Go lose thyself in those continuous halls, Where strays the fond papa with son and daughter; And all that charms or startles or appals, Thou shalt behold, and for a single quarter. Far from the Barcan deserts now withdrawn, There, huge constrictors coil their scaly backs; There, cased in glass, malignant and unshorn, Old murderers glare in sullenness and wax. There many a varied form the sight beguiles, In rusty broadcloth decked and shocking hat, And there the unwieldy Lambert sits and smiles, In the majestic plenitude of fat. Or for thy gayer hours, the orang-outang Or ape salutes thee with his strange grimace, And in their shapes, stuffed as on earth they sprang, Thine individual being thou canst trace! And joys the youth in life's green spring, who goes With the sweet babe and the gray headed nurse, To see those Cosmoramic orbs disclose The varied beauties of the universe. And last, not least, the marvellous Ethiope, Changing his skin by preternatural skill, Whom every setting sun's diurnal slope Leaves whiter than the last, and whitening still. All that of monstrous, scaly, strange and queer, Has come from out the womb of earliest time, Thou hast, O Barnum, in thy keeping here, Nor is this all--for triumphs more sublime Await thee yet! I, Jenny Lind, who reigned Sublimely throned, the imperial queen of song, Wooed by thy golden harmonies, have deigned Captive to join the heterogeneous throng. Sustained by an unfaltering trust in coin, Dealt from thy hand, O thou illustrious man, Gladly I heard the summons come to join Myself the immeasurable caravan. A number of complimentary greetings in verse were also sent in to Miss Lind by various writers of more or less eminence, among them being the following from Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney: THE SWEDISH SONGSTRESS AND HER CHARITIES. BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. Blest must their vocation be Who, with tones of melody, Charm the discord and the strife And the railroad rush of life, And with Orphean magic move Souls inert to life and love. But there's one who doth inherit Angel gift and angel spirit, Bidding tides of gladness flow Through the realms of want and woe; 'Mid lone age and misery's lot, Kindling pleasures long forgot, Seeking minds oppressed with night, And on darkness shedding light, She the seraph's speech doth know, She hath done their deeds below; So, when o'er this misty strand She shall clasp their waiting hand, They will fold her to their breast, More a sister than a guest.