Let me review the glories that are past, And nobly dine, in fancy, to the last; Since here an end of all my feasts I see, And death will soon make turtle soup of me! Full soon the tyrant's jaws will stop my jaw, A _bonne bouche_ I, for his insatiate maw; My tongue, whose taste in venison was supreme, Whose bouncing blunders Gotham's daily theme, In far less pleasant _fix_ will shortly be Than when it smack'd the luscious callipee. Oh would the gourmand his stern claim give o'er, And bid me eat my way through life once more! And might (my pray'rs were then not spent in vain,) A hundred civic feasts roll round again, As sound experience makes all men more wise, How great th' improvement from my own would rise! What matchless flavor I would give each dish, Whether of venison, soup, or fowl, or fish! In this more spice--in that more gen'rous wine, Gods, what ecstatic pleasure would be mine! But no--ungratified my palate burns, Departed joy to me no more returns; And vainly fancy strives my death to sweeten, With dreams of dinners never to be eaten. The dawning of my youth gave promise bright Of vict'ry in the gastronomic fight: "Turtle!" I cried, when at the nurse's breast, My cries for turtle broke her midnight rest; Such pleasure in the darling word I found, That turtle! turtle! made the house resound. When, after years of thankless toil and pains, The pedant spic'd with A B C my brains, My cranium teem'd, like Peter's heav'nly sheet, With thoughts of fish and flesh and fowls to eat; The turtle's natural hist'ry charm'd my sense-- Adieu, forever, syntax, mood and tense! And when in zoologic books I read, That once a turtle liv'd without his head, To emulate this feat I soon began, And so became a Gotham Alderman. A civic soldier, I no dangers fear'd, Save indigestion or a greasy beard; _Forced balls_ were shot, I fac'd with hearty thanks, And in the _attack on Turkey_ led the ranks, The fork my bayonet--the knife my sword, And mastication victory secur'd. Alas! that kill'd and eat'n foes should plague us, And puke their way back through the œsophagus! Ye murder'd tribes of earth and air and sea, Dyspepsia hath reveng'd your deaths on me! Ah! what is life? A glass of ginger beer, Racy and sparkling, bubbling, foaming, clear; But when its carbonated gas is gone, What matter where the vapid lees are thrown? In this eternal world to which I go, I wonder whether people eat or no! If so, I trust that I shall get a chair, Since all my life I've striv'n but to prepare. And holy writ--unless our preachers lie-- Says, "Eat and drink, to-morrow we must die." My faith was firm as ardent zeal could wish, From Noah's ark full down to Jonah's fish. Then may the pow'rs but give a starving sinner, A _bid_ to that eternal turtle dinner! E. M. IRENE.