truth and true reform to aid,
By thy hope of man's relief
Finally from want and grief,
By thy never-failing trust
That the God of love is just-

We would meet and welcome thee,
Preacher of humanity :

Welcome fills the throbbing breast
Of the sympathetic West.

-W. H. Venable.

JENN

ENNY kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in. Time, you thief! who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in,

Say I'm weary and I'm sad;

Say that health and wealth have missed me; Say I'm growing old, but add

Jenny kissed me!

-Leigh Hunt.

Your fist, old fellow! off they go!-
How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?

You've won the judge's ermined robe,
You've taught your name to half the globe;
You've sung mankind a deathless strain;
You've made the dead past live again;
The world may call you what it will,
But you and I are Joe and Bill.

The chaffing young folks stare, and say,
"See those old buffers, bent and gray,-
They talk like fellows in their teens!
Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means,'
And shake their heads; they little know
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe!

How Bill forgets his hour of pride,
While Joe sits smiling at his side;
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise,
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes,-
Those calm, stern eyes, that melt and fill
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.

Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame?

A fitful tongue of leaping flame;

A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust,
That lifts a pinch of mortal dust;
A few swift years, and who can show
Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe?

The weary idol takes his stand,
Holds out his bruised and aching hand,
While gaping thousands come and go,—
How vain it seems, this empty show!
Till all at once his pulses thrill-
'Tis poor old Joe's "God bless you, Bill!"

And shall we breathe in happier spheres
The names that pleased our mortal ears,
In some sweet lull of harp and song
For earth-born spirits none too long,
Just whispering of the world below
Where this was Bill, and that was Joe?

No matter: while our home is here,

No sounding name is half so dear;
When fades at length our lingering day,
Who cares what pompous tombstones say?
Read on the hearts that love us still,
Hic Jacet Joe. Hic Jacet Bill.

-Oliver W. Holmes.