I had knocked out the dust from my pipe t’other night, Old Time t’wards midnight was creeping; The last smoke from its ashes had taken its flight,―― I felt neither waking nor sleeping; When a voice, loud and hollow, and, seemingly, near, You’ll say ’twas a dream or a fable, Directed towards me, said, audibly clear, “List, list, list to me, thy oak table.” “I was once of the forest, the monarch so bold, “Nor tempest nor storm made me tremble; “And oft, very oft, the famed Druids of old “Would under my branches assemble: “Their mysterious rights they’d perform before me,―― “Those rites to unfold I am able, “But be that now forgot, I was then an oak tree, “And now I am but an oak table. “When the axe brought me down, and soon lopped was each bough, “And to form a ship I was converted, “Manned by true hearts of oak, the wide ocean to plough, “And by victory never deserted. “But, worn out by Time, and reduced to a wreck, “Bereft of my anchor and cable, “A carpenter bought me, and, with part of my deck, “Made what you see me now――an oak table. “Now thrust in a corner, put out of the way,―― “But I fear I your patience am tiring. “I expect nothing less than, some forthcoming day, “To be broke up and used for your firing.” “No never,” cried I, as I started awake, “I’ll keep thee as long as I’m able “And each friend that my humble cheer will partake, “Shall be welcome around my oak table.” ――――:o:―――― ALL’S WELL. Deserted by the waning moon, When skies proclaim night’s cheerless noon, On tower, or fort, or tented ground The sentry walks his lonely round; And should a footstep haply stray, Where caution marks the guarded way, “Who goes there? Stranger, quickly tell.” “A friend”――“The word.” “Good night;” “All’s well.” Or sailing on the midnight deep, When weary messmates soundly sleep, The careful watch patrols the deck, To guard the ship from foes or wreck; And while his thoughts oft homewards veer, Some friendly voice salutes his ear―― “What cheer? Brother, quickly tell; Above――below.” “Goodnight,” “All’s well.” THOMAS DIBDIN ―――― THE EMPTY PURSE. Deserted by the waning purse, When frowns proclaim the worldling’s curse, On garret’s high poetic ground, The poor man walks his lonely round. And should some bailiff chance to stray, Where breaches mark the stairs’ decay, Who’s there? Ah me! these red capes tell, Pay this I can’t; to jail――All’s well!