UC-NRLF 
 
LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OP 
 CALIFORNIA 
 SANTA CRUI , 
 
 
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 irjrw TOKK 
 D . Ji.PPLET05T & COMPA3TT 
 
THE 
 
 POETICAL WRITINGS 
 
 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK, 
 
 WITH EXTRACTS FROM THOSE OF 
 
 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 JAMES GRANT WILSON. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 
 
 i, 3, AND 5 BOND STREET. 
 
 1882. 
 
ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by 
 
 D. APPLETON & CO. 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
 Southern District of New York. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 IN this volume will be found all the poetical 
 writings of the late Fixz- GREENE HALLECK 
 included in previous editions, together with a 
 score of poems which the editor has suc- 
 ceeded in recovering from various sources, 
 and which are marked by the character- 
 istic grace and melody of his most admired 
 compositions ; also several translations from 
 the French, German, and Italian, that now 
 appear in print for the first time. Among 
 the pieces never before published, are a num- 
 ber of juvenile productions, which may be 
 recognized by the dates appended to them. 
 Between the earliest poem contained in this 
 collection and the latest, a period of three- 
 score and three years intervened. " The 
 Tempest " was written by the handsome 
 and happy schoolboy of fourteen, in the 
 
Vi PREFA CE. 
 
 fourth year of the present century , a trans- 
 lation from the German was made by the 
 gray - haired veteran who had passed, by 
 seven summers, the allotted period of man's 
 life; while Mr. Halleck's latest original poem 
 " Young America " was written near the 
 close of the year 1863, beneath the shadows 
 of the same grand old Guilford elms under 
 which the poet was born and buried. 
 
 " THE CROAKERS," that now appear for the 
 first time with Halleck's poetical writings, are 
 the joint production of the attached friends 
 Fitz - Greene Halleck and Joseph Rodman 
 Drake. The origin of these sprightly jeux 
 d' esprit, as eagerly looked for each evening 
 as were the war-bulletins of a later day, may 
 not be without interest to the authors' troops 
 of admirers. Halleck and Drake were spend- 
 ing a Sunday morning with Dr. William Lang- 
 staff, an eccentric apothecary and an accom- 
 plished mineralogist, with whom they were 
 both intimate (the two last mentioned were 
 previously fellow-students in the study of 
 medicine with Drs. Bruce and Romayne); 
 when Drake, for his own and his friends' 
 
PREFA CE. 
 
 amusement, wrote several burlesque 
 " To Ennui," Halleck answering them in some 
 lines on the same subject. The young poets 
 decided to send their .productions, with others 
 of the same character, to William Coleman, the 
 editor of the Evening Post. If he published 
 them, they would write more ; if not, they 
 would offer them to Major M. M. Noah, of the 
 National Advocate ; and if he declined their 
 poetical progeny, they would light their pipes 
 with them. Drake accordingly sent Coleman 
 three pieces of his own, signed " CROAKER," 
 a signature adopted from an amusing charac- 
 ter in Goldsmith's comedy of "The Good- 
 natured Man." To their astonishment, a para- 
 graph appeared in the Post the day following, 
 acknowledging their receipt, promising the 
 insertion of the poems, pronouncing them to 
 be the productions of superior taste and genius, 
 and begging the honor of a personal acquaint- 
 ance with the author. The lines " To Ennui " 
 appeared March 10, 1819, and the others in 
 almost daily succession ; those written by Mr. 
 Halleck being usually signed " Croaker Junior," 
 white those which were their joint composition 
 
viii PREFA CE. 
 
 generally bore the signature of " Croaker and 
 Co." 
 
 The remark made by Coleman had excited 
 public attention, and " THE CROAKERS " soon 
 became a subject of conversation in drawing- 
 rooms, book-stores, coffee-houses, on Broad- 
 way, and throughout the city ; they were, in 
 short, a town topic. The two friends contrib- 
 uted other pieces ; and when the editor again 
 expressed great anxiety to be acquainted with 
 the writer, and used a style so mysterious as 
 to excite their curiosity, the literary partners 
 decided to call upon him. Halleck and Drake 
 accordingly, one evening, went together, to 
 Coleman's residence in Hudson Street, and 
 requested an interview. They were ushered 
 into the parlor, the editor soon entered, the 
 young poets expressed a desire for a few min- 
 utes' strictly private conversation with him, and 
 the door being closed and locked, Dr. Drake 
 said " I am Croaker, and this gentleman, sir, 
 is Croaker Junior." Coleman stared at the 
 young men with indescribable and unaffected 
 astonishment, at length exclaiming : " My 
 God, I had no idea that we had such talents 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 in America ! " Halleck, with his characteristic 
 modesty, was disposed to give to Drake all the 
 credit ; but as it chanced that Coleman alluded 
 in particularly glowing terms to one of the 
 Croakers that was wholly his, he was forced to 
 be silent, and the delighted editor continued 
 in a strain of compliment and eulogy that put 
 them both to the blush. Before taking their 
 leave, the poets bound Coleman over to the 
 most profound secrecy, and arranged a plan of 
 sending him the MS., and of receiving the 
 proofs, in a manner that would avoid the least 
 possibility of the secret of their connection 
 with "THE CROAKERS" being discovered. 
 The poems were copied from the originals by 
 Langstaff, that their handwriting should not 
 divulge the secret, and were either sent 
 through the mail, or taken to the Evening- 
 Post office by Benjamin R. Winthrop, then a 
 fellow-clerk with Mr. Halleck, in the counting- 
 house of the well-known banker and merchant 
 Jacob Barker, in Wall Street. 
 
 Hundreds of imitations of " THE CROAK- 
 ERS " were daily received by the different editors 
 of New York, to all of which they gave publicly 
 
x PREFA CE. 
 
 one general answer, that they lacked the 
 genius, spirit, and beauty of the originals. On 
 one occasion Coleman showed Halleck fifteen 
 he had received in a single morning, all 
 of which, with a solitary exception, were con- 
 signed to the waste-basket The friends con- 
 tinued for several months to keep the city in a 
 blaze of excitement ; and it was observed by 
 one of the editors, " that so great was the 
 wincing and shrinking at 'THE CROAKERS,' 
 that every person was on tenter-hooks ; neither 
 knavery nor folly has slept quietly since our 
 first commencement." Of this series of satiri- 
 cal and quaint chronicles of New- York life half 
 a century ago, Halleck, in 1 866, said " that 
 they were good-natured verses contributed 
 anonymously to the columns of the New- York 
 Evening Post, from March to June, 1819, and 
 occasionally afterward. The writers con- 
 tinued, like the author of Junius, the sole de- 
 positaries of their own secret, and apparently 
 wished, with the Minstrel in Leyden's " Scenes 
 of Infancy," to 
 
 " Save others' names, but leave their own unsung." 
 
 Among " THE CROAKERS " will be found three 
 
PREFACE. xi 
 
 hitherto unpublished pieces from the pen of 
 Mr. Halleck, and, in lieu of the original signa- 
 tures, the author of each poem is now for the 
 first time made known by the letters H and D ; 
 when both letters occur, they indicate the joint 
 authorship of the literary partners, or, to quote 
 Halleck's familiar words to a friend, " that we 
 each had a finger in the pie." 
 
 FlTZ-GREENE, a descendant of PETER HAL- 
 LECK or HALLOCK, one of thirteen Pilgrim Fa- 
 thers who landed at New Haven, Connecticut, in 
 1640, and of the Rev. John Eliot, the "Apostle 
 to the Indians," who arrived at Boston,, Massa- 
 chusetts, in 1 63 1 , was one of the earliest, as he 
 was among the most eminent, of American 
 poets. He left no son to wear his honors, or 
 to perpetuate his name, but, unlike his favorite 
 Rot d' Yvetot, there is little danger of his being 
 " peu connu dans Vhistoire" When all those 
 whose privilege it was to know the genial poet, 
 and to have been honpred by his friendship, 
 shall have passed away, and when the endur- 
 ing granite obelisk which now marks his grave 
 shall have crumbled to dust, the name and 
 fame of the sweet singer who celebrated in im- 
 
xii PREFACE. 
 
 mortal song the glories of the modern Epami- 
 nondas, will remain fresh and green, not only 
 in the country of his birth, but in the land of 
 Bozzaris. In England, his "Alnwick Castle," 
 
 '* Home of the Percy's high-born race," 
 
 will long preserve his name from oblivion; 
 while in Scotland, the song he sang in praise 
 of Burns will forever connect him with her 
 greatest poet.- " Nothing finer has been 
 written about Robert than Mr. Halleck's 
 poem," said Isabella, the youngest sister of 
 the Ayrshire bard, as she gave the writer, in 
 the summer of 1855, some rose-buds from her 
 garden, and leaves of ivy plucked from her 
 cottage door, near the banks of the bonny 
 Doon, to carry back to his gifted friend. 
 Neither will those exquisitely beautiful and 
 tender lines, so familiar to all, in which the ear- 
 ly death of his chosen companion and literary 
 partner, Dr. Drake, was mourned by Mr. Hil- 
 leck, be soon forgotten. They are, and will 
 continue to be, an enduring monument to both 
 the poets, wherever the English language is 
 read or spoken. Like Thomas Campbell, 
 
PREFACE. xiii 
 
 whose poetical writings he so much admired, 
 Fitz- Greene Halleck gave to the world but few 
 poems " heirlooms forever " to be prized 
 and cherished by his countrymen through the 
 coming ages and generations, with 
 
 " Earth's and sea's rich gems, 
 With April's first-born flowers, 
 And all things rare." 
 
 The arrangement of the poems, as made by 
 the poet in the last edition of "1858, has been 
 closely followed in this volume, without refer- 
 ence to their chronological order ; and in other 
 particulars the present publication has been 
 made to conform to Mr. Halleck's wishes, as 
 expressed to the writer at their last interview, 
 but a few weeks before 
 
 " He gave his honors to the world again, 
 His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace." 
 
 The share of the editor in this volume can 
 scarcely be regarded too slightly. He cannot 
 even claim the credit for the notes, as a por- 
 tion of them were prepared by the poet him- 
 self. Among the notes to the Miscellaneous 
 Poems, the first nine will be recognized as 
 
x i v PREFA CE. 
 
 having appeared in all previous editions, while 
 the notes to " Fanny "and "The Recorder" 
 are, with a few slight alterations and additions, 
 substantially Mr. Halleck's ; and to him, there- 
 fore, the editor trusts will be awarded the 
 credit for whatever may be found among 
 them worthy of praise. 
 
 51 ST. MARK'S PLACE, 
 
 New York, August, 1868 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 ^^^JLaico Bozzaris, . . . . J 3 
 
 Alnwick Castle, .18 
 
 Burns, ...... .23 
 
 Wyoming, . . . . . 3 
 
 _ . On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake, . 34 
 
 Twilight, ..... 36 
 
 Psalm CXXXVII., 38 
 
 To****, . . . .40 
 
 The Field of the Grounded Arms, . . . . . 41 
 
 Red Jacket,. ... . .46 
 
 Love, -Si 
 
 A Sketch, .53 
 
 Domestic Happiness, . . . 55 
 
 Magdalen, 57 
 
 From the Italian, ....... 60 
 
 Translation, ....... 6a 
 
 Woman, 64 
 
 A Poet's Daughter, ..... 66 
 
 Connecticut, . . . . . 7 
 
 Music, .84 
 
 On the Death of Lieut. Allen, - . . . .87 
 
 To Walter Bowne, Esq., .... . . 89 
 
 The Iron Grays, . . 93 
 
 An Epistle to ****,. . Q5 
 
XV'i CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGI 
 
 FANNY, ....... xoi 
 
 THE RECORDER, . ...... 161 
 
 YOUNG AMERICA, , . . . , ... 177 
 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 
 
 A Fragment, ........ 195 
 
 Song, ........ 197 
 
 Song, 199 
 
 Address, ........ 200 
 
 The Rhyme of the Ancient Coaster, .... 203 
 
 Lines to her who can understand them, . . . 209 
 
 Translation from the French of Victor Hugo, . . . 212 
 
 Album Verses, ."...... 213 
 
 Ode to Good-Humor, ...... 215 
 
 From the French of General Lallemand, . . . 217 
 The Vision of Eliphaz, . . . . . .219 
 
 ' A Poetical Epistle, . .... 222 
 
 The Bluebird, . ..... 224 
 
 Honor to Woman, ...... 227 
 
 To Ellen, 228 
 
 Memory, ........ 231 
 
 Religion, . . . . . . . .233 
 
 The Tempest, ....... 236 
 
 Lines written on a blank leaf in Ossian's Poems, . . . 239 
 
 In her Island Home, ...... 240 
 
 Translation from the German, ..... 242 
 
 Forget-Me-Not^ . . . 244 
 
 The Pilgrims, . . . 245 
 
 A Farewell to Connecticut, ..... 247 
 
 To Louis Gaylord Clark, Esq., ..... 249 
 
 THE CROAKERS. 
 
 To Ennui, ....... 255 
 
 On presenting the Freedom of the City to a Great General, . 257 
 
 The Secret Mine, ...... 259 
 
 Bony's Fight, 261 
 
 To Mr. Potter, . ..... 264 
 
CONTENTS, XVU 
 
 THE CROAKERS (Continued). PAOK 
 
 To Mr. Simpson, ...... 266 
 
 The National Painting, .... .268 
 
 The Battery War, . .... 270 
 
 To Croaker, Junior, 272 
 
 A very Modest Letter from one Great Man to another, . 273 
 
 To the Surgeon-General of the State of New York, . . 276 
 
 To John Minshull, Esq., 278 
 
 The Man who frets at Worldly Strife, . . . .280 
 
 To E. Simpson, Esq., . ... 282 
 
 To John Lang, Esq., . ... 284 
 
 To Domestic Peace, . . . . 286 
 
 To E. Simpson, Esq., ..... 288 
 
 To Captain Seaman Weeks, ..... 290 
 
 Abstract of the Surgeon-General's Report, . . .292 
 
 To an Elderly Coquette, ..... 294 
 
 To * * * * , Esquire, .... .296 
 
 Ode to Impudence, . ... 298 
 
 To Mrs. Barnes, ... . . 300 
 
 To Simon, . 33 
 
 A Loving Epistle to Mr. Wm. Cobbett, . . . . 306 
 
 The Forum . . .308 
 
 Ode to Fortune, . . . . . . . 3 11 
 
 The Love of Notoriety, . . . . . 3 T 3 
 
 An Ode to Simeon De Witt, Esq., . ... . . 315 
 
 To E. Simpson, Esq., .... .319 
 
 The Council of Appointment at Albany, .... 323 
 
 The Militia of the City, ..... 326 
 
 An Address for the Opening of the New Theatre, . . 328 
 
 Epistle to Robert Hogbin, Esq., .... 331 
 
 Lamentings, . ... 333 
 
 To Quackery,. .... ... 335 
 
 To the Directors of the Academy of Arts, .... 337 
 
 Cutting, ........ 340 
 
 The Dinner-Party, ....... 342 
 
 The Nightmare, ....... 345 
 
xviii CONTENTS. 
 
 THE CROAKERS (Continued). PAGB 
 
 The Modern Hydra, . . . . . . -347 
 
 The Tea-Party, ....... 349 
 
 The Meeting of the Grocers, . . . . . 351 
 
 The King of the Doctors, . 352 
 To the Baron von Hoffman, . ... 354 
 
 A Lament for Great Men departed, .... 356 
 
 The Great Moral Picture, . . . . . .359 
 
 Governor Clinton's Speech, . . , . . 362 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Miscellaneous Poems, ...... 369 
 
 Fanny, .... ... 371 
 
 The Recorder, . - . . . . .376 
 
 The Croakers, . ...... 377 
 
 INDEX TO FIRST LINES . . . . . .387 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
MARCO BOZZARIS. 1 
 
 |T midnight, in his guarded tent, 
 
 The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
 When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 
 
 Should tremble at his power: 
 In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
 The trophies of a conqueror ; 
 
 In dreams his song of triumph heard ; 
 Then wore his monarch's signet ring : 
 Then pressed that monarch's throne a king; 
 As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 
 
 As Eden's garden bird. 
 
 At midnight, in the forest shades, 
 Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, 
 
 True as the steel of their tried blades, 
 Heroes in heart and hand. 
 
 There had the Persian's thousands stood, 
 
MARCO BOZZARIS. 
 
 There had the glad earth drunk their blood 
 
 On old Plataea's day ; 
 And now there breathed that haunted air 
 The sons of sires who conquered there, 
 With arm to strike and soul to dare, 
 
 As quick, as far as they. 
 
 An hour passed on the Turk awoke ; 
 
 That bright dream was his last ; 
 He woke to hear his sentries shriek, 
 "To arms! they come ! the Greek! the Greek!" 
 He woke to die midst flame, and smoke, 
 And shout, and groan, and sabre- stroke, 
 
 And death-shots falling thick and fast 
 As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; 
 And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 
 
 Bozzaris cheer his band : 
 " Strike till the last armed foe expires ; 
 Strike for your altars and your fires ; 
 Strike for the green graves of your sires ; 
 
 God and your native land ! " 
 
 They fought like brave men, long and well ; 
 
 They piled that ground with Moslem slain, 
 They conquered but Bozzaris fell, 
 
 Bleeding at every vein. 
 His few surviving comrades saw 
 His smile when rang their proud hurrah, 
 
 And the red field was won ; 
 
MARCO BOZZARIS. 
 
 Then saw in death his eyelids close 
 Calmly, as to a night's repose, 
 Like flowers at set of sun. 
 
 Come to the bridal-chamber, Death ! 
 
 Come to the mother's, when she feels. 
 For the first time, her first-born's breath ; 
 
 Come when the blessed seals 
 That close the pestilence are broke, 
 And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
 Come in consumption's ghastly form, 
 The earthquake shock, the ocean-storm ; 
 Come when the heart beats high and warm, 
 
 With banquet-song, and dance and wine ; 
 And thou art terrible the tear, 
 The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier ; 
 And all we know, or dream, or fear 
 
 Of agony, are thine. 
 
 
 But to the hero, when his sword 
 
 Has won the battle for the free, 
 Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word ; 
 And in its hollow tones are heard 
 
 The thanks of millions yet to be. 
 Come, when his task of fame is wrought 
 Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood bought 
 
 Come in her crowning hour and then 
 Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
 To him is welcome as the sight 
 
1 6 MARCO BOZZARIS. 
 
 Of sky and stars to prisoned men : 
 Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
 Of brother in a foreign land ; 
 Thy summons welcome as the cry 
 That told the Indian isles were nigh 
 
 To the world-seeking Genoese. 
 When the land wind, from woods of palm, 
 And orange-groves, and fields of balm, 
 
 Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 
 
 Bozzaris ! with the storied brave 
 
 Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
 Rest thee there is no prouder grave, 
 
 Even in her own proud clime. 
 She wore no funeral-weeds for thee, 
 
 Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume 
 Like torn branch from death's leafless tree 
 In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 
 
 The heartless luxury of the tomb : 
 But she remembers thee as one 
 Long loved and for a season gone ; 
 For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, 
 Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; 
 For thee she rings the birthday bells ; 
 Of thee her babes' first lisping tells ; 
 For thine her evening prayer is said 
 At palace-couch and cottage-bed ; 
 Her soldier, closing with the foe, 
 Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow j 
 
MARCO BOZZARIS, 
 
 His plighted maiden, when she fears 
 For him the joy of her young years, 
 Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears : 
 
 And she, the mother of thy boys. 
 Though in her eye and faded cheek 
 Is read the grief she will not speak, 
 
 The memory of her buried joys, 
 And even she who gave thee birth, 
 Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, 
 
 Talk of thy doom without a sigh : 
 For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's ; 
 One of the few, the immortal names, 
 
 That were not born to die. 
 
ALNWICK CASTLE." 
 
 JOME of the Percy's high-born race, 
 Home of their beautiful and brave, 
 Alike their birth and burial-place, 
 
 Their cradle and their grave ! 
 Still sternly o'er the castle gate 
 Their house's Lion stands in state, 
 As in his proud departed hours ; 
 And warriors frown in stone on high, 
 And feudal banners " flout the sky " 
 Above his princely towers. 
 
 A gentle hill its side inclines, 
 
 Lovely in England's fadeless green, 
 To meet the quiet stream which winds 
 
 Through this romantic scene 
 As silently and sweetly still, 
 As when, at evening, on that hill, 
 
 While summer's wind blew soft and low, 
 Seated by gallant Hotspur's side, 
 His Katherine was a happy bride, 
 
 A thousand years ago. 
 
ALNWICK CASTLE. 
 
 Gaze on the Abbey's ruined pile : 
 
 Does not the succoring ivy, keeping 
 Her watch around it, seem to smile, 
 
 As o'er a loved one sleeping ? 
 One solitary turret gray 
 
 Still tells, in melancholy glory, 
 The legend of the Cheviot day, 
 
 The Percy's proudest border story. 
 Th at day its roof was triumph's arch ; 
 
 Then rang, from aisle to pictured dome, 
 The light step of the soldier's march, 
 
 The music of the trump and drum ; 
 And babe, and sire, the old, the young, 
 And the monk's hymn, and minstrel's song, 
 And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long, 
 
 Welcomed her warrior home. 
 
 Wild roses by the Abbey towers 
 
 Are gay in their young bud and bloom : 
 They were born of a race of funeral-flowers 
 That garlanded, in long- gone hours, 
 
 A templar's knightly tomb. 
 He died, the sword in his mailed hand, 
 On the holiest spot of the Blessed land, 
 
 Where the Cross was damped with his dying breath, 
 When blood ran free as festal wine, 
 And the sainted air of Palestine 
 
 Was thick with the darts of death. 
 
 2 
 
2O ALNWICK CASTLE. 
 
 Wise with the lore of centuries, 
 
 What tales, if there be "tongues in trees,' 
 
 Those giant oaks could tell, 
 Of beings born and buried here ; 
 Tales of the peasant and the peer, 
 Tales of the bridal and the bier, 
 
 The welcome and farewell, 
 Since on their boughs the startled bird 
 First, in her twilight slumbers, heard 
 
 The Norman's curfew-bell ! 
 
 I wandered through the lofty halls 
 
 Trod by the Percys of old fame, 
 And traced upon the chapel walls 
 
 Each high, heroic name, 
 From him 3 who once his standard set 
 Where now, o'er mosque and minaret, 
 
 Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons ; 
 To him who, when a younger son, 
 Fought for King George at Lexington, 4 
 
 A major of dragoons. 
 
 That last half stanza it has dashed . 
 
 From my warm lip the sparkling cup ; 
 The light that o'er my eyebeam flashed, 
 
 The power that bore my spirit up 
 Above this bank-note world is gone ; 
 And Alnwick's but a market town, 
 And this, alas ! its market day. 
 
ALNWICK CASTLE. 
 
 And beasts and borderers throng the way ; 
 Oxen and bleating lambs in lots, 
 Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots, 
 
 Men in the coal and cattle line ; 
 From Teviot's bard and hero land, 
 From royal Berwick's 5 beach of sand, 
 From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and 
 
 Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 
 
 These are not the romantic times 
 So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes, 
 
 So dazzling to the dreaming boy : 
 Ours are the days of fact, not fable, 
 Of knights, but not of the round table, 
 
 Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy : 
 'Tis what "our President," Monroe, 
 
 Has called " the era of good feeling : " 
 The Highlander, the bitterest foe 
 To modern laws, has felt their blow, 
 Consented to be taxed, and vote, 
 And put on pantaloons and coat, 
 
 And leave off cattle-stealing : 
 Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt, 
 The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt, 
 
 The Douglass in red herrings ; 
 And noble name and cultured land, 
 Palace, and park, and vassal-band, 
 Are powerless to the notes of hand 
 
 Of Rothschild or the Barings. 
 
 21 
 
22 ALNWICK CASTLE. 
 
 The age of bargaining, said Burke, 
 Has come : to-day the turbaned Turk 
 (Sleep, Richard of the lion heart ! 
 Sleep on, nor from your cerements start) 
 
 Is England's friend and fast ally ; 
 The Moslem tramples on the Greek, 
 
 And on the Cross and altar-stone, 
 
 And Christendom looks tamely on, 
 And hears the Christian maiden shriek, 
 
 And sees the Christian father die ; 
 And not a sabre-blow is given 
 For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven, 
 
 By Europe's craven chivalry. 
 
 You'll ask if yet the Percy lives 
 
 In the armed pomp of feudal state ? 
 The present representatives 
 
 Of Hotspur and his "gentle Kate," 
 Are some half-dozen serving-men 
 In the drab coat of William Penn; 
 
 A chambermaid, whose lip and eye, . 
 
 And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling, 
 
 Spoke Nature's aristocracy ; 
 And one, half groom, half seneschal, 
 Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall, 
 From donjon-keep to turret wall, 
 For ten-and-sixpence sterling. 
 
BURNS. 
 
 TO A ROSE, BROUGHT FROM NEAR ALLOW AY KIRK, IN 
 AYRSHIRE, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1 822. 
 
 |ILD Rose of Alloway ! my thanks; 
 
 Thou 'mindst me of that autumn noon 
 When first we met upon " the banks 
 And braes o' bonny Doon." 
 
 Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough, 
 My sunny hour was glad and brief, 
 
 We've crossed the winter sea, and thou 
 Art withered flower and leaf. 
 
 And will not thy death-doom be mine 
 The doom of all things wrought of clay 
 
 And withered my life's leaf like thine, 
 Wild rose of Alloway ? 
 
 Not so his memory, for whose sake 
 My bosom bore thee far and long, 
 
 His who a humbler flower could make 
 Immortal as his song, 
 
24 BURNS. 
 
 The memory of Burns a name 
 That calls, when brimmed her festal cup, 
 
 A nation's glory and her shame, 
 In silent sadness up. 
 
 A nation's glory be the rest 
 
 Forgot she's canonized his mind ; 
 
 And it is joy to speak the best 
 We may of human kind. 
 
 I've stood beside the cottage-bed 
 Where the Bard-peasant first drew breath ; 
 
 A straw-thatched roof above his head, 
 A straw-wrought couch beneath. 
 
 And I have stood beside the pile, 
 
 His monument that tells to Heaven 
 
 The homage of earth's proudest isle 
 To that Bard-peasant given ! 
 
 Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that spot, 
 Boy-minstrel, in thy dreaming hour ; 
 
 And know, however low his lot, 
 A Poet's pride and power : 
 
 The pride that lifted Burns from earth, 
 The power that gave a child of song 
 
 Ascendency o'er rank and birth, 
 The rich, the brave, the strong; 
 
BURNS. 25 
 
 And if despondency weigh down 
 
 Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then, 
 Despair thy name is written on 
 
 The roll of common men. 
 
 There have been loftier themes than his, 
 And longer scrolls, and louder lyres, 
 
 And lays lit up with Poesy's 
 Purer and holier fires : 
 
 Yet read the names that know not death ; 
 
 Few nobler ones than Burns are there ; 
 And few have won a greener wreath 
 
 Than that which binds his hair. 
 
 His is that language of the heart, 
 
 In which the answering heart would speak, 
 
 Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, 
 Or the smile light the cheek ; 
 
 And his that music, to whose tone 
 The common pulse of man keeps time, 
 
 In cot or castle's mirth of moan, 
 In cold or sunny clime. 
 
 And who hath heard his song, nor knelt 
 
 Before its spell with willing knee, 
 And listened, and believed, and felt 
 
 The Poet's mastery 
 
2 6 BURNS. 
 
 O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm, 
 O'er the heart's sunshine and its showers, 
 
 O'er Passion's moments bright and warm, 
 O'er Reason's dark, cold hours ; 
 
 On fields where brave men " die or do," 
 In halls where rings the banquet's mirth, 
 
 Where mourners weep, where lovers woo, 
 From throne to cottage -hearth ? 
 
 What sweet tears dim the eye unshed, 
 What wild vows falter on the tongue, 
 
 When " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," 
 Or " Auld Lang Syne " is sung ! 
 
 Pure hopes, that lift the soul above, 
 Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise, 
 
 And dreams of youth, and truth, and love, 
 With " Logan's " banks and braes. 
 
 And when he breathes his master-lay 
 Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall, 
 
 All passions in our frames of clay 
 Come thronging at his call. 
 
 Imagination's world of air, 
 
 And our own world, its gloom and glee, 
 Wit, pathos, poetry, are there, 
 
 And death's sublimity. 
 
And Burns though brief the race he ran, 
 Though rough and dark the path he trod, 
 
 Lived died in form and soul a Man, 
 The image of his God. 
 
 Through care, and pain, and want, and woe, 
 With wounds that only death could heal, 
 
 Tortures the poor alone can know, 
 The proud alone can feel ; 
 
 He kept his honesty and truth, 
 His independent tongue and pen, 
 
 And moved, in manhood as in youth. 
 Pride of his fellow-men. 
 
 Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, 
 
 A hate of tyrant and of knave, 
 A love of right, a scorn of wrong, 
 
 Of coward and of slave ; 
 
 A kind, true heart, a spirit high, 
 
 That could not fear and would not bow, 
 
 Were written in his manly eye 
 And on his manly brow. 
 
 Praise to the bard ! his words are driven, 
 Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown, 
 
 Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven, 
 The birds of fame have flown. 
 
2 8 BURNS. 
 
 Praise to the man ! a nation stood 
 
 Beside his coffin with wet eyes, 
 Her brave, her beautiful, her good, 
 
 As when a loved one dies. 
 
 And still, as on his funeral-day, 
 
 Men stand his cold earth-couch around, 
 
 With the mute homage that we pay 
 To consecrated ground. 
 
 And consecrated ground it is, 
 
 The last, the hallowed home of one 
 
 Who lives upon all memories, 
 Though with the buried gone. 
 
 Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines, 
 Shrines to no code or creed confined 
 
 The Delphian vales, the Palestines, 
 The Meccas of the mind. 
 
 Sages, with wisdom's garland wreathed, 
 Crowned kings, and mitred priests of power, 
 
 And warridrs with their bright swords sheathed, 
 The mightiest of the hour ; 
 
 And lowlier names, whose humble home 
 
 Is lit by fortune's dimmer star, 
 Are there o'er wave and mountain come, 
 
 From countries near and far; 
 
BURNS. 29 
 
 Pilgrims whose wandering feet have pressed 
 The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand, 
 
 Or trod the piled leaves of the West, 
 My own green forest-land. 
 
 All ask the cottage of his birth, 
 Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung, 
 
 And gather feelings not of earth 
 His fields and streams among. 
 
 They linger by the Doon's low trees, 
 And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr, 
 
 And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries ! 
 The poet's tomb is there. 
 
 But what to them the sculptor's art, 
 His funeral columns, wreaths and urns ? 
 
 Wear they not graven on the heart 
 The name of Robert Burns ? 
 
WYOMING. 6 
 
 " Dites si la Nature n'a pas fait ce beau pays potir une Julie, pour une 
 Claire, et pour un St. Preux, mais ne les y cherchtz pas." 
 
 ROUSSEAU. 
 
 I. 
 
 |HOU com'st, in beauty, on my gaze at last, 
 
 " On Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming ! " 
 Image of many a dream, in hours long past, 
 When life was in its bud and blossoming, 
 And waters, gushing from the fountain-spring 
 Of pure enthusiast thought, dimmed my young eyes, 
 As by the poet borne, on unseen wing, 
 I breathed, in fancy, 'neath thy cloudless skies, 
 The summer's air, and heard her echoed harmonies. 
 
 n. 
 
 I then but dreamed : thou art before me now, 
 In life, a vision of the brain no more. 
 I've stood upon the wooded mountain's brow, 
 That beetles high thy lovely valley o'er ; 
 And now, where winds thy river's greenest shore, 
 Within a bower of sycamores am laid ; 
 And winds, as soft and sweet as ever bore 
 The fragrance of wild flowers through sun and shade, 
 A.re singing in the trees, whose low boughs press my head. 
 
WYOMING. ^ ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Nature hath made thee lovelier than the power 
 Even of Campbell's pen hath pictured : Jie 
 Had woven, had he gazed one sunny hour 
 Upon thy smiling vale, its scenery 
 With more of truth, and made each rock and tree 
 Known like old friends, and greeted from afar : 
 And there are tales of sad reality, 
 In the dark legends of thy border war, 
 With woes of deeper tint than his own Gertrude's are. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But where are they, the beings of the mind, 
 The bard's creations, moulded not of clay, 
 Hearts to strange bliss and suffering assigned 
 Young Gertrude, Albert, Waldegrave where are 
 
 they? 
 
 We need not ask. The people of to-day 
 Appear good, honest, quiet men enough, 
 And hospitable too for ready pay ; 
 With manners like their roads, a little rough, 
 And hands whose grasp is warm and welcoming, though 
 
 tough. 
 
 v. 
 
 Judge Hallenbach, who keeps the toll-bridge gate, 
 And the town records, is the Albert now 
 Of Wyoming : like him, in church and state, 
 Her Doric column ; and upon his brow 
 
32 WYOMING. 
 
 The thin hairs, white with seventy winters' snow, 
 Look patriarchal. Waldegrave 'twere in vain 
 To point out here, unless in yon scare-crow, 
 That stands full-uniformed upon the plain, 
 To frighten flocks of crows and blackbirds from the 
 grain. 
 
 VI. 
 
 For he would look particularly droll 
 In his "Iberian boot" and " Spanish plume," 
 And be the wonder of each Christian soul 
 As of the birds that scare-crow and his broom. 
 But Gertrude, in her loveliness and bloom, 
 Hath many a model here ; for woman's eye, 
 In court or cottage, wheresoe'er her home, 
 Hath a heart-spell too holy and too high 
 To be o'erpraised even by her worshipper Poesy. 
 
 VII. 
 
 There's one in the next field of sweet sixteen 
 Singing and summoning thoughts of beauty born 
 In heaven with her jacket of light green, 
 "Love-darting eyes, and tresses like the morn," 
 Without a shoe or stocking hoeing corn. 
 Whether, like Gertrude, she oft wanders there, 
 With Shakespeare's volume in her bosom borne, 
 I think is doubtful. Of the poet-player 
 The maiden knows no more than Cobbett or Voltaire. 
 
WYOMING. 23 
 
 VIII. 
 
 There is a woman, widowed, gray, and old, 
 Who tells you where the foot of Battle stepped 
 Upon their day of massacre. She told 
 Its tale, and pointed to the spot, and wept, 
 Whereon her father and five brothers slept 
 Shroudless, the bright-dreamed slumbers of the brave, 
 When all the land a funeral mourning kept. 
 And there, wild laurels planted on the grave 
 By Nature's hand, in air their pale-red blossoms wave. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And on the margin of yon orchard hill 
 Are marks where timeworn battlements have been, 
 And in the tall grass traces linger still 
 Of "arrowy frieze and wedged ravelin." 
 Five hundred of her brave that valley green 
 Trod on the morn in soldier-spirit gay ; 
 But twenty lived to tell the noonday scene 
 And where are now the twenty ? Passed away. 
 Has Death no triumph hours, save on the battle-day ? 
 
ON THE DEATH OF 
 
 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE, 
 
 OF NEW YORK, SEPT., 1820. 
 
 " The good die first, 
 
 And they, whose hearts are dry as summer dust, 
 Burn to the socket." 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 |REEN be the turf above thee, 
 
 Friend of my better days ! 
 None knew thee but to love thee, 
 Nor named thee but to praise. 
 
 Tears fell when thou wert dying, 
 From eyes unused to weep, 
 
 And long,, where thou art lying, 
 Will tears the cold turf steep. 
 
 When hearts, whose truth was proven, 
 Like thine, are laid in earth, 
 
 There should a wreath be woven 
 To tell the world their worth ; 
 
 And I who woke each morrow 
 To clasp thy hand in mine, 
 
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 35 
 
 Who shared thy joy and sorrow, 
 Whose weal and woe were thine : 
 
 It should be mine to braid it 
 
 Around thy faded brow, 
 But I've in vain essayed it, 
 
 And feel I cannot now. 
 
 While memory bids me weep thee, 
 Nor thoughts nor words are free, 
 
 The grief is fixed too deeply 
 That mourns a man like thee. 
 
TWILIGHT. 
 
 [HERE is an evening twilight of the heart, 
 
 When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest, 
 And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart, 
 As fades the daybeam in the rosy west. 
 Tis with a nameless feeling of regret 
 
 We gaze upon them as they melt away, 
 And fondly would we bid them linger yet, 
 
 But Hope is round us with her angel lay, 
 Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour ; 
 Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early 
 power. 
 
 In youth her cheek wi\s crimsoned with her glow ; 
 
 Her smile was loveliest then ; her matin song 
 Was heaven's own music, and the note of woe 
 
 Was all unheard her sunny bowers among. 
 Life's little world of bliss was newly born; 
 
 We knew not, cared not, it was born to die, 
 Flushed with the cool breeze and the dews of morn, 
 
 With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky, 
 And mocked the passing clouds that dimmed its blue, 
 Like our own sorrows then as fleeting and as few. 
 
TWILIGHT. 37 
 
 And manhood felt her sway too on the eye, 
 
 Half realized, her early dreams burst bright, 
 Her promised bower of happiness seemed nigh, 
 
 Its days of joy, its vigils of delight; 
 And though at times might lower the thunder-storm, 
 
 And the red lightnings threaten, still the air 
 Was balmy with her breath and her loved form, 
 
 The rainbow of the heart was hovering there. 
 'Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen, 
 Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer 
 green. 
 
 But though less dazzling in her twilight dress, 
 
 There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now ; 
 That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness, 
 
 Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow ; 
 That smile shall brighten the dim evening star 
 
 That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart 
 Till the faint light of life is fled afar, 
 
 And hushed the last deep beating of the heart : 
 The meteor-bearer of our parting breath, 
 A moonbeam in the midnight cloud of death. 
 
PSALM CXXXVII. 
 
 " By the rivers of Babylon." 
 
 |E sat us down and wept, 
 
 Where Babel's waters slept, 
 we thought of home and Zion as a long-gone, 
 
 happy dream ; 
 We hung our harps in air 
 On the willow-boughs, which there, 
 Gloomy as round a sepulchre, were drooping o'er the 
 stream. 
 
 The foes whose chain we wore, 
 
 Were with us on that shore, 
 Exulting in our tears that told the bitterness of woe. 
 
 " Sing us," they cried aloud, 
 
 " Ye once so high and proud, 
 The songs ye sang in Zion ere we laid her glory low." 
 
 And shall the harp of heaven 
 To Judah's monarch given 
 
 Be touched by cuptive fingers, or grace a fettered 
 hand? 
 
PSALM CXXXVII. , 2Q 
 
 No ! sooner be my tongue 
 Mute, powerless, and unstrung, 
 
 Than its words of holy music make glad a stranger 
 land. 
 
 May this right hand, whose skill 
 
 Can wake the harp at will, 
 
 And bid the listener's joys or griefs in light or darkness 
 come, 
 
 Forget its godlike power, 
 
 If for one brief, dark hour, 
 My heart forgets Jerusalem, fallen city of my home ! 
 
 Daughter of Babylon I 
 
 Blessed be that chosen one, 
 
 Whom God shall send to smite thee when there is none 
 to save : 
 
 He from the mother's breast, 
 
 Shall pluck the babe at rest, 
 And lay it in the sleep of death beside its father's grave. 
 
TO ****. 
 
 jHE world is bright before thee, 
 Its summer flowers are thine, 
 Its calm blue sky is o'er thee, 
 
 Thy bosom Pleasure's shrine ; 
 And thine the sunbeam given 
 To Nature's morning hour, 
 Pure, warm, as when from heaven 
 It burst on Eden's bower. 
 
 There is a song of sorrow, 
 
 The death-dirge of the gay, 
 That tells, ere dawn of morrow, 
 
 These charms may melt away, 
 That sun's bright beam be shaded, 
 
 That sky be blue no more, 
 The summer flowers be faded, 
 
 And youth's warm promise o'er. 
 
 Believe it not though lonely 
 
 Thy evening home may be ; 
 Though Beauty's bark can only 
 
 Float on a summer sea ; 
 Though Time thy bloom is stealing, 
 
 There's still beyond his art 
 The wild-flower wreath of feeling, 
 
 The sunbeam of the heart. 
 
THE FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS. 
 
 SARATOGA. 
 
 | TR ANGERS ! your eyes are on that valley fixed 
 
 Intently, as we gaze on vacancy, 
 When the mind's wings o'erspread 
 The spirit-world of dreams. 
 
 True, 'tis a scene of loveliness the bright 
 Green dwelling of the summer's first-born Hours, 
 
 Whose wakened leaf and bud 
 
 Are welcoming the morn. 
 
 And morn returns the welcome, sun and cloud 
 Smile on the green earth from their home in heaven, 
 
 Even as a mother smiles 
 
 Above her cradled boy, 
 
 And wreath their light and shade o'er plain and moun- 
 tain, 
 O'er sleepless seas of grass, whose waves are flowers, 
 
 The river's golden shores, 
 
 The forest of dark pines. 
 
4.2 THE FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS. 
 
 The song of the wild bird is on the wind, 
 The hum of the wild bee, the music wild 
 . Of waves upon the bank, 
 Of leaves upon the bough. 
 
 But all is song and beauty in the land, 
 Beneath her skies of June; then journey on, 
 
 A thousand scenes like this 
 
 Will greet you ere the eve. 
 
 Ye linger yet ye see not, hear not now, 
 The sunny smile, the music of to-day, 
 
 Your thoughts are wandering up, 
 
 Far up the stream of time ; 
 
 And boyhood's lore and fireside-listened tales 
 Are rushing on your memories, as ye breathe 
 That valley's storied name, 
 FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS. 
 
 Strangers no more, a kindred "pride of place," 
 Pride in the gift of country and of name, 
 
 Speaks in your eye and step 
 
 Ye tread your native land. 
 
 And your high thoughts are on her glory's day, 
 
 The solemn sabbath of the week of battle, 
 
 % 
 Whose tempests bowed to earth 
 
 Her foeman's banner here. 
 
THE FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS. 43 
 
 The forest-leaves lay scattered cold and dead, 
 Upon the withered grass that autumn morn, 
 
 When, with as widowed hearts 
 
 And hopes as dead and cold, 
 
 A gallant army formed their last array 
 Upon that field, in silence and deep gloom, 
 
 And at their conqueror's feet 
 
 Laid their war-weapons down. 
 
 Sullen and stern, disarmed but not dishonored ; 
 Brave men, but brave in vain, they yielded there : 
 
 The soldier's trial-task 
 
 Is not alone "to die." 
 
 Honor to chivalry ! the conqueror's breath 
 Stains not the ermine of his foeman's fame, 
 
 Nor mocks his captive's doom 
 
 The bitterest cup of war. 
 
 But be that bitterest cup the doom of all 
 Whose swords are lightning-flashes in the cloud 
 
 Of the Invader's wrath, 
 
 Threatening a gallant land ! 
 
 His armies' trumpet-tones wake not alone 
 Her slumbering echoes ; from a thousand hills 
 
 Her answering voices shout, 
 
 And her bells ring to arms ! 
 3 
 
44 THE FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS 
 
 Then danger hovers o'er the Invader's march, 
 On raven wings, hushing the song of fame, 
 
 And glory's hues of beauty . 
 
 Fade from the cheek of death. 
 
 A foe is heard in every rustling leaf, 
 A fortress seen in every rock and tree, 
 
 The eagle eye of art 
 
 Is dim and powerless then, 
 
 And war becomes a people's joy, the drum 
 Man's merriest music, and the field of death 
 
 His couch of happy dreams, 
 
 After life's harvest-home. 
 
 He battles heart and arm, his own blue sky 
 Above him, and his own green land around, 
 
 Land of his father's grave, 
 
 His blessing and his prayers : 
 
 Land where he learned to lisp a mother's name, 
 The first beloved in life, the last forgot, 
 
 Land of his frolic youth, 
 
 Land of his bridal eve 
 
 Land of his children vain your columned strength, 
 Invaders ! vain your battles' steel and 'fire ! 
 
 Choose ye the morrow's doom 
 
 A prison or a grave. 
 
THE FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS. 45 
 
 And such were Saratoga's victors such 
 
 The Yeomen-Brave, whose deeds and death have given 
 
 A glory to her skies, 
 
 A music to her name. 
 
 In honorable life her fields they trod, 
 In honorable death they sleep below ; 
 
 Their sons' proud feelings here 
 
 Their noblest monuments. 
 
RED JACKET. 7 
 A Chief of the Indian Tribes, the Tuscaroras. 
 
 ON LOOKING AT HIS PORTRAIT BY WEIR. 
 
 JOOPER, whose name is with his country's woven$ 
 
 First in her files, her PIONEER of mind 
 A wanderer now in other climes, has proven 
 His love for the young land he left behind ; 
 
 And throned her in the senate-hall of nations, 
 Robed like the deluge rainbow, heaven- wrought ; 
 
 Magnificent as his own mind's creations, 
 And beautiful as its green world of thought : 
 
 And faithful to the Act of Congress, quoted 
 
 As law authority, it passed nem. con. : 
 He writes that we are, as ourselves have voted, 
 
 The most enlightened people ever known: 
 
 That all our week is happy as a Sunday 
 
 In Paris, full of song, and dance, and laugl- ; 
 
 And that, from Orleans to the Bay of Fundy, 
 There's not a bailiff or an epitaph : 
 
RED JACKET 47 
 
 And furthermore in fifty years, or sooner, 
 
 We shall export our poetry and wine; 
 And our brave fleet, eight frigates and a schooner, 
 
 Will sweep the seas from Zembla to the Line. 
 
 If he were with me, King of Tuscarora ! 
 
 Gazing, as I, upon thy portrait now, 
 In all its medalled, fringed, and beaded glory, 
 
 Its eye's dark beauty, and its thoughtful brow 
 
 Its brow, half martial and half diplomatic, 
 Its eye, upsoaring like an eagle's wings ; 
 
 Well might he boast that we, the Democratic, 
 Outrival Europe, even in our Kings ! 
 
 For thou wast monarch born. Tradition's pages 
 Tell not the planting of thy parent tree, 
 
 But that the forest tribes. have bent for ages 
 To thee, and to thy sires, the subject knee. 
 
 Thy name is princely if no poet's magic 
 Could make RED JACKET grace an English rhyme, 
 
 Though some one with a genius for the tragic 
 Hath introduced it in a pantomime 
 
 Yet it is music in the language spoken 
 
 Of thine own land, and on her herald-roll ; 
 
 As bravely fought for, and as proud a token 
 As Cceur de Lion's of a warrior's soul. 
 
48 RED JACKET. 
 
 Thy garb though Austria's bosom-star would frighten 
 That medal pale, as diamonds the dark mine, 
 
 And George the Fourth wore, at his court at Brighton 
 A more becoming evening dress than thine ; 
 
 Yet 'tis a brave one, scorning wind and weather, 
 And fitted for thy couch, on field and flood, 
 
 As Rob Roy's tartan for the Highland heather, 
 Or forest green for England's Robin Hood. 
 
 Is strength a monarch's merit, like a whaler's ? 
 
 Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as strong 
 As earth's first kings the Argo's gallant sailors, 
 
 Heroes in history and gods in song. 
 
 Is beauty ? Thine has with thy youth departed ; 
 
 But the love-legends of thy manhood's years, 
 And she who perished, young and broken-hearted, 
 
 Are but I rhyme for smiles and not for tears. 
 
 Is eloquence? Her spell is thine that reaches 
 The heart, and makes the wisest head its sport ; 
 
 And there's one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches, 
 The secret of their mastery they are short. 
 
 The monarch mind, the mystery of commanding, 
 
 The birth-hour gift, the art Napoleon, 
 Of winning, fettering, moulding, wielding, banding 
 
 The hearts of millions till they move as one: 
 
RED JACKET. 
 
 Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have crowded 
 
 The road to death as to a festival ; 
 And minstrels, at their sepulchres, have shrouded 
 
 With banner-folds of glory the dark pall. 
 
 Who will believe ? Not I for in deceiving 
 Lies the dear charm of life's delightful dream ; 
 
 I cannot spare the luxury of believing 
 That all things beautiful are what they seem ; 
 
 Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing 
 Would, like the Patriarch's, soothe a dying hour, 
 
 With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing, 
 As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlit bower : 
 
 With look like patient Job's eschewing evil; 
 
 With motions graceful as a bird's in air ; 
 Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil 
 
 That e'er clinched fingers in a captive's hair 1 
 
 That in thy breast there springs a poison fountain, 
 Deadlier than that where bathes the Upas-tree ; 
 
 And in thy wrath a nursing cat-o'-mountain 
 Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee ! 
 
 And underneath that face, like summer ocean's, 
 Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear, 
 
 Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions, 
 Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow all save fear: 
 
50 RED JACKET. 
 
 Love for thy land, as if she were thy daughter, 
 Her pipe in peace, her tomahawk in wars ; 
 
 Hatred of missionaries and cold water ; 
 Pride in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars ; . 
 
 Hope that thy wrongs may be, by the Great Spirit, 
 Remembered and revenged when thou art gone ; 
 
 Sorrow that none are left thee to inherit 
 Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne ! 
 
LOVE. 
 
 .... The imperial votaress passed on 
 In maiden meditation, fancy free. 
 
 MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DRKAM. 
 
 Shall I never see a bachelor of threescore again ? 
 
 BENEDICT, IN MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 |HEN the tree of Love is -budding first, 
 
 Ere yet its leaves are green, 
 Ere yet, by shower and sunbeam nursed 
 
 Its infant life has been; 
 The wild bee's slightest touch might wring 
 
 The buds from off the tree, 
 As the gentle dip of the swallow's wing 
 Breaks the bubbles on the sea. 
 
 But when its open leaves have found 
 
 A home in the free air, 
 Pluck them, and there remains a wound 
 
 That ever rankles there. 
 The blight of hope and happiness 
 
 Is felt when fond ones part, 
 And the bitter tear that follows is 
 
 The life-blood of the heart. 
 
52 LOVE. 
 
 When the flame of love is kindled first, 
 
 'Tis the fire-fly's light at even, 
 'Tis dim as the wandering stars that burst 
 
 In the blue of the summer heaven. 
 A breath can bid it burn no more, 
 
 Or if, at times, its beams 
 Come on the memory, they pass o'er 
 
 Like shadows in our dreams. 
 
 But when that flame has blazed into 
 
 A being and a power, 
 And smiled in scorn upon the dew 
 
 That fell in its first warm hour, 
 'Tis the flame that curls round the martyr's head, 
 
 Whose task is to destroy ; 
 'Tis the lamp on the altars of the dead, 
 
 Whose light but darkens joy. 
 
 Then crush, even in their hour of birth, 
 
 The infant buds of Love, 
 And tread his glowing fire to earth, 
 
 Ere 'tis dark in clouds above ; 
 Cherish no more a cypress-tree 
 
 To shade thy future years, 
 Nor nurse a heart-flame that may be 
 
 Quenched only with thy tears. 
 
A SKETCH. 
 
 JER Leghorn hat was of the bright gold tint 
 
 The setting sunbeams give to autumn clouds ; 
 The ribbon that encircled it as blue 
 As spots of sky upon a moonless night, 
 When stars are keeping revelry in heaven ; 
 A single ringlet of her clustering hair 
 Fell gracefully beneath her hat, in curls 
 .As dark as down upon the raven's wing ; 
 The kerchief, partly o'er her shoulders flung, 
 And partly waving in the wind, was woven 
 Of every color the first rainbow wore, 
 When it came smiling in its hues of beauty 
 A promise from on high to a lost world, 
 Her robe seemed of the snow just fallen to earth, 
 Pure from its home in the far winter clouds, 
 As white, as stainless ; and around her waist 
 (You might have spanned it with your thumb and fin- 
 ger), 
 
 A girdle of the hue of Indian pearls 
 Was twined, resembling the faint line of water 
 That follows the swift bark o'er quiet seas. 
 Her face I saw not : but her shape, her form, 
 Was one of those with which creating bards 
 
54 A SKETCH. 
 
 People a world of their own fashioning, 
 
 Forms for the heart to love and cherish ever, 
 
 The visiting angels of our twilight dreams. 
 
 Her foot was loveliest of remembered things, 
 
 Small as a fairy's on a moonlit leaf 
 
 Listening the wind-harp's song, and watching by 
 
 The wild-thyme pillow of her sleeping queen, 
 
 When proud Titania shuns her Oberon. 
 
 But 'twas that foot which broke the spell alas ! 
 
 Its stocking had a deep, deep tinge of blue 
 
 I turned away in sadness, and passed on. 
 
DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 
 
 The only bliss 
 
 Of Paradise that has survived the fall. 
 
 JESIDE the nuptial curtain bright," 
 
 The bard of Eden sings, 
 " Young Love his constant lamp will light, 
 
 And wave his purple wings." 
 But rain-drops from the clouds of care 
 
 May bid that lamp be dim, 
 And the boy Love will pout and swear 
 'Tis then no place for him. 
 
 So mused the lovely Mrs. Dash 
 
 ('Tis wrong to mention names) 
 When for her surly husband's cash 
 
 She urged in vain her claims. 
 " I want a little moneyj dear, 
 
 For Vandervoort and Flandin, 
 Their bill, which now has run a year, 
 
 To-morrow mean to hand in." 
 
56 DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 
 
 III. 
 
 " More ? " cried the husband, half asleep, 
 
 " You'll drive me to despair; " 
 The lady was too proud to weep, 
 
 And too polite to swear. 
 She bit her lip for very spite, 
 
 He felt a storm was brewing, 
 And dreamed of nothing else all night, 
 
 But brokers, banks, and ruin. 
 
 IV. 
 
 lie thought her pretty once, but dreams 
 
 Have sure a wondrous power, 
 For to his eye the lady seems 
 
 Quite altered since that hour ; 
 And Love, who on their bridal eve 
 
 Had promised long to stay, 
 Forgot his promise, took French leave, 
 
 And bore his lamp away. 
 
MAGDALEN. 8 
 
 SWORD, whose blade has ne'er been wet 
 
 With blood, except of freedom's foes ; 
 That hope which, though its sun be set, 
 
 Still with a starlight beauty glows ; 
 A heart that worshipped in Romance 
 
 The Spirit of the buried Time, 
 And dreams of knight, and steed, and lance, 
 
 And ladye-love, and minstrel-rhyme ; 
 These had been, and I deemed would be 
 My joy, whate'er my destiny. 
 
 II. 
 
 Born in a camp, its watch-fires bright 
 
 Alone illumed my cradle-bed ; 
 And I had borne with wild delight 
 
 My banner where Bolivar led, 
 Ere manhood's hue was on my cheek, 
 
 Or manhood's pride was on my brow. 
 Its foes' are furled the war-bird's beak 
 
 Is thirsty on the Andes now; 
 I longed, like her, for other skies 
 Clouded by Glory's sacrifice. 
 
58 MAGDALEN. 
 
 III. 
 
 In Greece, the brave heart's Holy Land, 
 
 Its soldier-song the bugle sings ; 
 And I have buckled on my brand, 
 
 And waited but the sea-wind's wings, 
 To bear me where, or lost or won 
 
 Her battle, in its frown or smile, 
 Men live with those of Marathon, 
 
 Or die with those of Scio's isle ; 
 And find in Valor's tent or tomb, 
 In life or death, a glorious home. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I could have left but yesterday 
 
 The scene of my boy-years behind, 
 And floated on my "careless way 
 
 Wherever willed the breathing wind. 
 I could have bade adieu to aught 
 
 I've sought, or met, or welcomed here, 
 Without an hour of shaded thought, 
 
 A sigh, a murmur, or a tear. 
 Such was I yesterday but then 
 I had not known thee, Magdalen. 
 
 v. 
 To-day there is a change within me, 
 
 There is a weight upon my brow, 
 And Fame, whose whispers once could win me 
 
 From all I loved, is powerless now. 
 
MAGDALEN 59 
 
 There ever is a form, a face 
 
 Of maiden beauty in my dreams, 
 Speeding before me, like the race 
 
 To ocean of the mountain-streams 
 With dancing hair, and laughing eyes, 
 That seem to mock me as it flies. 
 
 VI. 
 My sword it slumbers in its sheath ; 
 
 My hopes their starry light is gone ; 
 My heart the faoled clock of death 
 
 Beats with the same low, lingering tone : 
 And this, the land of Magdalen, 
 
 Seems now the only spot on earth 
 Where skies are blue and flowers are green ; 
 
 And here I build my household hearth, 
 And breathe my song of jcy, and twine 
 A lovely being's name with mine. 
 
 VII. 
 
 In vain ! in vain ! the sail is spread ; 
 
 To sea ! to sea ! my task is there ; 
 But when among the unmourned dead 
 
 They lay me, and the ocean air 
 Brings tidings of my day of doom, 
 
 Mayst thou be then, as now thou art, 
 The load-star of a happy home ; 
 
 In smile and voice, in eye and heart 
 The same as thou hast ever been, 
 The loved, the lovely Magdalen. 
 
FROM THE ITALIAN. 
 
 I YES with the same blue witchery as those 
 
 Of Psyche, which caught Love in his own wiles j 
 Lips of the breath and hue of the red rose, 
 That move but with kind words and sweetest smiles ; 
 A power of motion and of look, whose art 
 Throws, silently, around the wildest heart 
 The net it would not break ; a form which vies 
 With that the Grecian imaged in his mind, 
 And gazed upon in dreams, and sighed to find 
 His breathing marble could not realize. 
 Know ye this picture ? There is one alone 
 Can call its pencilled lineaments her own. 
 She whom, at morning, when the summer air 
 Wanders, delighted, o'er her face of flowers, 
 And lingers in the ringlets of her hair, 
 We deem the Hebe of Jove's banquet-hours ; 
 She who, at evening, when her fingers press 
 The harp, and wake its harmonies divine, 
 Seems sweetest-voiced and loveliest of the Nine, 
 The minstrel of the bowers of happiness, 
 She whom the Graces nurtured at her birth, 
 The sea-born Goddess and the Huntress maid, 
 
FROM THE ITALIAN. 
 
 Beings whose beauty is not of the earth, 
 Came from their myrtle home and forest shade, 
 Blending immortal joy with mortaf mirth 
 And Dian said, " Fair sister, be she mine 
 In her heart's purity, in beauty thine." 
 The smiling infant listened and obeyed. 
 
 61 
 
TRANSLATION. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE. 
 
 r'AIN ye come, again ye throng around me, 
 Dim, shadowy beings of my boyhood's dream ! 
 Still shall I bless, as then, your spell that bound me ? 
 
 Still bend to mists and vapors as ye seem ? 
 Nearer ye come : I yield me as ye found me 
 
 In youth your worshipper ; and as the stream 
 Of air that folds you in its magic wreaths, 
 Flows by my lips, youth's joy my bosom breathes. 
 
 Lost forms and loved ones ye are with you bringing, 
 
 And dearest images of happier days, 
 First-love and friendship in your path upspringing, 
 
 Like old tradition's half-remembered lays, 
 And long-slept sorrows waked, whose dirge-like singing 
 
 Recalls my life's strange labyrinthine maze, 
 And names the heart-mourned many a stern doom,- 
 Ere their year's summer, summoned to the tomb. 
 
 They hear not these my last songs, they whose greet- 
 ing 
 
 Gladdened my first; my spring-time friends have 
 gone, 
 
TRANSLA TION. 63 
 
 And gone, fast journeying from that place of meeting, 
 The echoes of their welcome, one by one. 
 
 Though stranger crowds, my listeners since, are beating 
 Time to my music, their applauding tone 
 
 More grieves than glads me, while the tried and true, 
 
 If yet on earth, are wandering far and few. 
 
 A longing long unfelt, a deep-drawn sighing 
 For the far Spirit- World o'erpowers me now ; 
 
 My song's faint voice sinks fainter, like the dying 
 Tones of the wind-harp swinging from the bough, 
 
 And my changed heart throbs warm, no more denying 
 Tears to my eyes or sadness to my brow ; 
 
 The near afar off seems, the distant nigh, 
 
 The now a dream, the past reality. 
 
WOMAN. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF AN UNKNOWN LADY. 
 
 |ADY, although we have not met, 
 
 And may not meet, beneath the sky ; 
 And whether thine are eyes of jet, 
 Gray, or dark blue, or violet, 
 Or hazel Heaven knows, not I ; 
 
 Whether around thy cheek of rose 
 
 A maiden's glowing locks are curled. 
 And to some thousand kneeling beaux 
 Thy frown is cold as winter's snows, 
 Thy smile is worth a world ; 
 
 Or whether, past youth's joyous strife, 
 The calm of thought is on thy brow, 
 
 And thou art in thy noon of life, 
 
 Loving and loved, a happy wife, 
 And happier mother now 
 
 1 know not : but, whate'er thou art, 
 
 Whoe'er thou art, were mine the spell, 
 To call Fate's joys or blunt his dart, 
 There should not be one hand or heart 
 But served or wished thee well. 
 
WOMAN. 65 
 
 For thou art woman with that word 
 Life's dearest hopes and memories come, 
 
 Truth, Beauty, Love in her adored, 
 
 And earth's lost Paradise restored 
 In. the green bower of home. 
 
 What is man's love ? His vows are broke, 
 Even while his parting kiss is warni ; 
 
 But woman's love all change will mock, 
 
 And, like the ivy round the oak, 
 Cling closest in the storm. 
 
 And well the Poet at her shrine 
 
 May bend, and worship while he woos ; 
 
 To him she is a thing divine, 
 
 The inspiration of his line, 
 His Sweetheart and his Muse. 
 
 If to his song the echo rings 
 
 Of Fame 'tis woman's voice he hears ; 
 If ever from his lyre's proud strings 
 Flow sounds like rush of angel-wings, 
 'Tis that she listens while he sings, 
 
 With blended smiles and tears : 
 
 Smiles tears whose blessed and blessing power, 
 Like sun and dew o'er summer's tree, 
 
 Alone keeps green through Time's long hour, 
 
 That frailer thing than leaf or flower, 
 A poet's immortality. 
 
A POET'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 FOR THE ALBUM OF MISS * ' *, AT THE REQUEST OF HER FATHER, 
 
 LADY asks the Minstrel's rhyme." 
 A Lady asks ? There was a time 
 When musical as play-bell's chime 
 
 To wearied boy, 
 
 That sound would summon dreams sublime 
 Of pride and joy. 
 
 But now the spell hath lost its sway, 
 Life's first-born fancies first decay, 
 Gone are the plumes and pennons gay 
 
 Of young Romance ; 
 There linger but her ruins gray, 
 
 And broken lance. 
 
 'Tis a new world no more to maid, 
 Warrior, or bard, is homage paid ; 
 The bay-tree's, laurel's, myrtle's shade, 
 
 Men's thoughts resign ; 
 Heaven placed us here to vote and trade, 
 
 Twin ta"sks divine ! 
 
A POET'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 "Tis youth, 'tis beauty asks; the green 
 
 And growing leaves of seventeen 
 
 Are round her; and, half hid, half seen, 
 
 A violet flower, 
 Nursed by the virtues she hath been 
 
 From childhood's hour." 
 
 Blind passion's picture yet for this 
 We woo the life-long bridal kiss, 
 And blend our every hope of bliss 
 
 With hers we love ; 
 Unmindful of the serpent's hiss 
 
 In Eden's grove. 
 
 Beauty the fading rainbow's pride, 
 Youth 'twas the charm of her who died 
 At dawn, and by her coffin's side 
 
 A grandsire stands, 
 Age-strengthened, like the oak storm-tried 
 
 Of mountain-lands. 
 
 Youth's coffin hush the tale it tells ! 
 Be silent, memory's funeral bells ! 
 Lone in one heart, her home, it dwells 
 
 Untold till death, 
 And where the grave-mound greenly swells 
 
 O'er buried faith. 
 4 
 
58 A POET'S DA UGHTER. 
 
 "But what if hers are rank and power, 
 Armies her train, a throne her bower, 
 A kingdom's gold her marriage-dower, 
 
 Broad seas and lands ? 
 What if from bannered hall and tower 
 
 A queen commands ? " 
 
 A queen ? Earth's regal moons have set. 
 
 Where perished Marie Antoinette ? 
 
 Where's Bordeaux's mother ? Where the jet- 
 Black Haytian dame ? 
 
 And Lusitania's coronet ? 
 And Angouleme ? 
 
 Empires to-day are upside down, 
 The castle kneels before the town, 
 The monarch fears a printer's frown 
 
 A brickbat's range ; 
 Give me, in preference to a crown,' 
 
 Five shillings change. 
 
 " But she who asks, though first among 
 The good, the beautiful, the young, 
 The birthright of a spell more strong 
 
 Than these hath brought her ; 
 She is your kinswoman in song, 
 
 A Poet's daughter." 
 
A POET'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 A Poet's daughter? Could I claim 
 The consanguinity of fame, 
 Veins of my intellectual frame ! 
 
 Your blood would glow 
 Proudly to sing that gentlest name 
 
 Of aught below. 
 
 A Poet's daughter dearer word 
 
 Lip hath not spoken nor listener heard, 
 
 Fit theme for song of bee and bird 
 
 From morn till even, 
 And wind-harp by the breathing stirred 
 
 Of starlit heaven. 
 
 My spirit's wings are weak, the fire 
 
 Poetic comes but to expire, 
 
 Her name needs not my humble lyre 
 
 To bid it live ; 
 She hath already from her sire 
 
 All bard can give. 
 
CONNECTICUT. 
 
 FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. 
 
 "The woods in which we had dwelt pleasantly rustled their green 
 leaves in the song, and our streams were there with the sound of all 
 their waters." MONTROSE. 
 
 [TILL her gray rocks tower above the sea 
 
 That crouches at their feet, a conquered wave ; 
 'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree, 
 
 Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave ; 
 Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands are bold and 
 
 free, 
 
 And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave; 
 And where none kneel, save when to Heaven they pray, 
 Nor even then, unless in their own way. 
 
 n. 
 
 Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong, 
 A " fierce democratic," where all are true 
 
 To what themselves have voted right or wrong 
 And to their laws denominated blue ; 
 
 (If red, they might to Draco's code belong;) 
 A vestal state, which power could not subdue, 
 
 Nor promise win like her own eagle's nest, 
 
 Sacred the San Marino of the West. 
 
CONNECTICUT. 7 1 
 
 III. 
 
 A justice of the peace, for the time being, 
 
 They bow to, but may turn him out next year ; 
 
 They reverence their priest, but disagreeing 
 In price or creed, dismiss him without fear; 
 
 They have a natural talent for foreseeing 
 
 And knowing all things ; and should Park appear 
 
 From his long tour in Africa, to show 
 
 The Niger's source, they'd meet him with "we know." 
 
 IV 
 
 They love their land, because it is their own, 
 And scorn to give aught other reason why ; 
 
 Would shake hands with a king upon his throne, 
 And think it kindness to his majesty ; 
 
 A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none. 
 Such are they nurtured, such they live and die ; 
 
 All but a few apostates, who are meddling 
 
 With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, Snd ped- 
 dling; 
 
 v. 
 
 Or wandering through the Southern countries teaching 
 The ABC from Webster's spelling-book ; 
 
 Gallant and godly, making love and preaching, 
 And gaining by what they call " hook and crook," 
 
 And what the moralists call overreaching, 
 A decent living. The Virginians look 
 
72 CONNECTICUT. 
 
 Upon them with as favorable eyes 
 As Gabriel on the devil in paradise. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But these are but their outcasts. View them near 
 At home, where all their worth and pride is placed ; 
 
 And there their hospitable fires burn clear, 
 And there the lowliest farmhouse hearth is graced 
 
 With manly hearts, in piety sincere, 
 
 Faithful in love, in honor stern and chaste, 
 
 In friendship warm and true, in danger brave, 
 
 Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And minds have there been nurtured, whose control 
 
 Is felt even in their nation's destiny ; 
 Men who swayed senates with a statesman's soul, 
 
 And looked on armies with a leader's eye ; 
 Names that adorn and dignify the scroll, 
 
 Whose leaves contain their country's history, 
 And tales of love and war listen to one 
 Of the Green-Mountaineer the Stark of Bennington. 
 
 When on that field his band the Hessians fought, 
 Briefly he spoke before the fight began : 
 
 <( Soldiers ! those German gentlemen are bought 
 For fo.ur pounds eight and sevenpence per man, 
 
CONNECTICUT. 73 
 
 By England's king ; a bargain, as is thought. 
 
 Are we worth more ? Let's prove it now we can ; 
 For we must beat them, boys, ere set of sun, 
 OR MARY STARK'S A WIDOW." It was done. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Hers are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's spring, 
 Nor the long summer of Cathayan vales," 
 
 The vines, the flowers, the air, the skies, that fling 
 Such wild enchantment o'er Boccaccio's tales 
 
 Of Florence and the Arno ; yet the wing 
 Of life's best angel, Health, is on her gales 
 
 Through sun and snow ; and in the autumn-time 
 
 Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime. 
 
 x. 
 
 Her clear, warm heaven at noon the mist that shrouds 
 Her twilight hills her cool and starry eves, 
 
 The glorious splendor of her sunset clouds, 
 The rainbow beauty of her forest-leaves, 
 
 Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds, 
 Where'er his web of song her poet weaves ; 
 
 And his mind's brightest vision but displays 
 
 The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And when you dream of woman, and her love ; 
 Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle power ; 
 
74 CONNECTICUT. 
 
 The maiden listening in the moonlight grove, 
 The mother smiling in her infant's bower ; 
 
 Forms, features, worshipped while we breathe or move, 
 Be by some spirit of your dreaming hour 
 
 Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air 
 
 To the green land I sing, then wake, you'll find them 
 there. 
 
 XII. 
 
 ****** 
 ****** 
 
 XIII. 
 
 They burnt their last witch in CONNECTICUT 
 
 About a century and a half ago ; 
 They made a school-house of her forfeit hut, 
 
 And gave a pitying sweet-brier leave to grow 
 Above her thankless ashes ; and they put 
 
 A certified description of the show 
 Between two weeping- willows, craped with black, 
 On the last page of that year's almanac. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Some warning and well-meant remarks were made 
 Upon the subject by the weekly printers; 
 
 The people murmured at the taxes laid 
 
 To pay for jurymen and pitch-pine splinters, 
 
 And the sad story made the rose-leaf fade 
 
 Upon young listeners' cheeks for several winters, 
 
CONNECTICUT. ,,* 
 
 When told at fire-side eves by those who saw 
 Executed the lady and the law. 
 
 She and the law found rest : years rose and set ; 
 
 That generation, cottagers and kings, 
 Slept with their fathers, and the violet 
 
 Has mourned above their graves a hundred springs ; 
 Few persons keep a file of the Gazette, 
 
 And almanacs are sublunary things, 
 So that her fame is almost lost to earth, 
 As if she ne'er had breathed ; and of her birth, 
 
 XVI. 
 
 % 
 And death, and lonely life's mysterious matters, 
 
 And how she played, in our forefathers' times, 
 The very devil with their sons and daughters ; 
 
 And how those " delicate Ariels" of her crimes, 
 The spirits of the rocks, and woods, and waters, 
 
 Obeyed her bidding when in charmed rhymes, 
 She muttered, at deep midnight, spells whose power 
 Woke from brief dream of dew the sleeping summer 
 flower, 
 
 XVII. 
 
 And hushed the night-bird's solitary hymn, 
 And spoke in whispers to the forest-tree, 
 
76 CONNECTICUT. 
 
 Till his awed branches trembled, leaf and limb, 
 And grouped her churchyard shapes of fantasie 
 
 Round merry moonlight's meadow-fountain's brim, 
 And mocking for a space the dread decree, 
 
 Brought back to dead, cold lips the parted breath, 
 
 And changed to banquet-board the bier of death, 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 None knew except a patient, precious few, 
 Who've read the folios of one COTTON MATHER, 
 
 A chronicler of tales more strange than true, 
 New-England's chaplain, and her history's father ; 
 
 A second Monmouth's GEOFFREY, a new 
 H ERODOTUS, their laurelled victor rather, 
 
 For in one art he soars above them high : 
 
 The Greek or Welshman does not always lie. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Know ye the venerable COTTON ? He 
 Was the first publisher's tourist on this station ; 
 
 The first who made, by labelling earth and sea, 
 A huge book, and a handsome speculation : 
 
 And burs was then a land of mystery, 
 Fit theme for poetry's exaggeration, 
 
 The wildest wonder of the month ; and there 
 
 He wandered freely, like a bird or bear, 
 
CONNECTICUT. 77 
 
 XX. 
 
 And wove his forest dreams into quaint prose, 
 Our sires his heroes, where, in holy strife, 
 
 They treacherously war with friends and foes ; 
 Where meek religion wears the assassin's knife, 
 
 And "bids the desert blossom like the rose," 
 By sprinkling earth with blood of Indian life, 
 
 And rears her altars o'er the indignant bones 
 
 Of murdered maidens, wives, and little ones. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 HEROD of Galilee's babe-butchering deed 
 * Lives not on history's blushing page alone ; 
 Our skies, it seems, have seen like victims bleed, 
 And our own Ramahs echoed groan for groan : 
 The fiends of France, whose cruelties decreed 
 
 Those dextrous drownings in the Loire and Rhone, 
 Were at their worst, but copyists second-hand 
 Of our shrined, sainted sires, the Plymouth pilgrim- 
 band, 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Or else fibs MATHER. Kindred wolves have bayed 
 Truth's moon in chorus, but believe them not ! 
 
 Beneath the dark trees that the Lethe shade, 
 Be he, his folios, followers, facts, forgot ; 
 
 And let his perishing monument-be made 
 Of his own unsold volumes : 'tis the lot 
 
78 CONNECTICUT. 
 
 Of many, may be mine ; and be it MATHER'S, 
 That slanderer of the memory of our fathers. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 And who were they, our fathers ? In their veins 
 Ran the best blood of England's gentlemen ; 
 
 Her bravest in the strife on battle-plains, 
 Her wisest in the strife of voice and pen ; 
 
 Her holiest, teaching, in her holiest fanes, 
 The lore that led to martyrdom ; and when 
 
 On this side ocean slept their wearied sails, 
 
 And their toil-bells woke up our thousand hills and 
 dales, 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Shamed they their fathers ? Ask the village-spires 
 Above their Sabbath-homes of praise and prayer ; 
 
 Ask of their children's happy household-fires, 
 And happier harvest noons ; ask summer's air, 
 
 Made merry by young voices, when the wires 
 Of their school-cages are unloosed, and dare 
 
 Their slanderers' breath to blight the memory 
 
 That o'er their graves is " growing green to see ! " 
 
 xxv. 
 
 If he has " writ their annals true ; " if they, 
 The Christian-sponsored and the Christian-nursed, 
 
CONNECTICUT. JQ 
 
 Clouded with crime the sunset of their day 
 And warmed their winter's hearths with fires accursed ; 
 
 And if the stain that time wears not away 
 Of guilt was on the pilgrim axe that first 
 
 Our wood-paths' roses blest with smiles from heaven, 
 
 In charity forget, and hope to be forgiven. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Forget their story's cruelty and wrong ; 
 
 Forget their story-teller ; or but deem 
 His facts the fictions of a minstrel's song, 
 
 The myths and marvels of a poet's dream. 
 And are they not such ? Suddenly among 
 
 My mind's dark thoughts its boyhood's sunrise beam 
 Breathes in spring balm and beauty o'er my page 
 Joy ! joy ! my patriot wrath hath wronged the reverend 
 sage. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Welcome ! young boyhood, welcome ! Of thy lore, 
 Thy morning-gathered wealth of prose and rhyme, 
 
 Of fruit the flower, of gold the infant ore, 
 
 The roughest shuns not manhood's stormy clime, 
 
 But loves wild ocean's winds and breakers' roar ; 
 While, of the blossoms of the sweet spring-time, 
 
 The bonniest, and most bountiful of joy, 
 
 Shrink from the man, and cling around the boy. 
 
go CONNECTICUT. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 But now, like doves " with healing on their wings," 
 Blossom and fruit with gladdening kindness come, 
 
 Charming to sleep my murmuring song, that sings 
 Unworthy dirges over MATHER'S tomb : 
 
 Welcome the olive-branch their message brings ! 
 It bids me wish him not the mouldering doom 
 
 Of nameless scribes of " memoires pour servir" 
 
 Dishonest " chroniclers of time's small-beer." 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 No : a born Poet, at his cradle-fire 
 The muses nursed him as their bud unblown, 
 
 And gave him as his mind grew high and higher, 
 Their ducal strawberry-leafs enwreathed renown. 
 
 Alas ! that mightiest masters of the lyre, 
 Whose pens above an eagle's heart have grown, 
 
 In all the proud nobility of wing, 
 
 Should stoop to dip their points in passion's poison- 
 spring ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Yet MlLTON, weary of his youth's young wife, 
 To her, to king, to church, to law untrue, 
 
 Warred for divorce and discord to the knife, 
 And proudest wore his plume of darkest hue : 
 
 And DANTE, when his FLORENCE, in her strife, 
 Robbed him of office and his temper, threw 
 
CONNECTICUT. gj 
 
 'Mongst friends and foes a bomb-shell of fierce rhymes, 
 Shivering their names and fames to all succeeding 
 times. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And our own MATHER'S fire-and-fagot tale 
 Of Conquest, with her " garments rolled in blood," 
 
 And banners blackening, like a pirate's sail, 
 The Mayflower's memories of the brave and good, 
 
 Though but a brain-born dream of rain land hail, 
 And in his epic but an episode, 
 
 Proves mournfully the strange and sad admission 
 
 Of much sour grape-juice in his disposition. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 O Genius ! powerful with thy praise or blame, 
 When art thou feigning ? when art thou sincere ? 
 
 MATHER, who banned his living friends with shame, 
 In funeral-sermons blessed them on their bier, 
 
 And made their death-beds beautiful with fame 
 Fame true and gracious as a widow's tear 
 
 To her departed darling husband given ; 
 
 Him whom she scolded up from earth to heaven. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Thanks for his funeral-sermons ; they recall 
 The sunshine smiling through his folio's leaves, 
 
 That makes his readers' hours in bower or hall 
 Joyous as plighted hearts on bridal eves ; 
 
82 CONNECTICUT. 
 
 Chasing, like music from the soul of Saul, 
 
 The doubt that darkens, ajid the ill that grieves ; 
 And honoring the author's heart and mind, 
 , That beats to bless, and toils to ennoble human kind, 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 His chaplain-mantle worthily to wear, 
 He fringed its sober gray with poet-bays, 
 
 And versed the Psalms of David to the air 
 Of YANKEE-DOODLE, for Thanksgiving-days ; 
 
 Thus hallowing with the earnestness of prayer, 
 And patriotic purity of praise, 
 
 Unconscious of irreverence or wrong, 
 
 Our manliest battle-tune and merriest bridal song. 
 
 xxxv. 
 
 The good the Rhine-song does to German hearts, 
 Or thine, Marseilles 1 to France's fiery blood ; 
 
 The good thy anthemed harmony imparts, 
 
 " GOD save the Queen ! " to England's field and floo J 
 
 A home-born blessing, Nature's boon, not Art's ; 
 The same heart-cheering, spirit-warming good, 
 
 To us and ours, where'er we war or woo, 
 
 Thy words and music, YANKEE-DOODLE ! do. 
 
 xxxvi. 
 
 Beneath thy Star, as one of the THIRTEEN, 
 
 Land of my lay ! through many a battle's night 
 
CONNECTICUT. 83 
 
 Thy gallant men stepped steady and serene, 
 To that war-music's stern and strong delight. 
 
 Where bayonets clinched above the trampled green, 
 Where sabres grappled in the ocean-fight ; 
 
 In siege, in storm, on deck or rampart, there 
 
 They hunted the wolf Danger to his lair, 
 
 And sought and won sweet Peace, and wreaths for 
 Honor's hair ! 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 And with thy smiles, sweet Peace, came woman's, 
 bringing 
 
 The Eden-sunshine of her welcome kiss, 
 And lovers' flutes, and children's voices singing 
 
 The maiden's promised, matron's perfect bliss, 
 And heart and home-bells blending with their ringing 
 
 Thank-offerings borne to holier worlds than this, 
 And the proud green of Glory's laurel-leaves, 
 And gold, the gift to Peace, of Plenty's summer sheaves. 
 
MUSIC. 
 
 TO A BOY OF FOUR YEARS OLD, ON HEARING HIM PLAY 
 ON THE HARP. 
 
 |WEET boy ! before thy lips can learn 
 
 In speech thy wishes to make known, 
 Are " thoughts that breathe and words that burn," 
 Heard in thy music's tone. 
 
 Were Genius tasked to prove the might, 
 
 The magic of her hidden spell, 
 She well might name thee with delight 
 
 As her own miracle. 
 
 Who that hath heard, from summer trees, 
 The sweet wild song of summer birds, 
 
 When morning to the far-off breeze 
 Whispers her bidding words ; 
 
 Or listened to the bird of night, 
 
 The minstrel of th* starlight hours, 
 Companion of the firefly's flight, 
 
 Cool dews, and closed flowers ; 
 
MUSIC. 85 
 
 But deemed that spirits of the air 
 Had left their native homes in heaven, 
 
 And that the music warbled there 
 To earth a while was given ? 
 
 For with that music came the thought 
 
 That life's young purity was theirs, 
 And love, all artless and untaught, 
 
 Breathed in their woodland airs. 
 
 And when, sweet boy ! thy baby fingers 
 Wake sounds of heaven's own harmony, 
 
 How welcome is the thought that lingers 
 Upon thy lyre and thee ! 
 
 It calls up visions of past days, 
 
 When life was infancy and song 
 To us ; and old remembered lays, 
 
 Unheard, unheeded long, 
 
 Revive in joy or grief within us, 
 
 Like lost friends wakened from their sleep, 
 With all their early power to win us 
 
 Alike to smile or weep. 
 
 And when we gaze upon that face, 
 
 Blooming in innocence and truth, 
 And mark its dimpled artlessness, 
 
 Its beauty and its youth ; 
 
86 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 We think of better worlds than this, 
 Of other beings pure as thou, 
 
 Who breathe, on winds of Paradise, 
 Music as thine is now. 
 
 And know the only emblem meet 
 Of that pure Faith the heart adores, 
 
 To be a child like thee, whose feet 
 Are strangers on Life's shores. 
 
ON THE DEATH OF 
 
 LIEUT. WILLIAM HOWARD ALLEN, 
 
 OF THE AMERICAN NAVY. 
 
 IE hath been mourned as brave men mourn the 
 
 brave, 
 
 And wept as nations weep their cherished dead, 
 With bitter, but proud tears, and o'er his head 
 The eternal flowers whose root is in the grave, 
 The flowers of Fame, are beautiful and green ; 
 And by his grave's side pilgrim feet have been, 
 And blessings, pure as men to martyrs give, 
 Have there been breathed by those he died to save. 
 Pride of his country's banded chivalry, 
 His fame their hope, his name their battle-cry; 
 He lived as mothers wish their sons to live, 
 He died as fathers wish their sons to die. 
 
 If on the grief-worn cheek the hues of bliss, 
 Which fade when all we love is in the tomb, 
 Could ever know on earth a second bloom, 
 The memory of a gallant death like his 
 Would call them into being ; but the few, 
 Who as their friend, their brother, or their son, 
 His kind warm heart and gentle spirit knew, 
 
88 ON THE DEATH OF LIEUTENANT ALLEN. 
 
 Had long lived, hoped, and feared for him alone ; 
 His voice their morning music, and his eye 
 The only starlight of their evening sky, 
 Till even the sun of happiness seemed dim, 
 And life's best joys were sorrows but with him ; 
 And when, the burning bullet in his breast, 
 He dropped, like summer fruit from off the bough, 
 There was one heart that knew and loved him best- 
 It was a mother's and is broken now. 
 
TO WALTER BOWNE, ESQ., 10 
 
 MEMBER OF THE COUNCIL OF APPOINTMENT OF THE STATE OF 
 NEW YORK, AT ALBANY, 1 82 1. 
 
 " Stand not upon the order of your going, 
 But go at once." 
 
 " I cannot but remember such things were, 
 And were most precious to me." 
 
 MACBETH. 
 
 |E do not blame you, Walter Bowne, 
 
 For a variety of reasons ; 
 You're now the talk of half the town, 
 A man of talent and renown, 
 
 And will be for perhaps two seasons. 
 That face of yours has magic in it ; 
 Its smile transports us in a minute 
 
 To wealth and pleasure's sunny bowers ; 
 And there is terror in its frown, 
 Which, like a mower's scythe, cuts down 
 
 Our city's loveliest flowers. 
 
 We therefore do not blame you, sir, 
 Whate'er our cause of grief may be ; 
 
 And cause enough we have to " stir 
 The very stones to mutiny." 
 
TO WALTER BOWNE, ESQ. 
 
 You've driven from the cash and cares 
 Of office, heedless of our prayers, 
 Men who have been for many a year 
 To us and to our purses dear, 
 
 And will be to our heirs forever. 
 Our tears, thanks to the snow and rain, 
 Have swelled the brook in Maiden Lane 
 
 Into a mountain river ; 
 And when you visit us again, 
 Leaning at Tammany on your cane, 
 Like warrior on his battle-blade, 
 You'll mourn the havoc you have made. 
 
 There is a silence and a sadness 
 
 Within the marble mansion now ; 
 Some have wild eyes that threaten madness, 
 
 Some think of " kicking up a row." 
 Judge Miller will not yet believe 
 That you have ventured to bereave 
 
 The city and its hall of him : 
 He has in his own fine way stated, 
 
 " The fact must be substantiated," 
 
 Before he'll move a single limb. 
 He deems it cursed hard to yield 
 The laurel won in every field 
 
 Through sixteen years of party war. 
 And to be seen at noon no more, 
 Enjoying at his office door 
 
 The luxury of a tenth segar. 
 
TO WALTER BOWNE, ESQ. 
 
 Judge Warner says that, when he's gone, 
 
 You'll miss the true Dogberry breed ; 
 And Christian swears that you have done 
 
 A most UN-Christian deed. 
 
 | 
 
 How could you have the heart to strike 
 From place the peerless Pierre Van Wyck ? 
 And the twin colonels, Haines and Pell, 
 Squire Fessenden, and Sheriff Bell ; 
 Morrell, a justice and a wise one, 
 And Ned McLaughlin the exciseman ; 
 The two health-officers, believers 
 In Clinton and contagious fevers ; 
 The keeper of the city's treasures, 
 The sealer of her weights and measures, 
 The harbor-master, her best bower 
 Cable in party's stormy hour ; 
 Ten auctioneers, three bank directors, 
 And Mott and Duffy, the inspectors 
 Of whiskey and of flour ! 
 
 It was but yesterday they stood 
 All (ex-officio) great and good. 
 But by the tomahawk struck down 
 Of party and of Walter Bowne, 
 Where are they now ? With shapes of air, 
 The caravan of things that were, 
 Journeying to their nameless home, 
 Like Mecca's pilgrims from her tomb ; 
 5 
 
TO WALTER BOWNE, ESQ. 
 
 With the lost Pleiad ; with the wars 
 
 Of Agamemnon's ancestors ; 
 
 With their own years of joy and grief, 
 
 Spring's bud, and autumn's faded leaf; 
 
 With birds that rourM their cradles flew ; 
 
 With winds that in their boyhood blew ; 
 
 With last night's dream and last night's dew. 
 
 Yes, they are gone ; alas ! each one of them ; 
 
 Departed every mother's son of them. 
 
 Yet often, at the close of day, 
 
 When thoughts are winged and wandering, they 
 
 Come with the memory of the past, 
 
 Like sunset clouds along the mind, 
 Reflecting, as they're flitting fast 
 In their wild hues of shade and light, 
 All that was beautiful and bright 
 
 In golden moments left behind. 
 
THE IRON GRAYS. 11 
 
 RE twine the wreath of honor 
 Around the warrior's brow, 
 Who, at his country's altar, breathes 
 
 The life-devoting vow, 
 And shall we to the Iron Grays 
 
 The meed of praise deny, 
 Who freely swore, in danger's days, 
 For their native land to die? 
 
 For o'er our bleeding country 
 
 Ne'er lowered a darker storm, 
 Than bade them round their gallant chief 
 
 The iron phalanx form. 
 When first their banner waved in air, 
 
 Invasion's bands were nigh, 
 And the battle-drum beat long and loud, 
 
 And the torch of war blazed high ! 
 
 Though still bright gleam their bayonets, 
 
 Unstained with hostile gore, 
 Far distant yet is England's host, 
 
 Unheard her cannon's roar. 
 Yet not in vain they flew to arms ; 
 
 It made the foeman know 
 
94 THE IRON GRAYS. 
 
 That many a gallant heart must -bleed 
 Ere freedom's star be low. 
 
 Guards of a nation's destiny ! 
 
 High is that nation's claim, 
 For not unknown your spirit proud, 
 
 Nor your daring chieftain's name. 
 'Tis yours to shield the dearest ties 
 
 That bind to life the heart, 
 That mingle with the earliest breath, 
 
 And with our last depart. 
 
 The angel-smile of beauty 
 
 What heart but bounds to feel ? 
 Her fingers buckled on the belt, 
 
 That sheathes your gleaming steel 
 And if the soldier's honored death 
 
 In battle be your doom, 
 Her tears shall bid the flowers be green 
 
 That blossom round your tomb. 
 
 Tread on the path of duty, 
 
 Band of the patriot brave, 
 Prepared to rush, at honor's call, 
 
 " To glory or the grave." 
 Nor bid your flag again be furled 
 
 Till proud its eagles soar, 
 Till the battle-drum has ceased to beat, 
 
 And the war-torch burns no more. 
 
AN BPISTLE TO * * * *. 
 
 | EAR ****,! am writing not to you, but at you, 
 For the feet of you tourists have no resting- 
 place ; 
 
 But wherever with this the mail-pigeon may catch you, 
 May she find you with gayety's smile on your face ; 
 Whether chasing a snipe at the Falls of Cohoes, 
 Or chased by the snakes upon Anthony's Nose ; 
 Whether wandering, at Catskill, from Hotel to Clove, 
 Making sketches, or speeches, puns, poems, or love 
 Or in old Saratoga's unknown fountain-land, 
 Threading groves of enchantment, half bushes, half 
 
 sand ; 
 Whether dancing on Sundays at Lebanon Springs, 
 
 With those Madame Hutins of Religion, the Shakers ; 
 Or, on Tuesdays, with maidens who seek wedding-rings 
 At Ballston, as taught by mammas and match- 
 makers ; 
 
 Whether sailing St. Lawrence, with unbroken neck, 
 From her thousand green isles to her castled Quebec ; 
 Or sketching Niagara, pencil on knee 
 
 (The giant of waters, our country's pet lion), 
 Or dipped at Long Branch, in the real salt sea, 
 
^6 AN EPISTLE TO * * * * . 
 
 With a cork for a dolphin, a Cockney Arion; 
 Whether roaming earth, ocean, or even the air, 
 Like Dan O'Rourke's eagle good luck to you there. 
 
 For myself, as you'll see by the date of my letter, 
 I'm in town, but of that fact the least said the better ; 
 For 'tis vain to deny (though the city o'erflows 
 With well-dressed men and women, whom nobody 
 
 knows) 
 
 That one rarely sees persons whose nod is an honor, 
 A lady with fashion's own impress upon her ; 
 
 
 
 Or a gentleman blessed with the courage to say, 
 Like Morris (the Prince Regent's friend, in his day), 
 " Let others in sweet shady solitudes dwell, 
 Oh ! give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall." 
 
 Apropos our friend A. chanced this morning to meet 
 The accomplished Miss B. as he passed Contoit's 
 
 Garden, 13 
 Both in town in July ! he crossed over the street, 
 
 And she entered the rouge-shop of Mrs. St. Martin. 13 
 Resolved not to look at another known face, 
 Through Leonard and Church Streets she walked to 
 
 Park Place, 
 And he turned from Broadway into Catharine Lane, 
 
 And coursed, to avoid her, through alley and by-street, 
 Till they met, as the devil would have it, again, 
 Face to face, near the pump at the corner of Dey 
 Street. 
 
AN EPISTLE TO ' . 97 
 
 Yet, as most of " The Fashion" are journeying now, 
 With the brown hues of summer on cheek and on brow, 
 The few "gens comme ilfaut" who are lingering here, 
 Are, like fruits out of season, more welcome and dear, 
 Like "the last rose of summer, left blooming alone," 
 Or'the last snows of winter, pure ice of haut ton, 
 Unmelted, undimmed by the sun's brightest ray, 
 And, like diamonds, making night's darkness seem day. 
 One meets them in groups, that Canova might fancy, 
 At our new lounge at evening, the Opera Frangais^* 
 In nines like the Muses, in threes like the Graces, 
 Green spots in a desert of commonplace faces. 
 The Queen, Mrs. Adams, goes there sweetly dressed 
 
 In a beautiful bonnet, all golden and flowery ; 
 While the King, Mr. Bonaparte, smiles on Celeste, 
 
 Heloise, and Hutin, from his box at the Bowery. 
 
 For news, Parry still the North Sea is exploring, 
 
 And the Grand Turk has taken, they say, the Acrop- 
 olis, 
 And we, in Swamp Place, 15 have discovered, in boring. 
 
 A mineral spring to refine the metropolis. 
 The day we discovered it was, by-the-way, 
 In the life of the Cockneys, a glorious day. 
 For we all had been taught, by tradition and reading, 
 
 That to gain what admits us to levees of kings, 
 The gentleness, courtesy, grace of high breeding, 
 
 The only sure way was to "visit the Springs." 
 So the whole citv visited Swamp Spring en masse, 
 
98 AN EPISTLE TO * * * * 
 
 From attorney to sweep, from physician to pavior, 
 To drink of cold water at sixpence a glass, 
 
 And learn true politeness and genteel behavior. 
 Though the crowd was immense till the hour of de- 
 parture, 
 
 No gentleman's feelings were hurt in the rush, 
 Save a grocer's, who lost his proof-glass and bung-starter, 
 
 And a chimney-sweep's, robbed of his scraper and 
 
 brush. 
 They lingered till sunset and twilight had come, 
 
 When, wearied in limb, but much polished in man- 
 ners, 
 The sovereign people moved gracefully home, 
 
 In the beauty and pride of "an army with banners." 
 As to politics Adams 16 and Clinton yet live, 
 
 And reign, we presume, as we never have missed 'em, 
 And woollens and Webster continue to thrive 
 
 Under something they call the American System, 
 If you're anxious to know what the country is doing, 
 Whether ruined already or going to ruin, 
 
 And who her next President will be, please Heaven, 
 Read the letters of Jackson, the speeches of Clay, 
 All the party newspapers, three columns a day, 
 
 And Blunt's Annual Register, 17 year 'twenty-seven. 
 
 
FANNT. 
 
 "A fairy vision 
 
 Of some gay creatures of the element, 
 That in the colors of the rainbow live, 
 And play in the plighted clouds." 
 
 UrtTOH. 
 
FANNY, 
 
 [ANNY was younger once than she is now, 
 
 And prettier of course ; I do not mean 
 To say that there are wrinkles on her brow ; 
 
 Yet, to be candid, she is past eighteen 
 Perhaps past twenty but the girl is shy 
 About her age, and Heaven forbid that I 
 
 ii. 
 
 Should get myself in trouble by revealing 
 A secret of this sort ; I have too long 
 
 Loved pretty women with a poet's feeling, 
 And when a boy, in day-dream and in song, 
 
 Have knelt me down and worshipped them : alas ! 
 
 They never thanked me for't but let that pass. 
 
102 FANNY. 
 
 III. 
 
 I've felt full many a heartache in my day, 
 At the mere rustling of a muslin gown, 
 
 And caught some dreadful colds, I blush to say, 
 While shivering in the shade of beauty's frown. 
 
 They say her smiles ar.e sunbeams it may be 
 
 But never a sunbeam* would she throw on me. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But Fanny's is an eye that you may gaze on 
 For half an hour, without the Slightest harm ; 
 
 E'en when she wore her smiling summer face on 
 There was but little danger, and the charm 
 
 That youth and wealth once gave, has bade farewell 
 
 Hers is a sad, sad tale 'tis mine its woes to tell. 
 
 v. 
 
 Her father kept, some fifteen years ago, 
 A retail dry-goods shop in Chatham Street, 
 
 And nursed his little earnings, sure though slow > 
 Till, having mustered wherewithal to meet 
 
 The gaze of the great world, he breathed the air 
 
 Of Pearl Street and " set up" in Hanover Square. 
 
 Money is power, 'tis said I never tried ; 
 I'm but a poet and bank-notes to me 
 
FANNY. I0 3 
 
 Are curiosities, as closely eyed, 
 
 Whene'er I get them, as a stone would be, 
 Tossed from the moon on Doctor MitchuTs table, 
 Or classic brickbat from the tower of Babel. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But he I sing of well has known and felt 
 That money hath a power and a dominion ; 
 
 For when in Chatham Street the good man dwelt, 
 No one would give a sous for his opinion. 
 
 And though his neighbors were extremely civil, 
 
 Yet, on the whole, they thought him a poor devil. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 A decent kind of person ; one whose head 
 
 Was not of brains particularly full ; 
 It was not known that he had ever said 
 
 Any thing worth repeating 'twas a dull, 
 Good, honest man what Paulding's muse would call 
 A " cabbage-head" but he excelled them all 
 
 IX. 
 
 In that most noble of the sciences, 
 
 The art of making money ; and he found 
 The zeal for quizzing him grew less and less, 
 As he grew richer ; till upon the ground 
 Of Pearl Street, treading proudly in the might 
 And majesty of wealth, a sudden light 
 
104 FANNY. 
 
 X. 
 
 Flashed like the midnight lightning on the eyes 
 Of all who knew him : brilliant traits of mind, 
 
 And genius, clear, and countless as the dyes 
 Upon the peacock's plumage ; taste refined, 
 
 Wisdom and wit, were his perhaps much more 
 
 'Twas strange they had not found it out before. 
 
 XI. 
 
 In this quick transformation, it is true 
 
 That cash had no small share ; but there were still 
 Some other causes, which then gave a new 
 
 Impulse to head and heart, and joined to fill 
 His brain with knowledge ; for there first he met 
 The editor of the New York Gazette 
 
 XII. 
 
 The sapient Mr. LANG. The world of him 
 Knows much, yet not one-half so much as he 
 
 Knows of the world. Up to its very brim 
 The goblet of his mind is sparkling free 
 
 With lore and learning. Had proud Sheba's queen, 
 
 In all her bloom and beauty, but have seen 
 
 XIII. 
 
 This modern Solomon, the Israelite, 
 
 Earth's monarch as he was, had never won her. 
 
FANNY. I0 5 
 
 He would have hanged himself for very spite, 
 
 And she, blessed woman, might have had the honor 
 Of some neat " paragraphs " worth all the lays 
 That Judah's minstrel warbled in her praise. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Her star arose too soon ; but that which swayed 
 Th' ascendant at our merchant's natal hour 
 
 Was bright with better destiny its aid 
 Led him to pluck within the classic bower 
 
 Of bulletins, the blossoms of true knowledge, 
 
 And LANG supplied the loss of school and college. 
 
 xv. 
 
 For there he learned the news some minutes sooner 
 Than others could ; and to distinguish well 
 
 The different signals, whether ship or schooner, 
 Hoisted at Staten Island ; and to tell 
 
 The change of wind, and of his neighbor's fortunes, 
 
 And, best of all he there learned self-importance. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Nor were these all the advantages derived 
 From change of scene ; for near his domicil 
 
 HE of the pair of polished lamps then lived, 
 And in my hero's promenades, at will, 
 
 Could he behold them burning and their flame 
 
 Kindled within his breast the love of fame 
 
106 FANNY. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 And politics, Shd country ; the pure glow 
 Of patriot ardor, and the consciousness 
 
 That talents such as his might well bestow 
 A lustre on the city ; she would bless 
 
 His name ; and that some service should be done her, 
 
 He pledged " life, fortune, and his sacred honor." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And when the sounds of music and of mirth, 
 
 Bursting from Fashion's groups assembled there, 
 
 Were heard, as round their lone plebeian hearth 
 Fanny and he were seated he would dare 
 
 To whisper fondly that the time might come 
 
 When he and his could give as brilliant routs at home 
 
 xix. . 
 
 And oft would Fanny near that mansion linger, 
 When the cold winter moon was high in heaven, 
 
 And trace out, by the aid of Fancy's finger, 
 Cards for some future party, to be given 
 
 When she in turn should be a belle, and they 
 
 Had lived their little hour, and passed away. 
 
 xx. 
 
 There are some happy moments in this lone 
 And desolate world of ours, that well repay 
 
FANNY. I0 ; 
 
 The toil of struggling through it, and atone 
 
 For many a long, sad night and weary day. 
 They come upon the mind like some wild air 
 Of distant music, when we know not where, 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Or whence, the sounds are brought from, and their 
 
 power, 
 
 Though brief, is boundless. That far, future home, 
 Oft dreamed of, beckons near its rose - wreathed 
 
 bower, 
 
 And cloudless skies before us : we become 
 Changed on the instant all gold leaf and gilding ; 
 This is, in yulgar phrase, called " castle-building."* 
 
 
 XXII. 
 
 But these, like sunset clouds, fade soon ; 'tis vain 
 
 To bid them linger longer, or to ask 
 On what day they intend to call again ; 
 
 And, surely, 'twere a philosophic task, 
 Worthy a Mitchill, in his hours of leisure, 
 To find some means to summon them at pleasure. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 There certainly are powers of doing this, 
 In some degree at least for instance, drinking. 
 
 Champagne will bathe the heart a while in bliss, 
 And keep the head a little time from thinking 
 
108 FANNY. 
 
 Of cares or creditors the best wine in town 
 
 You'll get from Lynch the cash must be paid down. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 But if you are a bachelor, like me, 
 
 And spurn all chains, even though made of roses, 
 Pd recommend cigars there is a free 
 
 And happy spirit, that, unseen, reposes 
 On the dim shadowy clouds that hover o'er you, 
 When smoking quietly with a warm fire before you. 
 
 Deaf* to the exile is his native land, % 
 
 In memory's twilight beauty seen afar : 
 
 Dear to the broker is a note of hand, 
 Collaterally secured the polar star 
 
 Is dear at midnight to the sailor's eyes, 
 
 And dear are Bristed's volumes at "half price ; " 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 But dearer far to me each fairy minute 
 Spent in that fond forgetfulness of grief; 
 
 There is an airy web of magic in it, 
 As in* Othello's pocket-handkerchief, 
 
 Veiling the wrinkles on the brow of Sorrow, 
 
 The gathering gloom to-day, the thunder-cloud to- 
 morrow. 
 
FANNY. I09 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 And these are innocent thoughts a man may sit 
 Upon a bright throne of his own creation : 
 
 Untortured by the ghastly sprites that flit 
 Around the many, whose exalted station 
 
 Has been attained by means 'twere pain to hint on, 
 
 Just for the rhyme's sake instance Mr. Clinton. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 He struggled hard, but not in vain, and breathes 
 The mountain-air at last ; but there are others 
 
 Who strove, like him, to win the glittering wreaths 
 Of power, his early partisans and brothers, 
 
 That linger yet in dust from whence they sprung, 
 
 Unhonored and unpaid, though, luckily, unhung. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 'Twas theirs to fill with gas the huge balloon 
 Of party ; and they hoped, when it arose, 
 
 To soar like eagles in the blaze of noon, 
 Above the gaping crowd of friends and foes. 
 
 Alas ! like Guille's car, it soared .without them, 
 
 And left them with a mob to jeer and flout them. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Though Fanny's moonlight dreams were sweet as those 
 I've dwelt so long upon they were more stable ; 
 
j IO FANNY. 
 
 Hers were not " castles in the air " that rose 
 Based upon nothing ; for her sire was able, 
 As well she knew, to " buy out" the one-half 
 Of Fashion's glittering train, that nightly quaff 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Wine, wit, and wisdom, at a midnight rout, 
 
 From dandy coachmen, whose " exquisite" grin 
 
 And " ruffian" lounge flash brilliantly without, 
 Down to their brother dandies ranged within, 
 . Gay as the Brussels carpeting they tread on, 
 
 And sapient as the oysters they are fed on. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 And Rumor (she's a famous liar, yet 
 'Tis wonderful how easy we believe her) 
 
 Had whispered he was rich, and all he met 
 
 In Wall Street, nodded, smiled, and "tipped the 
 beaver ; " 
 
 All, from Mr. Gelston, the collector, 
 
 Down to the broker, and the bank director. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 A few brief years passed over, and his rank 
 Among the worthies of that street was fixed ; 
 
 He had become director of a bank, 
 And six insurance offices, and mixed 
 
FANNY. 
 
 Familiarly, as one among his peers, 
 
 With grocers, dry-goods merchants, auctioneers, 
 
 xxxiv. 
 
 Brokers of all grades stock and pawn and Jews 
 Of all religions, who at noonday form, 
 
 On 'Change, that brotherhood the moral muse 
 Delights in, where the heart is pure and warm, 
 
 And each exerts his intellectual force 
 
 To cheat his neighbor legally, of course. 
 
 xxxv. 
 
 And there he shone a planetary star, 
 Circled around by lesser orbs, whose beams 
 
 From his were borrowed. The simile is not far 
 From truth for many bosom friends, it seems, 
 
 Did borrow of him, and sometimes forget 
 
 To pay indeed, they have not paid him yet. 
 
 xxxvi. 
 
 But these he deemed as trifles, when each mouth 
 Was open in his praise, and plaudits rose 
 
 Upon his willing ear, " like the sweet south 
 Upon a bank of violets," from those 
 
 Who knew his talents, virtues, and so forth ; 
 
 That is knew how much money he was worth. 
 
112 FANNY. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Alas ! poor human nature ; had he been 
 But satisfied with this, his golden days 
 
 Their setting hour of darkness had not seen, 
 And he might still (in the mercantile phrase) 
 
 Be living " in good order and condition ; " 
 
 But he was ruined by that jade Ambition, 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 " That last infirmity of noble minds," 
 
 Whose spell, like whiskey, your true patriot liquor, 
 To politics the lofty heart inclines 
 
 Of all, from Clinton down to the bill-sticker 
 Of a ward-meeting. She came slyly creeping 
 To his bedside, where he lay snug and sleeping. 
 
 xxxix. 
 
 Her brow was turbaned with a bucktail wreath, 
 
 A brooch of teiarapin her bosom wore, 
 Tompkins's letter was just seen beneath 
 
 Her arm, and in her hand on high she bore 
 A National Advocate Pell's polite Review 
 Lay at her feet 'twas pommelled black and blue. 
 
 XL. 
 
 She was in fashion's elegant undress, 
 Muffled from throat to ankle ; and her hair 
 
FANNY. 
 
 Was all " en papillotes" each auburn tress 
 
 Prettily pinned apart. You well might swear 
 She was no beauty ; yet, when " made up " ready 
 For visitors, 'twas quite another lady. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Since that wise pedant, Johnson, was in fashion, 
 Manners have changed as well as moons ; and he 
 
 Would fret himself once more into a passion, 
 Should he return (which Heaven forbid !) and see 
 
 How strangely from his standard dictionary 
 
 The meaning of some words is made to vary. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 For instance, an undress at present means 
 The wearing a pelisse, a shawl, or so ; 
 
 Or any thing you please, in short, that screens 
 The face, and hides the form from top to to 3 ; 
 
 Of power to brave a quizzing-glass, or storm 
 
 'Tis worn in summer, when the weather's warm. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 But a full dress is for a winter's night. 
 
 The most genteel is made of "woven air; " 
 That kind of classic cobweb, soft and light, 
 
 Which Lady Morgan's Ida used to wear. 
 And ladies, this aerial manner dressed in, 
 Look Eve-like, angel-like, and interesting. 
 
1 14 FANNY. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 But, Miss Ambition was, as I was saying, 
 " DkhabilUe " his bedside tripping near, 
 
 And, gently on his nose her fingers laying, 
 
 She roared out " Tammany ! " in his frighted ear. 
 
 The potent word awoke him from his nap, 
 
 And then she vanished, whispering verbum sap. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 The last words were beyond his comprehension, 
 For he had left off schooling, ere the Greek 
 
 Or Latin classics claimed his mind's attention : 
 Besides, he often had been heard to speak 
 
 Contemptuously of all that sort of knowledge, 
 
 Taught so profoundly in Columbia College. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 We owe the ancients something. You have read 
 Their works, no doubt at least in a translation ; 
 
 Yet there was argument in what he said, 
 I scorn equivocation or evasion, 
 
 And own it must, in candor, be confessed 
 
 They were an ignorant set of men at best. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 'Twas their misfortune to be born too soon 
 By centuries, and in the wrong place too ; 
 
FANNY. 
 
 They never saw a steamboat, or balloon, 
 
 Velocipede, or Quarterly Review ; 
 Or wore a pair of Baehr's black satin breeches, 
 Or read an Almanac, or Clinton's Speeches. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 In short, in every thing we far outshine them, 
 Art, science, taste, and talent ; and a stroll 
 
 Through this enlightened city would refine them 
 More than ten years' hard study of the whole 
 
 Their genius has produced of rich and rare 
 
 God bless the Corporation and the Mayor ! 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 In sculpture, we've a grace the Grecian master, 
 Blushing, had owned his purest model lacks ; 
 
 We've Mr. Bogart in the best of plaster, 
 The Witch of Endor in the best of wax, 
 
 Besides the head of Franklin on the roof 
 
 Of Mr. Lang, both jest and weather-proof. 
 
 And on our City Hall a Justice stands ; 
 
 A neater form was never made of board, 
 Holding majestically in her hands 
 
 A pair of steelyards and a wooden sword ; 
 And looking down with complaisant civility 
 Emblem of dignity and durability. 
 6 
 
Il6 FANNY. 
 
 LI. * 
 
 In painting, we have Trumbull's proud chefd'ceuvre, 
 Blending in one the funny and the fine : 
 
 His " Independence " will endure forever, 
 And so witt Mr. Allen's lottery-sign ; 
 
 And all that grace the Academy of Arts, 
 
 From Dr. Hosack's face to Bonaparte's. 
 
 LIT. 
 
 In architecture, our unrivalled skill 
 Cullen's magnesian shop has loudly spoken 
 
 To an admiring world ; and better still 
 Is Gautier's fairy palace at Hoboken. 
 
 In music, we've the Euterpian Society, 
 
 And amateurs, a wonderful variety. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 In physic, we have Francis and McNeven, 
 Famed for long heads, short lectures, and long bills ; 
 
 And Quackenboss and others, who from heaven 
 Were rained upon us in a shower of pills ; 
 
 They'd beat the deathless ^sculapius hollow, 
 
 And make a starveling druggist of Apollo. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 And who, that ever slumbered at the Forum, 
 But owns the first of orators we claim : 
 
FANNY. LI7 
 
 Cicero would have bowed the knee before 'em 
 And for law eloquence, we've Doctor Graham. 
 Compared with him, their Justins and Quintilians 
 Had dwindled into second-rate civilians. 
 
 LV. 
 
 For purity and chastity of style, 
 
 There's Pell's preface, and puffs by Home and Waite. 
 For penetration deep, and learned toil, 
 
 And all that stamps an author truly great, 
 Have we not Bristed's ponderous tomes ? a treasure 
 For any man of patience and of leisure. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Oxonian Bristed ! many a foolscap page 
 He, in his time, hath written, and moreover 
 
 (What few will do in this degenerate age) 
 Hath read his own works, as you may discover 
 
 By counting his quotations from himself 
 
 You'll find the books on any auction-shelf. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 I beg Great Britain's pardon ; 'tis not meant 
 To claim this Oxford scholar as our own ; 
 
 That he was shipped off here to represent 
 Her literature among us, is well known ; 
 
 And none could better fill the lofty station 
 
 Of Learning's envoy from the British nation. 
 
Il8 FANNY. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 We fondly hope that he will be respected 
 At home, and soon obtain a place or pension. 
 
 We should regret to see him live neglected, 
 Like Fearon, Ashe, and others we could mention ; 
 
 Who paid us friendly visits to abuse 
 
 Our country, and find food for the reviews. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 But to return. The Heliconian waters 
 
 Are sparkling in their native fount no more, 
 
 And after years of wandering, the nine daughters 
 Of poetry have found upon our shore 
 
 A happier home, and on their sacred shrines 
 
 Glow in immortal ink, the polished lines 
 
 LX. 
 
 Of Woodworth, Doctor Farmer, Moses Scott 
 Names hallowed by their reader's sweetest smile; 
 
 And who that reads at all has read them not ? 
 " That blind old man of Scio's rocky isle," 
 
 Homer, was well enough ; but would he ever 
 
 Have written, think ye, the Backwoodsman ? never. 
 
 % 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Alas ! for Paulding I regret to see 
 In such a stanza one whose giant powers, 
 
FANNY. I 
 
 Seen in their native element, will be 
 
 Known to a future age, the pride of ours. 
 There is none breathing that can better wield 
 The battle-axe of satire. On its field 
 
 LXII. 
 
 The wreath he fought for he has bravely won, 
 Long be its laurel green around his brow 1 
 
 It is too true, I'm somewhat fond of fun 
 And jesting ; but for once I'm serious now. 
 
 Why is he sipping weak Castalian dews ? 
 
 The muse has damned him let him damn the muse. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 But to return once more : the ancients fought 
 
 Some tolerable battles. Marathon 
 Is still a theme for high and holy thought, 
 
 And many a poet's lay. We linger on 
 The page that tells us of the brave and free, 
 And reverence thy name, unmatched Thermopylae. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 And there were spirited troops in other days 
 The Roman legion and the Spartan band, 
 
 And Swartwout's gallant corps, the Iron Grays 
 Soldiers who met their foemen hand to hand, 
 
 Or swore, at least, to meet them undismayed ; 
 
 Yet what were these to General Laight's brigade 
 
I2O FANNY. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Of veterans ? nursed in that Free School of glory, 
 The New York State Militia. From Bellevue, 
 
 E'en to the Battery flag-staff, the proud story 
 Of their manoeuvres at the last review 
 
 Has rung; and Clinton's "order" told afar 
 
 He never led a better corps to war. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 What, Egypt, was thy magic, to the tricks 
 Of Mr. Charles, Judge Spencer, or Van Buren ? 
 
 The first with cards, the last in politics, 
 A conjuror's fame for years have been securing. 
 
 And who would now the Athenian dramas read, 
 
 When he can get "Wall Street," by Mr. Mead? 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 I might say much about our lettered men, 
 Those " grave and reverend seigniors," who compose 
 
 Our learned societies but here my pen 
 Stops short ; for they themselves, the rumor goes, 
 
 The exclusive privilege by patent claim, 
 
 Of trumpeting (as the phrase is) their own fame. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 And, therefore, I am silent. It remains 
 To bless the hour the Corporation took it 
 
FANNY. 121 
 
 Into their heads to give the rich in brains 
 
 The worn-out mansion of the poor in pocket, 
 Once "the old almshouse," now a school of wisdom, 
 Sacred to Scudder's shells and Dr. Griscom. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 But whither am I wandering ? The esteem 
 
 I bear " this fairy city of the heart," 
 To me a dear enthusiastic theme, 
 
 Has forced me, all unconsciously, to part 
 Too long from him, the hero of my story. 
 Where was he ? waking from his dream of glory. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 And she, the lady of his dream, had fled, 
 And left him somewhat puzzled and confused. 
 
 He understood, however, half she said ; 
 And that is quite as much as we are used 
 
 To comprehend, or fancy worth repeating, 
 
 In speeches heard at any public meeting. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 And the next evening found him at the Hall ; 
 
 There he was welcomed by the qprdial hand, 
 And met the warm and friendly grasp of all 
 
 Who take, like watchmen, there, their nightly stand, 
 A ring, as in a boxing-match, procuring, 
 To bet on Clinton, Tompkins, or Van Buren. 
 
I2 2 FANNY. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 'Twas a propitious moment ; for a while 
 The waves of party were at rest. Upon 
 
 Each complacent brow was gay good-humor's smile: 
 And there was much of wit, and jest, and pun. 
 
 And high amid the circle, in great glee, 
 
 Sat Croaker's old acquaintance, John Targee. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 His jokes excelled the rest, and oft he sang 
 
 Songs, patriotic, as in duty bound. 
 He had a little of the " nasal twang 
 
 Heard at conventicle ; " but yet you found 
 In him a dash of purity and brightness, 
 That spoke the man of taste and of politeness. 
 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 For he had been, it seems, the bosom friend 
 Of England's prettiest bard, Anacreon Moore. 
 
 They met, when he, the bard, came here to lend 
 His mirth and music to this favorite shore ; 
 
 For, as the proverb saith, "birds of a feather 
 
 Instinctively will flock and fly together." 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 The winds that wave thy cedar-boughs are breathing, 
 " Lake of the Dismal Swamp ! " that poet's name ; 
 
FANNY. I2 3 
 
 And the spray-showers their noonday halos wreathing 
 
 Around " Cohoes," are brightened by his fame. 
 And bright its sunbeam o'er St. Lawrence smiles, 
 
 Her million lilies, and her thousand isles. 
 
 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 We hear his music in her carmen's lay, 
 
 And where her church-bells "toll the evening 
 
 chime ; " 
 Yet when to him the grateful heart would pay 
 
 Its homage, now, and in all coming time, 
 Up springs a doubtful question whether we 
 Owe it to Tara's minstrel or Targee. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Together oft they wandered many a spot 
 Now consecrated, as the minstrel's theme, 
 
 By words of beauty ne'er to be forgot, 
 Their mutual feet have trod ; and when the stream 
 
 Of thought and feeling flowed in mutual speech, 
 
 'Twere vain to tell how much each taught to each. 
 
 LXXVI 1 1. 
 
 But, from the following song, it would appear 
 
 That he of Erin from the sachem took 
 The model of his " Bower of Bendemeer," 
 
 One of the sweetest airs in Lalla Rookh ; 
 
124 FANNY. 
 
 'Tis to be hoped that, in his next edition, 
 This, the original, will find admission : 
 
 SONG. 
 
 There's a barrel of porter at Tammany Hall, 
 
 And the bucktails are swigging it all the night 
 long; 
 
 In the time of my boyhood 'twas pleasant to call 
 For a seat and cigar, 'mid the jovial throng. 
 
 That beer and those bucktails I never forget ; 
 
 But oft, when alone, and unnoticed by all, 
 I think, is the porter-cask foaming there yet ? 
 
 Are the bucktails still swigging at Tammany Hall ? 
 
 No ! the porter was out long before it was stale, 
 
 But some blossoms on many a hose brightly 
 shone, 
 
 And the speeches inspired by the fumes of the ale, 
 Had the fragrance of porter when porter was gone. 
 
 How much Cozzens will draw of such beer ere he 
 dies, 
 
 Is a question of moment to me and to all ; 
 For still dear to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, 
 
 Is that barrel of porter at Tammany Hall. 
 
FANNY. 12$ 
 
 SONG. 
 
 There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, 
 And the nightingale sings round it all the night long ; 
 
 In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream 
 To sit in the roses arid hear the bird's song. 
 
 That bower and its music I never forget ; 
 
 But oft, when alone, in the bloom of the year, 
 I think, is the nightingale singing there yet ? 
 
 Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer ? 
 
 No ! the roses soon withered that hung o'er the wave, 
 But some blossoms were gathered when freshly they 
 shone ; 
 
 And a dew was distilled from their flowers, that gave 
 All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone, 
 
 Thus memory draws from delight ere it dies, 
 An essence that breathes of it many a year ; 
 
 Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, 
 Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 For many months my hero ne'er neglected 
 To take his ramble there, and soon found out, 
 
 In much less time than one could have expected, 
 What 'twas they all were quarrelling about. 
 
126 FANNr. 
 
 He learned the party countersigns by rote, 
 And when to clap his hands, and how to vote. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 He learned that Clinton became. Governor 
 
 Somehow by chance, when we were all asleep ; 
 
 That he had neither sense, nor talent, nor 
 Any good quality, and would not keep 
 
 His place an hour after the next election 
 
 So powerful was the voice of disaffection : 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 That he was a mere puppet made to play 
 A thousand tricks, while Spencer touched the 
 springs 
 
 Spencer, the mighty Warwick of his day, 
 " That setter up and puller down of kings," 
 
 Aided by Miller, Pell, and Doctor Graham, 
 
 And other men of equal worth and fame : 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 And that he'd set the people at defiance, 
 
 By placing knaves and fools in public stations ; 
 
 And that his works in literature and- science 
 Were but a schoolboy's web of misquotations ; 
 
 And that he quoted from the devil even 
 
 " Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven." 
 
FANNY. 127 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 To these authentic facts each bucktail swore ; 
 
 But Clinton's friends averred, in contradiction, 
 They were but fables, told by Mr. Noah, 
 
 Who had a privilege to deal in fiction, 
 Because he'd written travels, and a melo- 
 Drama ; and was, withal, a pleasant fellow. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 And they declared that Tompkins was no better 
 Than he should be ; that he had borrowed money, 
 
 And paid it not in cash but with a letter ; 
 And, though some trifling service he had done, he 
 
 Still wanted spirit, energy, and fire ; 
 
 And was disliked by Mr. Mclntyre. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 In short, each one with whom in conversation 
 He joined, contrived to give him different views 
 
 Of men and measures ; and the information 
 Which he obtained, but aided to confuse 
 
 His brain. At best, 'twas never very clear ; 
 
 And now 'twas turned with politics and beer. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 And he was puffed, and flattered, and caressed 
 By all, till he sincerely thought that Nature 
 
128 FANNY. 
 
 Had formed him for an alderman at least 
 
 Perhaps, a member of the Legislature ; 
 And that he had the talents, ten times over, 
 Of Henry Meigs, or Peter H. Wendover. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 The man was mad, 'tis plain, and merits pity, 
 Or he had never dared, in such a tone, 
 
 To speak of two great persons, whom the city 
 With pride and pleasure points to as her own 
 
 Men wise in council, brilliant in debate, 
 
 "The expectancy and rose of the fair state." 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 The one for a pure style and classic manner, 
 
 Is Mr. Sachem Mooney far before ; 
 The other, in his speech about the banner, 
 
 Spell-bound his audience until they swore 
 That such a speech was never heard till then, 
 And never would be till he spoke again. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Though 'twas presumptuous in this friend of ours 
 To think of rivalling these, I must allow 
 
 That still the man had talents ; and the powers 
 Of his capacious intellect were now 
 
 Improved by foreign travel, and by reading, 
 
 And at the Hall he'd learned, of course, good-breeding 
 
FANNY. 
 XC. 
 
 He had read the newspapers with great attention, 
 Advertisements and all ; and Riley's book 
 
 Of travels valued for its rich invention ; 
 
 And Day and Turner's Price Current ; and took 
 
 The Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews ; 
 
 And also Colonel Pell's ; and to amuse 
 
 xci. 
 
 His leisure hours with classic tale and story, 
 Longworth's Directory, and Mead's Wall Street, 
 
 And Mr. Delaplaine's Repository ; 
 
 And Mitchill's scientific works complete, 
 
 With other standard books of modern days, 
 
 Lay on his table, covered with green baize. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 His travels had extended to Bath races ; 
 
 And Bloomingdale and Bergen he had seen, 
 And Harlem Heights ; and many other places, 
 
 By sea and land, had visited ; and been, 
 In a steamboat of the Vice-President's,. 
 To Staten Island once for fifty cents. 
 
 xcm. 
 
 And he had dined, by special invitation, 
 On turtle, with " the party" at Hoboken ; 
 
 129 
 
130 FANNY. 
 
 And thanked them for his card in an oration, 
 
 Declared to be the shortest ever spoken. 
 And he had strolled one day o'er Weehawk hill : 
 A day worth all the rest he recollects it still. 
 
 xciv. 
 
 VVeehawken ! In thy mountain scenery yet, 
 
 All we adore of Nature, in her wild 
 And frolic hour of infancy, is met ; 
 
 And never has a summer's morning smiled 
 Upon a lovelier scene, than the full eye 
 Of the enthusiast revels on when high 
 
 xcv. 
 
 Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbs 
 
 O'er crags, that proudly tower above the deep, 
 
 And knows that sense of danger which sublimes 
 The breathless moment when his daring step 
 
 Is on the verge of the cliff, and he can hear 
 
 The low dash of the wave with startled ear 
 
 xcvi. 
 
 Like the death-music of his coming doom. 
 
 And clings to the green turf with desperate force, 
 As the heart clings to life ; and when resume 
 
 The currents in his veins their wonted course, 
 There lingers a deep feeling like the moan 
 Of wearied ocean, when the storm is gone. 
 
FANNY. j^ 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 In such an hour he turns, and on his view, 
 Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before him ; 
 
 Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue 
 Of summer's sky in beauty bending o'er him 
 
 The city bright below ; and far away, 
 
 Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement, 
 And banners floating in the sunny air ; 
 
 And white sails o'er the calm blue waters bent, 
 Green isle, and circling shore, are blended there 
 
 In wild reality. When life is old, 
 
 And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold 
 
 xcix. 
 
 Its memory of this ; nor lives there one 
 
 Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood's days 
 Of happiness were passed beneath that sun, 
 
 That in his manhood's prime can calmly gaze 
 Upon that bay, or on that mountain stand, 
 Nor feel the prouder of his native land. 
 
 " This may be poetry, for aught I know," 
 
 Said an old, worthy friend of mine, while leaning 
 
132 FANNY. 
 
 Over my shoulders as I wrote ; " although 
 I can't exactly comprehend its meaning. 
 For my part, I have long been a petitioner 
 To Mr. John McComb, the Street Commissioner 
 
 Ci. 
 
 " That he would think of Weehawk, and would lay it 
 Handsomely out in avenue and square ; 
 
 Then tax the land and make its owners pay it 
 (As is the usual plan pursued elsewhere) ; 
 
 Blow up the rocks, and sell the wood for fuel 
 
 'Twould save us many a dollar, and a duel." 
 
 . Cil. 
 
 " The devil take you and John McComb," said I ; 
 
 " Lang, in its praise, has penned one paragraph, 
 And promised me another. I defy, 
 
 With such assistance, yours and the world's laugh ; 
 And half believe that Paulding, on this theme, 
 Might be a poet strange as it may seem." 
 
 cm. 
 
 For even our traveller felt, -when home returning 
 From that day's tour, as on the deck he stood, 
 
 The fire of poetry within him burning ; 
 " Albeit unused to the rhyming mood ; " 
 
 And with a pencil on his knee he wrote 
 
 The following naming lines 
 
FANNY. 133 
 
 TO THE HORSEBOAT. 
 
 I. 
 
 Away o'er the wave to the home we are seeking, 
 Bark of my hope ! ere the evening be gone ; 
 
 There's a wild, wild note in the curlew's shrieking ; 
 There's a whisper of death in the wind's low moan, 
 
 2. 
 
 Though blue and bright are the heavens above me, 
 And the stars are asleep on the quiet sea ; 
 
 And hearts I love, and hearts that love me, 
 Are beating beside me merrily: 
 
 Yet, far in the west, where the day's faded roses, 
 Touched by the moonbeam, are withering fast ; 
 
 Where the half-seen spirit of twilight reposes, 
 Hymning the dirge of the hours that are past- 
 
 There, where the ocean-wave sparkles at meeting 
 (As sunset dreams tell us) the kiss of the sky, 
 
 On his dim, dark cloud is the infant storm sitting, 
 And beneath the horizon his lightnings are nigh. 
 
I34 FANNY. 
 
 5- 
 
 Another hour and the death-word is given, 
 Another hour and his lightnings are here ; 
 
 Speed ! speed thee, my bark ; ere the breeze of even 
 Is lost in the tempest, our home will be near. 
 
 Then away o'er the wave, while thy pennant is stream- 
 ing 
 
 In the shadowy light, like a shooting-star; 
 Be swift as the thought of the wanderer, dreaming, 
 
 In a stranger land, of his fireside afar. 
 
 7- 
 
 And while memory lingers I'll fondly believe thee 
 A being with life and its best feelings warm ; 
 
 And freely the wild song of gratitude weave thee, 
 Blessed spirit ! that bore me and mine from the storm. 
 
 Civ. 
 
 But where is Fanny ? She has long been thrown 
 Where cheeks and roses wither in the shade. 
 
 The age of chivalry, you know, is gone ; 
 And although, as I once before have said, 
 
 I love a pretty face to adoration, 
 
 Yet, still, I must preserve my reputation, 
 
FANNY. 
 CV. 
 
 As a true dandy of the modern schools. 
 
 One hates to be old-fashioned ; it would be 
 A violation of the latest rules, 
 
 To treat the sex with too much courtesy. 
 Tis not to worship beauty, as she glows 
 In all her diamond lustre, that the beaux 
 
 CVI. 
 
 Of these enlightened days at evening crowd, 
 Where Fashion welcomes in her rooms of light 
 
 That "dignified obedience; that proud 
 
 Submission," which, in times of yore, the knight 
 
 Gave to his "ladye-love," is now a scandal, 
 
 And practised only by your Goth and Vandal. 
 
 CVII. 
 
 To lounge in graceful attitudes be stared 
 Upon, the while, by every fair one's eye, 
 And stare one's self, in turn : to be prepared 
 
 To dart upon the trays, as swiftly by 
 The dexterous Simon bears them, and to take 
 One's share at least of coffee, cream, and cake, 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 Is now to be " the ton." The pouting lip, 
 And sad, upbraiding eye of the poor girl, 
 
136 FANNY. 
 
 Who hardly of joy's cup one drop can sip, 
 Ere in the wild confusion, and the whirl, 
 And tumult of the hour, its bubbles vanish, 
 Must now be disregarded. One must banish 
 
 cix. 
 
 Those antiquated feelings, that belong 
 To feudal manners and a barbarous age. 
 
 Time was when woman " poured her soul " in song, 
 That all was hushed around. 'Tis now " the rage " 
 
 To deem a song, like bugle-tones in battle, 
 
 A signal-note, that bids each tongue's artillery rattle. 
 
 ex. 
 
 And, therefore, I have made Miss Fanny wait 
 My leisure. She had changed, as you will see, as 
 
 Much as her worthy sire, and made as great 
 Proficiency in taste and high ideas. 
 
 The careless smile of other days was gone, 
 
 And every gesture spoke " qu'en dira-t-on?" 
 
 CXI. 
 
 She long had known that in her father's coffers. 
 
 And also to his credit in the banks, 
 There was some cash ; and therefore all the offers 
 
 Made her, by gentlemen of the middle ranks, 
 Of heart and hand, had spurned, as far beneath 
 One whose high destiny it was to breathe, 
 
FANNY. 
 CXII. 
 
 Ere long, the air of Broadway or Park Place, 
 And reign a fairy queen in fairy land ; 
 
 Display in the gay dance her form of grace, 
 Or touch with rounded arm and gloveless hand, 
 
 Harp or piano. Madame Catilani 
 
 Forgot awhile, and every eye on Fanny. 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 And in anticipation of that hour, 
 
 Her star of hope, her paradise of thought, 
 
 She'd had as many masters as the power 
 Of riches could bestow ; and had been taught 
 
 The thousand nameless graces that adorn 
 
 The daughters of the wealthy and high-born. 
 
 CXIV. 
 
 She had been noticed at some public places 
 (The Battery, and the balls of Mr. Whale), 
 
 For hers was one of those attractive faces, 
 That when you gaze upon them, never fail 
 
 To bid you look again ; there was a beam, 
 
 A lustre in her eye, that oft would seem 
 
 cxv. 
 
 A little like effrontery ; and yet 
 The lady meant no harm ; her only aim 
 
138 FANNY. 
 
 Was but to be admired by all she met, 
 
 And the free homage of the heart to claim ; 
 And if she showed too plainly this intention, 
 Others have done the same 'twas not of her invention. 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 She shone at every concert ; where are bought 
 Tickets by all who wish them, for a dollar ; 
 
 She patronized the Theatre, and thought 
 That Wallack looked extremely well in Rolla ; 
 
 She fell in love, as all the ladies do, 
 
 With Mr. Simpson talked as loudly, too, 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 As any beauty of the highest grade, 
 To the gay circle in the box beside her ; 
 
 And when the pit half vexed and half afraid, 
 With looks of smothered indignation eyed her, 
 
 She calmly met their gaze, and stood before 'em, 
 
 Smiling at vulgar taste and mock decorum. 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 And though by no means a bas bleu, she had 
 For literature a most becoming passion ; 
 
 Had skimmed the latest novels, good and bad, 
 And read the Croakers, when they were in fashion ; 
 
 And Dr. Chalmers' sermons of a Sunday ; 
 
 And Woodworth's Cabinet, and the new Salmagundi. 
 
FANNY. I39 
 
 exix. 
 
 She was among the first and warmest patrons 
 
 Of Griscom's conversaziones, where 
 In rainbow groups, our bright-eyed maids and matrons, 
 
 On science bent, assemble ; to prepare 
 Themselves for acting well, in life, their part 
 As wives and mothers. There she learned by heart 
 
 cxx. 
 
 Words, to the witches in Macbeth unknown. 
 
 Hydraulics, hydrostatics, and pneumatics, 
 Dioptrics, optics, katoptrics, carbon, 
 
 Chlorine, and iodine, and aerostatics ; 
 Also, why frogs, for want of air, expire ; 
 And how to set the Tappan Sea on fire ! 
 
 cxxi. 
 
 In all the modern languages she was 
 Exceedingly well-versed ; and had devoted, 
 
 To their attainment, far more time than has, 
 By the best teachers, lately been allotted ; 
 
 For she had taken lessons, twice a week, 
 
 For a full month in each ; and she could speak 
 
 CXXII. 
 
 French and Italian, equally as well 
 As Chinese, Portuguese, or German ; and, 
 7 
 
140 FANNY. 
 
 What is still more surprising, she could spell 
 
 Most of our longest English words off-hand ; 
 Was quite familiar in Low Dutch and Spanish, 
 And thought of studying modern Greek and Danish. 
 
 CXXIII. 
 
 She sang divinely ; and in " Love's young dream " 
 And " Fanny dearest," and " The soldier's bride ; " 
 
 And every song, whose dear delightful theme, 
 Is " Love, still love," had oft till midnight tried 
 
 Her finest, loftiest " pigeon-wings " of sound, 
 
 Waking the very watchmen far around. 
 
 cxxiv. 
 
 For her pure taste in dress, I can appeal to 
 Madame Bouquet, and Monsieur Pardessus ; 
 
 She was, in short, a woman you might, kneel to, 
 If kneeling were in fashion ; or if you 
 
 Were wearied of your duns and single life, 
 
 And wanted a few thousands and a wife. 
 
 cxxv. 
 
FANNY. I4 I 
 
 CXXVI. 
 
 1 There was a sound of revelry by night ; " 
 
 Broadway was thronged with coaches, and within 
 A mansion of the best of brick, the bright 
 And eloquent eyes of beauty bade begin 
 The dance ; and music's tones swelled wild and high, 
 And hearts and heels kept tune in tremulous ecstasy. 
 
 CXXVI I. 
 
 For many a week, the note of preparation 
 Had sounded through all circles far and near ; 
 
 And some five hundred cards of invitation 
 Bade beau and belle in full costume appear ; 
 
 There was a most magnificent variety, 
 
 All quite select, and of the first society. 
 
 CXXVI II. 
 
 That is to say the rich and the well-bred, 
 
 The arbiters of fashion and gentility, 
 In different grades of splendor, from the head 
 
 Down to the very toe of our nobility : 
 Ladies, remarkable for handsome eyes 
 Or handsome fortunes learned men, and wise 
 
 cxxix. 
 
 Statesmen, and officers of the militia 
 In short, the " first society "a phrase, 
 
142 FANNY. 
 
 Which you may understand as best may fit you ; 
 
 Besides the blackest fiddlers of those days, 
 Placed like their sire, Timotheus, on high, 
 With horsehair fiddle-bows and teeth of ivory. 
 
 cxxx. 
 
 The carpets were rolled up the day before, 
 And, with a breath, two rooms became but one, 
 
 Like man and wife and, on the polished floor, 
 Chalk in the artists' plastic hand had done 
 
 All that chalk could do in young Eden's bowers 
 
 They seemed to tread, and their feet pressed on flowers. 
 
 cxxxi 
 
 And when the thousand lights of spermaceti 
 
 Streamed like a shower of sunbeams and free tresses 
 
 Wild as the heads that waved them and a pretty 
 Collection of the latest Paris dresses 
 
 Wandered about the room like things divine. 
 
 It was, as I was told, extremely fine. 
 
 CXXXII. 
 
 The love of fun, fine faces, and good eating, 
 Brought many who were tired of self and home ; 
 
 And some were there in the high hope of meeting 
 The lady of their bosom's love and some 
 
 To study that deep science, how to please, 
 
 And manners in high life, and high-souled courtesies. 
 
FANNY. 
 CXXXIII. 
 
 And he, the hero of the night was there, 
 In breeches of light drab, and coat of blue. 
 
 Taste was conspicuous in his powdered hair, 
 And in his frequent jeux de mots, that drew 
 
 Peals of applauses from the listeners round, 
 
 Who were delighted as in duty bound. 
 
 CXXXIV. 
 
 'Twas Fanny's father Fanny near him stood, 
 Her power, resistless and her wish, command ; 
 
 And Hope's young promises were all made good ; 
 " She reigned a fairy queen in fairy land ; " 
 
 Her dream of infancy a dream no more, 
 
 And then how beautiful the dress she wore ! 
 
 cxxxv. 
 
 Ambition with her sire had kept her word. 
 
 He had the rose, no matter for its thorn, 
 And he seemed happy as a summer bird, 
 
 Careering on wet wing to meet the morn. 
 Some said there was a cloud upon his brow ; 
 It might be but we'll not discuss that now. 
 
 cxxxvi. 
 
 I left him making rhymes while crossing o'er 
 The broad and perilous wave of the North River. 
 
144 FANNY. 
 
 He bade adieu, when safely on the shore, 
 
 To poetry and, as he thought, forever. 
 That night his dream (if after-deeds make known 
 Our plans in sleep) was an enchanting one. 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 
 He woke, in strength, like Samson from his slumber, 
 And walked Broadway, enraptured the next day ; 
 
 Purchased a house there I've forgot the number 
 And signed a mortgage and a bond, for pay. 
 
 Gave, in the slang phrase, Pearl Street the go-by, 
 
 And cut, for several months, St* Tammany. 
 
 CXXXVIII. 
 
 Bond, mortgage, title-deeds, and all completed, 
 He bought a coach and half a dozen horses 
 
 (The bill's at Lawrence's not yet receipted 
 You'll find the amount upon his list of losses), 
 
 Then filled his rooms with servants, and whatever 
 
 Is necessary for a " genteel liver." 
 
 cxxxix. 
 
 This last re'moval fixed him : every stain 
 Was blotted from his " household coat," and he 
 
 Now "showed the world he was a gentleman," 
 And, what is better, could afford to be j 
 
 His step was loftier than it was of old, 
 
 His laugh less frequent, and his manner told 
 
FANNY. j^ 
 
 CXL. 
 
 What lovers call "unutterable things " 
 
 That sort of dignity was in his mien 
 Which awes the gazer into ice, and brings 
 
 To recollection some great man we've seen, 
 The Governor, perchance, whose eye and frown, 
 'Twas shrewdly guessed, would knock Judge Skinner 
 down. 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 And for " Resources," both of purse and head, 
 He was a subject worthy Bristed's pen v 
 
 Believed devoutly all his flatterers said, 
 
 And deemed himself a Crcesus among men ; 
 
 Spread to the liberal air his silken sails, 
 
 And lavished guineas like a Prince of Wales. 
 
 CXLII. 
 
 He mingled now with those within whose veins 
 The blood ran pure the magnates of the land 
 
 Hailed them as his companions and his friends, 
 And lent them money and his note of hand. 
 
 In every institution, whose proud aim 
 
 Is public good alone, he soon became 
 
 CXLIII. 
 
 A man of consequence and notoriety; 
 His name, with the addition of esquire, 
 
146 FANNY. 
 
 Stood high upon the list of each society, 
 
 Whose zeal and watchfulness the sacred fire 
 Of science, agriculture, art, and learning, 
 Keep on our country's altars bright and burning. 
 
 CXLIV. 
 
 At Eastburn's Rooms he met, at two each day, 
 With men of taste and judgment like his own, 
 
 And played " first fiddle " in that orchestra 
 Of literary worthies and the tone 
 
 Of his mind's music by the listeners caught, 
 
 Is traced among them still in language and in thought 
 
 CXLV. 
 
 He once made the Lyceum a choice present 
 Of muscle-shells picked up at Rockaway ; 
 
 And Mitchill gave a classical and pleasant 
 Discourse about them in the streets that day, 
 
 Naming the shells, and hard to put in verse 'twas 
 u Testaceous coverings of bivalve molluscas." 
 
 CXLVI. 
 
 He was a trustee of a Savings Bank, 
 
 And lectured soundly every evil-doer, 
 Gave dinners daily to wealth, power, and rank, 
 
 And sixpence every Sunday to the poor ; 
 He was a wit, .in the pun-making line 
 Past fifty years of age, and five feet nine. 
 
FANNY. 
 CXLVII. 
 
 But as he trod to grandeur's pinnacle, 
 With eagle eye and step that never faltered, 
 
 The busy tongue of scandal dared to tell 
 
 That cash was scarce with him, and credit altered ; 
 
 And while he stood the envy of beholders, 
 
 The Bank Directors grinned, and shrugged their shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 CXLVIJT. 
 
 r 
 
 And when these, the Lord Burleighs of the minute, 
 Shake their sage heads, and look demure and holy, 
 
 Depend upon it there is something in it ; 
 For whether born of wisdom or of folly. 
 
 Suspicion is a being whose fell power 
 
 Blights every thing it touches, fruit and flower. 
 
 CXLIX. 
 
 Some friends (they were his creditors) once hinted 
 About retrenchment and a day of doom ; 
 
 He thanked them, as no doubt they kindly meant it, 
 And made this speech when they had left the room : 
 
 " Of all the curses upon mortals sent, 
 
 One's creditors are the most impudent ; 
 
 CL. 
 
 " Now I am one who knows what he is doing, 
 And suits exactly to his means his ends ; 
 
I 4 8 FANNY. 
 
 How can a man be in the path to ruin, 
 
 When all the brokers are his bosom friends? 
 Yet, on my hopes, and those of my dear daughter, 
 These rascals throw a bucket of cold water 1 
 
 CLI. 
 
 "They'd wrinkle with deep cares the prettiest face, 
 Pour gall and wormwood in the sweetest cup, 
 
 Poison the very wells of life and place 
 Whitechapel needles, with their sharp points up, 
 
 Even in the softest feather bed that e'er 
 
 Was manufactured by upholsterer." 
 
 CLII. 
 
 This said he journeyed "at his own sweet will," 
 Like one of Wordsworth's rivers, calmly on ; 
 
 But yet, at times, Reflection,. "in her still 
 
 Small voice, "would whisper, something must be done; 
 
 He asked advice of Fanny, and the maid 
 
 Promptly and duteously lent her aid. 
 
 CLIII. 
 
 She told him, with that readiness of mind 
 And quickness of perception which belong 
 
 Exclusively to gentle womankind, 
 
 That to submit to slanderers was wrong, 
 
 And the best plan to silence and admonish them, 
 
 Would be to give " a party " and astonish them. 
 
FANNY. 140, 
 
 CLIV. 
 
 The hint was taken and the party given ; 
 
 And Fanny, as I said some pages since, 
 Was there in power and loveliness that even, 
 
 And he, her sire, demeaned him like a prince, 
 And all was joy it looked a festival, 
 Where pain might smooth his brow, and grief her 
 smiles recall. 
 
 CLV. 
 
 But Fortune, like some others of her sex, 
 Delights in tantalizing and tormenting ; 
 
 One day we feed upon their smiles the next 
 Is spent in swearing, sorrowing, and repenting. 
 
 (If in the last four lines the author lies, 
 
 He's always ready to apologize.) 
 
 CLVI. 
 
 Eve never walked in Paradise more pure 
 
 Than on that morn when Satan played the devil, 
 
 With her and all her race. A love-sick wooer 
 Ne'er asked a kinder maiden, or more civil, 
 
 Than Cleopatra was to Antony 
 
 The day she left him on the Ionian sea. 
 
 CLVII. 
 
 The serpent loveliest in his coiled ring, 
 With eye that charms, and beauty that outvies 
 
l$ FANNY 
 
 The tints of the rainbow bears upon his sting 
 The deadliest venom. Ere the dolphin dies 
 Its hues are brightest. Like an infant's breath 
 Are tropic winds before the voice of death 
 
 CLVIII. 
 
 Is heard upon the waters, summoning 
 The midnight earthquake from its sleep of years 
 
 To do its task of woe. The clouds that fling 
 The lightning, brighten ere the bolt appears ; 
 
 The pantings of the warrior's heart are proud 
 
 Upon that battle morn whose night-dews wet his shroud \ 
 
 CLIX. 
 
 The sun is loveliest as he sinks to rest ; 
 
 The leaves of autumn smile when fading fast ; 
 The swan's last song is sweetest and the best 
 
 Of Meigs's speeches, doubtless, was his last. 
 And thus the happiest scene, in these my rhymes, 
 Closed with a crash , and ushered in hard times. 
 
 CLX. 
 
 St. Paul's tolled one and fifteen minutes after 
 Down came, by accident, a chandelier ; 
 
 The mansion tottered from the floor to rafter ! 
 Up rose the cry of agony and fear ! 
 
 And there was shrieking, screaming, bustling, fluttering, 
 
 Beyond the power of writing or of uttering. 
 
FANNY. jjji 
 
 CLXI. 
 
 The company departed, and neglected 
 To say good-by the father stormed and swore 
 
 The fiddlers grinned the daughter looked dejected 
 The flowers had vanished from the polished floor, 
 
 And both betook them to their sleepless beds, 
 
 With hearts and prospects broken, but no heads. 
 
 CLXII. 
 
 The desolate relief of free complaining 
 
 Came with the morn, and with it came bad weather ; 
 The wind was east-northeast, and it was raining 
 
 Throughout that day, which, ta*ke it altogether, 
 
 Was one whose memory clings to us through life, 
 
 
 Just like a suit in Chancery, or a wife. 
 
 CLXIII. 
 
 That evening, with a most important face 
 And dreadful knock, and tidings still more dreadful, 
 
 A notary came sad things had taken place ; 
 My hero had forgot to "do the needful ; " 
 
 A note (amount not stated), with his name on't, 
 
 Was left unpaid in short, he had "stopped payment." 
 
 CLXIV. 
 
 I hate your tragedies, both long and short ones 
 (Except Tom Thumb, and Juan's Pantomime) ; 
 
152 FANNY. 
 
 And stories woven of sorrows and misfortunes 
 
 Are bad enough in prose, and worse in rhyme 
 Mine, therefore, must be brief. Under protest 
 His notes remain the wise can guess the rest. 
 
 CLXV. 
 
 CLXVI. 
 
 I 
 
 For two whole days they were the common talk ; 
 
 The party, and the failure, and all that, 
 The theme of loungers in their morning walk, 
 
 Porter-house reasoning, and tea-table chat. 
 The third, some newer wonder came to blot them, 
 And on the fourth, the " meddling world " forgot them, 
 
 CLXVII. 
 
 Anxious, however, something to discover, 
 
 I passed their house the shutters were all closed ; 
 
 The song of knocker and of bell was over ; 
 Upon the steps two chimney-sweeps reposed ; 
 
 And on the door my dazzled eyebeam met 
 
 These cabalistic words " This house to let." 
 
FANNY !5 
 
 CLXVIII. 
 
 They live now, like chameleons, upon air 
 And hope, and such cold, unsubstantial dishes ; 
 
 That they removed, is clear, but when or where 
 None knew. The curious reader, if he wishes, 
 
 May ask them, but in vain. Where grandeur dwells, 
 
 The marble dome the popular rumor tells ; 
 
 CLXIX. 
 
 But of the dwelling of the proud and poor, 
 From their own lips the world will never know 
 
 When better days are gone it is secure 
 Beyond all other mysteries here below, 
 
 Except, perhaps, a maiden lady's age, 
 
 When past the noonday of life's pilgrimage. 
 
 eLxx. 
 
 Fanny ! 'twas with her name my song began ; 
 
 'Tis proper and polite her name should end it ; 
 If, in my story of her woes, or plan 
 
 Or moral can be traced, 'twas not intended ; 
 And if I've wronged her, I can only tell her 
 I'm sorry for it so is my bookseller. 
 
 CLXXI. 
 
 I met her yesterday her eyes were wet 
 
 She faintly smiled, and said she had been reading 
 
154 FANNY. 
 
 The Treasurer's Report in the Gazette, 
 
 Mclntyre's speech, and Campbell's " Love lies bleed- 
 ing; " 
 
 She had a shawl on, 'twas not a Cashmere one, 
 And, if it cost five dollars, 'twas a dear one. 
 
 CLXXII. 
 
 Her father sent to Albany a prayer 
 For office, told how Fortune had abused him, 
 
 And modestly requested to be Mayor 
 The Council very civilly refused him ; 
 
 Because, however much they might desire it, 
 
 The " public good," it seems, did not require it. 
 
 CLXXIII. 
 
 Some evenings since, he took a lonely stroll 
 Along Broadway, scene of past joys and evils ; 
 
 He felt that withering bitterness of soul, 
 Quaintly denominated the " blue devils ; " 
 
 And thought of Bonaparte and Belisarius, 
 
 Pompey, and Colonel Burr, and Caius Marius, 
 
 
 
 CLXXIV. 
 
 And envying the loud playfulness and mirth 
 
 Of those who passed him, gay in youth and hope, 
 
 He took at Jupiter a shilling's worth 
 
 Of gazing, through the showman's telescope ; 
 
FANNY. 
 
 Sounds as of far-off bells came on his ears- 
 He fancied 'twas the music of the spheres. 
 
 CLXXV. 
 
 He was mistaken, it was no such thing, 
 'Twas Yankee Doodle played by Scudder's band 
 
 He muttered, as he lingered listening, 
 
 Something of freedom and our happy land ; 
 
 Then sketched, as to his home he hurried fast, 
 
 This sentimental song his saddest, and his last : 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Young thoughts have music in them, love 
 
 And happiness their theme ; 
 And music wanders in the wind 
 
 That lulls a morning dream. 
 And there are angel-voices heard, 
 
 In childhood's frolic hours, 
 When life is but an April day 
 
 Of sunshine and of showers. 
 
 There's music in the forest-leaves 
 When summer winds are there ? 
 
 And in the laugh of forest girls 
 That braid their sunny hair. 
 
156 FANNY. 
 
 The first wild-bird that drinks the dew, 
 
 From violets of the spring, 
 Has music in his song, and in 
 
 The fluttering of his wing. 
 
 3- 
 
 There's music in the dash of waves 
 
 When the swift bark cleaves their foam ; 
 There's music heard upon her deck, 
 
 The mariner's song of home, 
 When moon and star beams smiling meet 
 
 At midnight on the sea 
 And there is music once a week 
 
 In Scudder's balcony. 
 
 4- 
 
 But the music of young thoughts too soon 
 
 Is faint, and dies away, 
 And from our morning dreams we wake 
 
 To curse the coming day. 
 And childhood's frolic hours are brief, 
 
 And oft in after-years 
 Their memory comes to chill the heart, 
 
 And dim the eye with tears. 
 
 5- 
 
 To-day the forest-leaves are green, 
 They'll wither on the morrow, 
 
FANNY. 
 
 And the maiden's laugh be changed ere long 
 
 To the widow's wail of sorrow. 
 Come with the winter snows, and ask, 
 
 Where are the forest birds ? 
 The answer is a silent one, 
 
 More eloquent than words. 
 
 6. 
 
 The moonlight music of the waves 
 
 In storms is heard no more, 
 When the living lightning mocks the wreck 
 
 At midnight on the shore ; 
 And the mariner's song of home has ceased, 
 
 His corse is on the sea 
 And music ceases when it rains 
 
 In Scudder's balcony. 
 
THE RE CORD ER 
 
THE RECORDER. 1 
 
 A PETITION. 
 
 BY THOMAS CASTALY. 
 December zo, l8z8. 
 
 "On they move 
 
 In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood 
 Of flutes and soft RECORDERS." 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 " Live in Settle's numbers one day more ! " 
 
 POPE. 
 
 |Y dear RECORDER, you and I 
 
 Have floated down life's stream together, 
 And kept unharmed our friendship's tie 
 Through every change of Fortune's sky, 
 
 Her pleasant and her rainy weather. 
 Full sixty times since first we met, 
 Our birthday suns have risen and set, 
 And time has worn the baldness now 
 Of Julius Caesar on your brow ; 
 Your brow, like his, a field of thought, 
 With broad deep furrows spirit-wrought, 
 
1 62 THE RECORDER. 
 
 Whose laurel-harvests long have shown 
 As green and glorious as his own ; 
 And proudly would the C^SAR claim 
 Companionship with RIKER'S name, 
 His peer in forehead and in fame. 
 
 Both eloquent and learned and brave, 
 
 Born to command and skilled to rule, 
 One made the citizen a slave, 
 
 The other makes him more a fool. 
 The Caesar an imperial crown, 
 
 His slaves' mad gift, refused to wear ; 
 The Riker put his fool's-cap on, 
 
 And found it fitted to a hair ; 
 The Caesar, though by birth and breeding, 
 Travel, the ladies, and light reading, 
 A gentleman in mien and mind, 
 
 And fond of Romans and their'mothers, 
 Was heartless as the Arab's wind, 
 And slew some millions of mankind, 
 
 Including enemies and others. 
 The Riker, like Bob Acres, stood 
 Edgewise upon a field of blood, 
 
 The where and wherefore Swartwout knows, 
 Pulled trigger, as a brave man should, 
 
 And shot God bless them his own toes ! 
 The Caesar passed the Rubicon 
 With helm, and shield, and breastplate on, 
 
 Dashing his war-horse through the waters ; 
 
THE RECORDER. 
 
 The Riker would have built a barge 
 Or steamboat at the city's charge, 
 
 And passed it with his wife and daughters. 
 
 But let that pass. As I have said, 
 There's naught, save laurels, on your head, 
 And time has changed my clustering hair, 
 And showered the snow-flakes thickly there; 
 And though our lives have ever been 
 As different as their different scene ; 
 Mine more renowned for rhymes than riches, 
 Yours less for scholarship than speeches ; 
 Mine passed in low-roofed leafy bower, 
 Yours in high halls of pomp and power, 
 Yet are we, be the moral told, 
 Alike in one thing growing old, 
 Ripened like summer's cradled sheaf, 
 Faded like autumn's falling leaf 
 And nearing, sail and signal spread, 
 The quiet anchorage of the dead. 
 For such is human life, wherever 
 The voyage of its bark may be, 
 On home's green-banked and gentle rivei, 
 Or the world's shoreless, sleepless sea. 
 
 Yes, you have floated down the tide 
 Of time, a swan in grace and pride 
 And majesty and beauty, till 
 
 The law, the Ariel of your will, 
 8 
 
X64 THE RECORDER. 
 
 Power's best beloved, the law of libel 
 (A bright link in the legal chain) 
 Expounded, settled, and made plain, 
 By your own charge, the juror's Bible, 
 Has clipped the venomed tongue of slander, 
 That dared to call you "Party's gander, 
 The leader of the geese who make 
 
 Our city's parks and ponds their home, 
 And keep her liberties awake 
 
 By cackling, as their sires saved Rome. 
 Gander of Party's pond, wherein 
 Lizard, and toad, and terrapin, 
 Your ale-house patriots, are seen, 
 
 In Faction's feverish sunshine basking : " 
 And now, to rend this veil of lies, 
 Word-woven by your enemies, 
 And keep your sainted memory free 
 From tarnish with posterity, 
 
 I take the liberty of asking 
 Permission, sir, to write your life, 
 With all its scenes of calm and strife, 
 
 And all its turnings and its windings, 
 A poem, in a quarto volume 
 Verse, like the subject, blank and solemn, 
 
 With elegant appropriate bindings, 
 Of rat and mole skin the one half, 
 The other a part fox, part calf. 
 Your portrait, graven line for line, 
 From that immortal bust in plaster, 
 
THE RECORDER. 
 
 The master-piece of Art's great master, 
 
 Mr. Praxiteles Browere, 3 
 Whose trowel is a thing divine, 
 Shall smile and bow, and promise there, 
 And twenty-nine fine forms and faces 
 
 (The Corporation and the Mayor), 
 Linked hand in hand, like Loves and Graces, 
 
 Shall hover o'er it, grouped in air, 
 With wild pictorial dance and song ; 
 The song of happy bees in bowers, 
 The dance of Guide's graceful Hours, 
 All scattering Flushing's garden flowers 8 
 
 Round the dear head they've loved so long. 
 
 I know that you are modest, know 
 
 That when you hear your merit's praise, 
 Your cheeks' quick blushes come and go, 
 Lily and rose-leaf, sun and snow, 
 
 Like maidens' on their bridal days. 
 I know that you would fain decline 
 To aid me and the sacred Nine, 
 In giving to the asking earth 
 The story of your wit and worth ; 
 For if there be a fault to cloud 
 
 The brightness of your clear good sense, 
 It is, and be the fact allowed, 
 
 Your only failing DIFFIDENCE ! 
 
 An amiable weakness given 
 To justify the sad reflection, 
 
66 THE RECORDER. 
 
 That in this vale of tears not even 
 
 A Riker is complete perfection, 
 A most romantic detestation 
 Of power and place, of pay and ration ; 
 A strange unwillingness to carry 
 
 The weight of honor on your shoulders, 
 For which you have been named, the very 
 
 Sensitive-plant of office-holders, 
 A shrinking bashfulness, whose grace 
 
 Gives beauty to your manly face. 
 Thus shades the green and glowing vine 
 The rough bark of the mountain-pine, 
 Thus round her freedom's waking steel 
 
 Harmodius wreathed his country's myrtle 
 And thus the golden lemon's peel 
 
 Gives fragrance to a bowl of turtle. 
 
 True, " many a flower," the poet sings, 
 
 " Is born to blush unseen ; " 
 But you, although you blush, are not 
 
 The flower the poets mean. 
 In vain you wooed a lowlier lot ; 
 
 In vain you clipped your eagle-wings 
 Talents like yours are not forgot 
 
 And buried with earth's common things. 
 No ! my dear Riker, I would give 
 My laurels, living and to live, 
 Or as much cash as you could raise on 
 Their value, by hypothecation, 
 
THE RECORDER. 
 
 To be, for one enchanted hour, 
 In beauty, majesty, and power, 
 What you for forty years have been, 
 The Oberon of life's fairy scene. 
 
 An anxious city sought and found you 
 
 In a blessed day of joy and pride, 
 Sceptred your jewelled hand, and crowned 
 
 Her chief, her guardian, and her guide. 
 Honors which weaker minds had wrought 
 
 In vain for years, and knelt and prayed for, 
 Are all your own, unpriced, unbought, 
 
 Or (which is the same thing) unpaid for. 
 Painfully great ! against your will 
 
 Her hundred offices to hold, 
 Each chair with dignity to fill, 
 
 And your own pockets with her gold : 
 A sort of double duty, making 
 Your task a serious undertaking. 
 With what delight the eyes of all 
 Gaze on you, seated in your Hall, 
 
 Like Sancho in his island, reigning, 
 Loved leader of its motley hosts 
 Of lawyers and their bills of costs, 
 
 And all things thereto appertaining, 
 Such as crimes, constables, and juries, 
 Male pilferers and female furies, 
 The police and the polissons, 
 Illegal right and legal wrong, 
 
1 68 THE RECORDER. 
 
 Bribes, perjuries, law-craft, and cunning, 
 Judicial drollery and punning ; 
 And all the et ceteras that grace 
 That genteel, gentlemanly place ! 
 Or in the Council Chamber standing 
 
 With eloquence of eye and brow, 
 Your voice the music of commanding, 
 
 And fascination in your bow, 
 Arranging for the civic shows 
 
 Your " men in buckram," as per list, 
 Your John Does and your Richard Roes, 
 
 Those Dummies of your games of whist. 
 The Council Chamber where authority 
 Consists in two words a majority. 
 For whose contractors' jobs we pay 
 
 Our last dear sixpences for taxes, 
 As freely as in Sylla's day 
 
 Rome bled beneath his lictors' axes. 
 Where on each magisterial nose 
 
 In colors of the rainbow linger, 
 Like sunset hues on Alpine snows, 
 
 The printmarks of your thumb and finger. 
 Where he, the wisest of wild-fowl, 
 Bird of Jove's blue-eyed maid the owl, 
 
 That feathered alderman, is heard 
 Nightly, by poet's ear alone, 
 To other eyes and ears unknown, 
 
 Cheering your every look and word, 
 And making, room and gallery through, 
 
THE RECORDER. 
 
 The loud applauding echoes peal, 
 Of his " OK pent on etre mieiix 
 Qtfau sien de safamille? " 4 
 
 Oh, for a herald's skill to rank 
 
 Your titles in their due degrees ! 
 At Sing Sing at the Tradesman's Bank, 
 
 In Courts, Committees, Caucuses : 
 At Albany, where those who knew 
 
 The last year's secrets of the great, 
 Call you the golden handle to 
 
 The earthen Pitcher of the State. * 
 (Poor Pitcher ! that Van Buren ceases 
 
 To want its service gives me pain, 
 'Twill break into as many pieces 
 
 As Kitty's of Coleraine.) 
 At Bellevue, on her banquet-night, 
 
 Where Burgundy and business 6 meet, 
 On others, at the heart's delight, 
 
 The Pewter Mug 7 in Frankfort Street ; 
 From Harlem bridge to Whitehall dock, 
 
 From Bloomingdale to BlackwelPs Isles, 
 Forming, including road and rock, 
 
 A city of some twelve square miles, 
 O'er street and alley, square and block, 
 
 Towers, temples, telegraphs, and tiles, 
 O'er wharves whose stone and timbers mock 
 The ocean's and its navies' shock, 
 O'er all the fleets that float before her, 
 
170 THE RECORDER. 
 
 O'er all their banners waving o'er her, 
 Her sky and waters, earth and air 
 You are lord, for who is her lord mayor ? 
 Where is he ? Echo answers, where ? 
 And voices, like the sound of seas, 
 Breathe in sad chorus, on the breeze, 
 The Highland mourner's melody 
 Oh HONE 8 a rie ! Oh HONE a rie ! 
 The hymn o'er happy days departed, 
 
 The Hope that such again may be, 
 When power was large and liberal-hearted, 
 
 And wealth was hospitality. 
 
 One more request, and I am lost, 
 
 If you its earnest prayer deny ; 
 It is, that you preserve the most 
 
 Inviolable secrecy 
 
 As to my plan. Our fourteen wards 
 Contain some thirty-seven bards 
 Who, if my glorious theme were known, 
 Would make it, thought and word, their own, 
 My hopes and happiness destroy, 
 And trample with a rival's joy 
 
 Upon the grave of my renown. 
 My younger brothers in the art, 
 Whose study is the human heart 
 Minstrels, before whose spells have bowed 
 The learned, the lovely, and the proud, 
 
 Ere their life's morning hours are gone 
 
THE RECORDER. 
 
 Light hearts be theirs, the Muse's boon, 
 And may their suns blaze bright at noon, 
 And set without a cloud ! 
 
 HiLLHOUSE, 9 whose music, like his themes, 
 
 Lifts earth to heaven whose poet-dreams 
 
 Are pure and holy as the hymn 
 
 Echoed from harps of seraphim, 
 
 By bards that drank at Zion's fountains 
 
 When glory, peace, and hope, were hers, 
 And beautiful upon her mountains 
 
 The feet of angel messengers. 
 BRYANT, whose songs are thoughts that bless 
 
 The heart, its teachers, and its joy, 
 As mothers blend with their caress 
 Lessons of truth and gentleness 
 
 And virtue for the listening boy 
 Spring's lovelier flowers for many a day 
 Have blossomed on his wandering way. 
 Beings of beauty and decay, 
 
 They slumber in their autumn tomb ; 
 But those that graced his own Green River, 
 
 And wreathed the lattice of his home, 
 Charmed by his song from mortal doom, 
 
 Bloom on, and will bloom on forever. 
 And HALLECK who has made thy roof, 
 St. Tammany ! oblivion-proof 
 Thy beer illustrious, and thee 
 A belted knight of chivalry ! 
 
172 THE RECORDER. 
 
 And changed thy dome of painted bricks 
 And porter-casks and politics, 
 
 Into a green Arcadian vale, 
 With Stephen Allen 10 for its lark, 
 Ben Bailey's voice its watch-dog's bark, 
 
 And John Targee its nightingale. 
 
 These, and the other THIRTY-FOUR, 
 Will live a thousand years or more 
 If the world lasts so long. For me, 
 I rhyme not for posterity, 
 Though pleasant to my heirs might be 
 
 The incense of its praise, 
 When I, their ancestor, have gone, 
 And paid the debt, the only one 
 
 A poet ever pays. 
 
 But many are my years, and few . 
 Are left me ere night's holy dew, 
 And sorrow's holier tears, will keep 
 The grass green where in death I sleep. 
 
 And when that grass is green above me, 
 And those who bless me now and love me 
 
 Are sleeping by my side, 
 Will it avail me aught that men 
 Tell to the world with lip and pen 
 
 That once I lived and died? 
 No : if a garland for my brow 
 Is growing, let me have it now, 
 
THE RECORDER. 
 
 While I'm alive to wear it ; 
 And if, in whispering my name, 
 There's music in the voice of fame 
 
 Like Garcia's, 11 let me hear it ! 
 
 The Christmas holidays are nigh, 
 Therefore till New- Year's Eve, good-by, 
 
 Then " revenons b nos moutons," 
 Yourself and aldermen meanwhile, 
 Look o'er this letter with a smile ; 
 And keep the secret of its song 
 As faithfully, but not as long, 
 As you have guarded from the eyes 
 Of editorial Paul Prys, 
 
 And other meddling, murmuring claimants, 
 Those Eleusinian mysteries, 
 
 The city's cash receipts and payments. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 T. C. 
 
rOUNG AMERICA. 
 
YOUNG AMERICA. 
 
 IT is a BOY whom fourteen years have seen, 
 
 Smiling, with them, on spring's returning green, 
 A bonny boy, with eye-delighting eyes, 
 Sparkling as stars, and blue as summer's skies, 
 With face, like April's, bright in smiles or tears, 
 His laugh a song his step the forest deer's, 
 With heart as pure and liberal as the air, 
 And voice of sweetest tone, and bright gold hair 
 In thick curls clustering round his even brow, 
 And dimpled cheek how calm he slumbers now ! 
 
 The sentry stars in heaven's blue above, 
 
 Sleep their sweet daybreak sleep, their watch withdrawn, 
 
 And lovely as a bride from dream of love, 
 
 Blushing and blooming, wakes the summer dawn ; 
 
 Winds woods and waters of the brook and bay 
 
 Wake at the fanning of the wings of day, 
 
78 YOUNG AMERICA. 
 
 And birds and bells, in garden, tree, and tower, 
 Bow to the bidding of the wakening hour, 
 And breathe, the Hamlet's happy homes among 
 Morn's fragrant music from their lips of Song. 
 
 Within the loveliest of wayside bowers, 
 
 The summer home of loveliest leaves and flowers, 
 
 Cradled on rose-leaves, curtained round with vines, 
 
 And canopied by branches of a tree 
 
 Whose buds and blossoms charm the wandering bee, 
 
 In deep and dreaming sleep the youth reclines. 
 
 Sunbeams, wind-cooled, their fond caressing glow, 
 
 Twine, with leaf-shadows, the green roof below, 
 
 In wedded love-clasp of sweet shade and light, 
 
 The unwoven harmony of the dark and bright, 
 
 And blend within, around it, and above, 
 
 Their balm, their bloom, their beauty, and their joy, 
 
 Their watching sleepless as the brooding dove, 
 
 Their bounty boundless as the fairy love 
 
 Of Queen Titania for her Henchman Boy. 
 
 II. 
 
 The doors are open in the house of prayer, 
 The morning worshippers are kneeling there 
 In supplicating harmony, beneath 
 The intoning organ's incense-bearing breath, 
 
YOUNG AMERICA. I79 
 
 That aids their hymning voices, and around 
 
 Moves in the might and majesty of sound. 
 
 The pages of the Holy Book are read, 
 
 The solemn blessing of the Priest is said, 
 
 Departing footsteps gently press the floor, 
 
 And silence seals and guards the consecrated door. 
 
 Along his homeward pathway, lingering slow, 
 
 His dark weeds tokening a mourner's woe, 
 
 The Gospel-Teacher comes. The path inclines 
 
 His steps beside the cradle-bower of vines 
 
 Where sleeps the boy. A moment's mute surprise, 
 
 And the mazed mourner greets, with grateful eyes, 
 
 The enlivening presence of that cherub face, 
 
 Delighted in its loveliness to trace 
 
 The memorial beauty of his own lost boy, 
 
 A blossomed bud, death-doomed, in its spring-time of 
 
 jy; 
 
 And says, in whispers, " Would that I might wake, 
 And woo, and win him, for his soul's sweet sake, 
 To make my home his cloister, and entwine 
 All his life's hopes and happiness with mine. 
 And with him win, dear daughter of the sky 1 
 Handmaid of Heaven ! immortal Piety ! 
 Thy visitings, and joy to see thee bring 
 In sisterly embrace, wing folding wing, 
 Meek Faith, sweet Hope, and Charity divine, 
 With thee to 'consecrate that home a shrine 
 Among the holiest where the adorer kneels, 
 Listening the coming of thy chariot-wheels. 
 
l8o YOUNG AMERICA. 
 
 Then the gay sportive dreams, enwreathing now 
 
 Their frolic fancies round the slumberer's brow, 
 
 Should yield to dreams of angels entering in 
 
 His young heart's Eden, unprofaned by sin ; 
 
 Then should his pleasant couch of leaves and flowers 
 
 Yield willing homage to the bliss of bowers 
 
 More beautiful than hers, and only given 
 
 In visions of the scenery of heaven ; 
 
 Then should the music now around him heard, 
 
 The wind-harp's song, the song of bee and bird, 
 
 Yield to thy chorused carollings sublime, 
 
 And sky-endomed cathedral's chant and chime. 
 
 And then the longing of his life should be 
 
 To praise, to love, to worship thine and thee, 
 
 And when, my pastoral task of duty done, 
 
 I rest beneath the cold sepulchral stone, 
 
 Be his the delegated power to grace, 
 
 In surpliced sanctity, thy Altar-place ; 
 
 To feed thy chosen flock with heavenly food, 
 
 Be their kind Shepherd, gentle, generous, good, 
 
 And, in the language of the Minstrel's lay, 
 
 " Lure them to brighter worlds, and lead the way." 
 
 Hark ! a bugle's echo comes, 
 Hark ! a fife is singing, 
 
 Hark ! the roll of far-off drums 
 Through the air is ringing ! 
 
YOUNG AMERICA. 
 
 The mourner turns looks listens, and is gone, 
 In quiet heedlessness the Boy sleeps on. 
 
 in. 
 
 Nearer the bugle's echo comes, 
 
 Nearer the fife is singing, 
 Near and more near the roll of drums 
 
 Through the air is ringing. 
 
 War ! it is thy music proud, 
 Wakening the brave-hearted, 
 
 Memories hopes a glorious crowd, 
 At its call have started. 
 
 Memories of our sires of old, 
 
 Who, oppression-driven, 
 High their rainbow flag unrolled 
 
 To the sun and sky of heaven. 
 
 Memories of the true and brave, 
 
 Who, at Honor's bidding, 
 Stepped, their Country's life to save, 
 
 To war as to their wedding. 
 
 Memories of many a battle-plain, 
 Where, their life-blood flowing, 
 
 Made green the grass, and gold the grain, 
 Above their grave-mounds growing. 
 
YOUNG AMERICA. 
 
 Hopes that the children of their prayers, 
 
 With them in valor vieing, 
 May do as noble deeds as theirs, 
 
 In living and in dying. 
 
 And make, for children yet to come, 
 The land of their bequeathing 
 
 The imperial and the peerless home 
 Of happiest beings breathing. 
 
 For this the warrior-path we tread, 
 
 The battle-path of duty, 
 And change, for field and forest-bed, 
 
 Our bowers of love and beauty. 
 
 Music ! bid thy minstrels play 
 
 No tunes of grief or sorrow, 
 Let them cheer the living brave to-day, 
 
 They may wail the dead to-morrow. 
 
 Such were the words, unvoiced by lip or tongue, 
 
 The thought-enwoven themes, the mental song 
 
 Of One, high placed, beside the slumberer's bower, 
 
 In the stern, silent chieftainship of power. 
 
 A War-king, seated on his saddle throne, 
 
 A listener to no counsels but his own, 
 
 The soldier leader of a soldier band, 
 
 Whose prescient skill, quick eye, and brief command, 
 
^YOUNG AMERICA. 
 
 Have won for him, on many a field of fame, 
 
 The immortality of a victor's name. 
 
 His troops, in thousands, now are marching by, 
 
 Heart-homage seen in each saluting eye, 
 
 And sword, and lance, and banner, bowing down 
 
 In tributary grace, before his bright renown. 
 
 And on, and on, as rank on rank appears, 
 
 Come, fast and loud, the thrice-repeated cheers 
 
 From voices of brave men whose life-long cry 
 
 Has been with him to live, for him to die. 
 
 Their plumes and pennons dancing in the breeze, 
 
 With leaves and flowers of overarching trees, 
 
 Timing their steps to tunes of flute and fife, 
 
 And trump and drum, the joy of soldier life, 
 
 While o'er them wave, proud banner of the free ! 
 
 Thy sky-born stars and glorious colors three, 
 
 All beauteous in each interwoven hue 
 
 Of summer's rainbow, spanning earth and sea, 
 
 The rose's red and white, the violet's heavenly blue, 
 
 Emblems of valor, purity, and truth, 
 
 Long may they charm the air in ever-smiling youth ! 
 
 And now the rearmost files are hurrying by, 
 
 Closing the gorgeous scene of pomp and pageantry ; 
 
 And far, rar off, on wings of distance borne, 
 
 Speed the faint echoes of the trump and horn, 
 
 Plaintively breathing partings and farewells, 
 
 Solemn and sad as tones of tocsin-bells, 
 
 But triumphed o'er by voices that prolong 
 
 The wild war-music of the manlier song, 
 
1 84 YOUNG AMERICA.. 
 
 That bids the soldier's heart beat quick and gay, 
 The song of " O'er the hills and far away." 
 
 And now, beside the slumberer's couch of leaves, 
 
 His parting web of thought the warrior chieftain weaves. 
 
 How sweetly the Boy in the beauty is sleeping 
 
 Of Life's sunny morning of hope and of youth ! 
 May his guardian angels, their watch o'er him keeping, 
 
 Keep his evening and noon in the pathways of truth ! 
 Ah me ! what delight it would give me to wake him, 
 
 And lead him wherever my life-banners wave, 
 O'er the pathways of glory and honor to take him, 
 
 And teach him the lore of the bold and the brave ; 
 
 And when the war-clouds and their fierce storm of water, 
 O'er the land that we love their outpourings shall 
 cease, 
 
 Bid him bear to her Ark, from her last field of slaughter, 
 Upon Victory's wings, the green olive of Peace ; 
 
 And when the death-note of my bugle has sounded, 
 And memorial tears are embalming my name, 
 
 By young hearts like his may the grave be surrounded 
 Where I sleep my last sleep in the sunbeams of fame. 
 
YOUNG AMERICA. 
 
 Summoned to duty by his charger's neighs, 
 The only summons that his pride obeys, 
 He bows his farewell blessing, and is gone 
 In quiet heedlessness the Boy sleeps on. 
 
 Merrily bounds the morning bark 
 
 Along the summer sea, 
 Merrily mounts the morning lark 
 
 The topmost twig on tree, 
 Merrily smiles the morning rose 
 
 The morning sun to see, 
 And merrily, merrily greets the rose 
 
 The honey-seeking bee. 
 But merrier, merrier far are these, 
 Who bring, on the wings of the morning breeze, 
 
 A music sweeter than her own, 
 A happy group of loves and graces, 
 Graceful forms and lovely faces, 
 
 All in gay delight outflown ; 
 Outflown from their school-room cages, 
 School-room rules, and school-room pages, 
 Lovely in their teens and tresses, 
 Summer smiles, and summer dresses, 
 Joyous in their dance and song, 
 
1 86 YOUNG AMERICA 
 
 With sweet sisterly caresses, 
 
 Arm in arm they speed along 
 ("Now pursuing, now retreating, 
 
 Now in circling troops they meet, 
 To brisk notes in cadence beating, 
 
 Glance their many twinkling feet. 
 Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare. 
 
 Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay, 
 With arms sublime, that float upon the air) ; " 
 
 She comes the gentle Lady of my Lay, 
 Well pleased that, for her welcome to prepare, 
 I borrow music from the Muse of Gray. 
 
 His heroine was the lovely Paphian Queen, 
 Mine seems the Huntress of the Sylvan scene, 
 The chaste Diana, with her Nymphs, in gay 
 And graceful beauty keeping holiday. 
 Sudden she pauses in the race of joy, 
 Around the Cradle Bower where sleeps the Boy, 
 And, with a sunny smile of gladness, sees 
 His golden ringlets, on the dancing breeze, 
 Shading his eyelids and, with quick delight, 
 Bids her wild Nymphs to wing their merry flight 
 Home to their morning nests, and leave her care 
 To watch the slumberer in his rose-leafed chair. 
 He, in his beauty, to her fancy seems 
 To be the young Endymion of her dreams 
 Of yester-evening, when, alone and still, 
 Waiting the coming of the whip-poor-will, 
 
YOUNG AMERICA, 
 
 Our climate's nightingale, her garden bird, 
 From lips unseen, unknown, this whispered song 
 she heard : 
 
 " The summer winds are wandering here 
 
 In mountain freshness, pure and free, 
 And all that to the eye are dear 
 
 In rock and torrent, flower and tree, 
 Upon the gazing stranger come, 
 
 Till, in his starlight dreams at even, 
 It seems another Eden-home, 
 
 Reared by the word the breath of Heaven. 
 
 " To-morrow and the stranger's gone, 
 
 And other scenes, as bright as this, 
 May win it from his bosom soon, 
 
 And dim its wild-wood loveliness. 
 But ever round this spot his thought 
 
 Will be while Memory's leaves are green ; 
 The fairy scene may be forgot, 
 
 But not the Fairy of the scene. 
 
 " The song she sang, the lip that breathed it, 
 
 The cheek of rose, the speaking eye, 
 The brow of snow, the hair that wreathed it, 
 
 In their young life and purity, 
 Will dwell within his heart among 
 His holiest, longest cherished things, 
 9 
 
1 88 YOUNG AMERICA. 
 
 Themes worthy of a worthier song, 
 Dear Lady of the mountain springs.' 
 
 And who is she the Fairy of the scene ? 
 A bright-eyed, beautiful maiden of eighteen, 
 Lovely and learned, and well " skilled to rule," 
 The Lady-Mentor of a village school, 
 ft Teaching young Girls' ideas how to shoot ; 
 A tree of knowledge, rich in flowers and fruit, 
 A model heroine in mien and mind, 
 An "Admirable Crichton" crinolined, 
 And author of a charming Book that sings 
 Delightfully concerning wedding-rings, 
 Tracing the progress of the lightning-dart 
 Between the bridal finger and the heart, 
 And proving the arithmetic untrue 
 Which teaches us that one and one make two, 
 Whereas the marriage-ring is worn to prove 
 That two are one the Algebra of Love. 
 
 Such is the Lady of my song, and now 
 She gazes on her young Endymion's brow, 
 And, fancying by a sudden thought beguiled, 
 Herself a mother bending o'er her child, 
 Unconsciously imprints upon his eyes 
 A kiss brimful of all the charities, 
 Sacredly secret, eloquently mute, 
 Yet " Musical as is Apollo's lute," 
 
YOUNG AMERICA. 189 
 
 Of power to lure a swan from off the lake, 
 Or wooing bluebird from an April tree, 
 
 Upsprings the Boy, exclaiming, " I'm awake 1 " 
 And shakes his golden locks in frolic glee. 
 
 One look and, like an arrow from the string, 
 Away the maiden went, on laughing wing, 
 Graciously leaving, ere she homeward flew, 
 On the green turf impearled with drops of dew, 
 Farewell impressions of the prettiest foot 
 That ever graced and charmed a Gaiter Boot. 
 
 v. 
 
 The awakened Boy, not fond of early rising, 
 Resumed his pillow, thus soliloquizing : 
 
 " That Lady's pleasant smile and ruby lip 
 Might hope to win my heart's companionship, 
 But for the memory of that morn which proved 
 That he is happiest who has never loved. 
 That morn, when I, within a Lady's bower, 
 Offered my heart, hand, and a handsome dower 
 To ONE who, to my great and sad surprise, 
 Told me, with mischief in her laughing eyes, 
 That she was not at all inclined to marry, 
 And added, in a most provoking tone, 
 
tgo YOUNG AMERICA. 
 
 That YOUNG AMERICA had better ' tarry 
 At Jericho until his beard was grown,' 
 And like his eagle wear upon his wings 
 Feathers, before he proffered wedding-rings ; 
 That purpling grapes looked lovely on their vines, 
 But she preferred them perfected in wines ; 
 That on my cheek the down was fair to see, 
 But she admired the full-blown favoris, 
 And rather liked in men a modest pride 
 Of mustache if artistically dyed." 
 
 She then, dismissing me in queenly state, 
 Locked of her Eden the unfeeling gate, 
 And I a victim to Love's cruel dart, 
 Went to the Opera with a broken heart ! 
 
 Along thy peopled solitude Broadway ! 
 
 I walked, a desolate man, day after day, 
 
 With downcast eyes and melancholy brow, 
 Until a lady's letter asked me why 
 
 I passed her ladyship without a bow ; 
 To which I sent the following reply, 
 My earliest-born attempt at poetry : 
 
 " The heart hath sorrows of its own, 
 
 And griefs it veils from all, 
 And tears, close-hidden from the world, 
 In solitude will fall ; 
 
YOUNG AMERICA. 
 
 And when its thoughts of agony 
 
 Upon the bosom lie, 
 Even Beauty in her loveliness 
 
 May pass unheeded by. 
 
 "Tis only on the happy 
 
 That she never looks in vain, 
 To them her smiles are rainbow hopes, 
 
 New-born of summer rain, 
 And their glad hearts will worship her, 
 
 As one whose home is heaven ; 
 A being of a brighter world, 
 
 To earth a season given. 
 
 'That time with me has been and gone, 
 
 And life's best music now 
 Is but the winter's wind that bends 
 
 The leafless forest-bough. 
 And I would shun, if that could be, 
 
 The light of young blue eyes 
 They bring back hours I would forget, 
 
 And painful memories. 
 
 "Yet, lady, though too few and brief, 
 There are bright moments still ; 
 
 When I can free my prisoned thoughts, 
 And wing them where I will, 
 
 And then thy smiles come o'er my heart 
 Like sunbeams o'er the sea, 
 
I9 2 YOUNG AMERICA. 
 
 And I can bow as once I bowed 
 When all was well with me." 
 
 And now farewell to Rhyme ! and welcome Reason ! 
 
 'Tis past my early manhood's pleasant season ; 
 
 If morning dreams, that visit our closed eyes, 
 
 Changed, when we wake to Life's realities, 
 
 I might become a SOLDIER of renown, 
 
 Or wear a PREACHER'S or a TEACHER'S gown ; 
 
 For all three in my dreams since rose the sun, 
 
 Have sought to make me their adopted one, 
 
 Destined to run the race that each has run ; 
 
 But my Ambition's leaves no more are green, 
 
 In one brief month my age will be FIFTEEN. 
 
 I've seen the world, and by the world been seen, 
 
 And now am speeding fast upon the way 
 
 To the calm, quiet evening of my day ; 
 
 There but remains one promise to fulfil, 
 
 I bow myself obedient to its will, 
 
 And am prepared to settle down in life 
 
 By wooing winning wedding A RICH WIFE. 
 
ADDITIONAL POEMS. 
 
A FRAGMENT. 
 
 | IS shop is a grocer's a snug, genteel place, 
 Near the corner of Oak Street and Pearl ; 
 He can dress, dance, and bow to the ladies with grace. 
 And ties his cravat with a curl. 
 
 He's asked to all parties north, south, east, and west, 
 That take place between Chatham and Cherry ; 
 
 And when he's been absent, full oft has the " best 
 Society " ceased to be merry. 
 
 And nothing has darkened a sky so serene, 
 
 Nor disordered his beauship's Elysium, 
 Till this season among our elite there has been 
 
 What is called by the clergy " a schism." 
 
 'Tis all about eating and drinking one set 
 Gives sponge-cake, a few " kisses " or so, 
 
 And is cooled after dancing with classic sherbet, 
 " Sublimed" (see Lord Byron) " with snow." 
 
96 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Another insists upon punch and perdrix, 
 Lobster-salad, champagne, and, by way 
 
 Of a novelty only, those pearls of our sea, 
 Stewed oysters from Lynn-Haven Bay. 
 
 Miss Flounce, the young milliner, blue-eyed and bright, 
 
 In the front parlor over her shop, 
 " Entertains," as the phrase is, a party to-night, 
 
 Upon peanuts and ginger-pop. 
 
 And Miss Fleece, who's a hosier, and not quite as young, 
 
 But is wealthier far than Miss Flounce, 
 She " entertains" also to-night with cold tongue, 
 
 Smoked herring, and cherry-bounce. 
 
 In praise of cold water the Theban bard spoke, 
 
 He of Teos sang sweetly of wine ; 
 Miss Flounce is a Pindar in cashmere and cloak, 
 
 Miss Fleece an Anacreon divine. 
 
 The Montagues carry the day in Swamp Place ; 
 
 In Pike Street the Capulets reign ; 
 A limonadiere is the badge of one race, 
 
 Of the other a flask of champagne. 
 
 Now as each the same evening her soiree announces, 
 
 What better, he asks, can be done 
 Than drink water from eight until ten with the Flounces, 
 
 And then wine with the Fleeces till one ! 
 
SONG. 
 
 AIR : " To ladies' eyes a round, boy." 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 |HE winds of March are humming 
 
 Their parting song, their parting song, 
 And summer skies are coming, 
 
 And days grow long, and days grow long. 
 I watch, but not in gladness, 
 
 Our garden-tree, our garden-tree ; 
 It buds, in sober sadness, 
 Too soon for me, too soon for me. 
 My second winter's over, 
 
 Alas ! and I, alas ! and I 
 Have no accepted lover : 
 Don't ask me why, don't ask me why. 
 
 'Tis not asleep or idle 
 
 That Love has been, that Love has been ; 
 For many a happy bridal 
 
 The year has seen, the year has seen ; 
 I've done a bridemaid's duty, 
 
 At three or four, at three or four ; 
 My best bouquet had beauty, 
 
 Its donor more, its donor more. 
 
198 SONG. 
 
 My second winter's over, 
 
 Alas ! and I, alas ! and I 
 Have no accepted lover : 
 
 Don't ask me why, don't ask me why. 
 
 His flowers my bosom shaded 
 
 One sunny day, one sunny day ; 
 The next they fled and faded, 
 
 Beau and bouquet, beau and bouquet. 
 In vain, at balls and parties, 
 
 I've thrown my net, I've thrown my net ; 
 This waltzing, watching heart is 
 Unchosen yet, unchosen yet. 
 My second winter's over, 
 
 Alas ! and I, alas ! and I 
 Have no accepted lover : 
 Don't ask me why, don't ask me why. 
 
 They tell me there's no hurry 
 
 For Hymen's ring, for Hymen's ring ; 
 And I'm too young to marry : 
 
 'Tis no such thing, 'tis no such thing. 
 The next spring-tides will dash on 
 
 My eighteenth year, my eighteenth year ; 
 It puts me. in a passion, 
 Oh, dear, oh dear ! oh dear, oh dear ! 
 My second winter's over, 
 
 Alas ! and I, alas ! and I 
 Have no accepted lover : 
 
 Don't ask me why, don't ask me why. 
 
SONG. 
 
 FOR THE DRAMA OF "THE SPY." 
 
 |HE harp of love, when first I heard 
 
 Its song beneath the moonlight tree, 
 Was echoed by his plighted word, 
 
 And ah, how dear its song to me ! 
 But wailed the hour will ever be 
 
 When to the air the bugle gave, 
 To hush love's gentle minstrelsy, 
 The wild war-music of the brave. 
 
 
 For he hath heard its song, and now 
 
 Its voice is sweeter than mine own ; 
 And he hath broke the plighted vow 
 
 He breathed to me and love alone. 
 That harp hath lost its wonted tone, 
 
 No more its strings his fingers move, 
 Oh would that he had only known 
 
 The music of the harp of love ! 
 
ADDRESS. 
 
 AT TH OPENING OF A NEW THEATRE 
 
 November, 1831. 
 
 [HERE dwells the Drama's spirit? not alone 
 Beneath the palace roof, beside the throne, 
 In learning's cloisters, friendship's festal bowers, 
 Art's pictured halls, or triumph's laurelled towers, 
 Where'er man's pulses beat, or passions play, 
 She joys to smile or sigh his thoughts away : 
 Crowd times and scenes within her ring of power, 
 And teach a life's experience in an hour. 
 
 
 
 To-night she greets, for the first time, our dome, 
 Her latest, may it prove her lasting home ; 
 And we her messengers delighted stand, 
 The summoned Ariels of her mystic wand, 
 To ask your welcome. Be it yours to give 
 Bliss to her coming hours, and bid her live 
 Within these walls new hallowed in her cause, 
 Long in the nurturing warmth of your applause. 
 
 'Tis in the public smiles, the public loves, 
 
 His dearest home, the actor breathes and moves, 
 
ADDRESS. 201 
 
 Your plaudits are to us and to our art 
 As is the life-blood to the human heart : 
 And every power that bids the leaf be green, 
 In Nature acts on this her mimic scene. 
 Our sunbeams are the sparklings of glad eyes, 
 Our winds the whisper of applause, that flies 
 From lip to lip, the heart-born laugh of glee, 
 And sounds of cordial hands that ring out merrily, 
 And heaven's own dew falls on us in the tear 
 That woman weeps o'er sorrows pictured here. 
 When crowded feelings have no words to tell 
 The might, the magic of the actor's spell. 
 
 These have been ours ; and do we hope in vain 
 Here, oft and deep, to feel them ours again? 
 No ! while the weary heart can find repose 
 From its own pains in fiction's joys or woes ; 
 While there are open lips and dimpled cheeks, 
 When music breathes, or wit or humor speaks ; 
 While Shakespeare's master-spirit can call up 
 Noblest and worthiest thoughts, and brim the cup 
 Of life with bubbles bright as happiness, 
 Cheating the willing bosom into bliss ; 
 So long will those who, in their spring of youth, 
 Have listened to the Drama's voice of truth, 
 Marked in her scenes the manners of their age, 
 And gathered knowledge for a wider stage, 
 Come here to speed with smiles life's summer years, 
 And melt its winter snow with pleasant tears ; 
 
202 ADDRESS. 
 
 And younger hearts, when ours are hushed and cold, 
 Be happy here as we have been of old. 
 
 Friends of the stage, who hail it as the shrine 
 Where music, painting, poetry entwine 
 Their kindred garlands, whence their blended power 
 Refines, exalts, ennobles hour by hour 
 The spirit of the land, and, like the wind, 
 Unseen but felt, bears on the bark of mind ; 
 To you the hour that consecrates this dome, 
 Will call up dreams of prouder hours to come, 
 When some creating poet, born your own, 
 May waken here the drama's loftiest tone, 
 Through after-years to echo loud and long, 
 A Shakespeare of the West, a star of song, 
 Bright'ning your own blue skies with living fire, 
 All times to gladden and all tongues inspire, 
 Far as beneath the heaven by sea-winds fanned, 
 Floats the free banner of your native land. 
 
THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT COASTER. 
 
 WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN AN OPEN BOAT ON THE HUDSON RIVER, 
 
 BETWEEN STONY POINT AND THE HIGHLANDS, ON SEEING 
 
 THE WRECK OF AN OLD SLOOP, JUNE, 1 821. 
 
 'And this our life, exempt from public haunt, 
 Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
 Sermons in stones, and good in every thing." 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 |ER side is in the water, 
 
 Her keel is in the sand, 
 And her bowsprit rests on the low gray rock 
 That bounds the sea and land. 
 
 Her deck is without a mast, 
 
 And sand and shells are there, 
 
 And the teeth of decay are gnawing her planks, 
 In the sun and the sultry air. 
 
 No more on the river's bosom, 
 
 When sky and wave are calm, 
 And the clouds are in summer quietness 
 
 And the cool night-breath is balm, 
 
 Will she glide in the swan-like stillness 
 Of the moon in the blue above, 
 
204 THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT COASTER. 
 
 A messenger from other lands, 
 A beacon to hope and love. 
 
 No more, in the midnight tempest, 
 
 Will she mock the mounting sea, 
 Strong in her oaken timbers, 
 An d her white sail's bravery. 
 
 She hath borne, in days departed, 
 Warm hearts upon her deck ; 
 
 Those hearts, like her, are mouldering now, 
 The victims, and the wreck 
 
 Of time, whose touch erases 
 
 Each vestige of all we love ; 
 The wanderers, home returning, 
 
 Who gazed that deck above, 
 
 And they who stood to welcome 
 Their loved ones on that shore, 
 
 Are gone, and the place that knew them 
 Shall know them never more. 
 
 It was a night of terror, 
 
 In the autumn equinox, 
 When that gallant vessel found a grave 
 
 Upon the Peekskill rocks. 
 
THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT COASTER, 
 
 Captain, mate, cook, and seamen 
 (They were in all but three), 
 
 Were saved by swimming fast and well, 
 And their gallows-destiny. 
 
 But two, a youth and maiden, 
 Were left to brave the storm, 
 
 With unpronounceable Dutch names, 
 And hearts with true-love warm. 
 
 And they, for love has watchers 
 In air, on earth, and sea, 
 
 Were saved by clinging to the wreck, 
 And their marriage-destiny. 
 
 From sunset to night's noon 
 
 She had leaned upon his arm, 
 
 Nor heard the far-off thunder toll 
 The tocsin of alarm. 
 
 Not so the youth he listened 
 
 To the cloud- wing flapping by; 
 
 And low he whispered in Low Dutch, 
 " It tells our doom is nigh. 
 
 " Death is the lot of mortals, 
 
 But we are young and strong, 
 
 And hoped, not boldly, for a life 
 Of happy years and long. 
 
 205 
 
2o6 THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT COASTER 
 
 " Yet 'tis a thought consoling, 
 
 That, till our latest breath, 
 We loved in life, and shall not be 
 
 Divided in our death. 
 
 " Alas, for those that wait us 
 
 On their couch of dreams at home, 
 
 The morn will hear the funeral-cry 
 Around their daughter's tomb. 
 
 " They hoped " ('twas a strange moment 
 In Dutch to quote Shakespeare) 
 
 " Thy bride-bed to have decked, sweet maid, 
 And not have strewed thy bier." 
 
 But sweetly-voiced and smiling, 
 
 The trusting maiden said, 
 " Breathed not thy lips the vow to-day, 
 
 To-morrow we will wed ? 
 
 " And I, who have known thy truth 
 Through years of joy and sorrow, 
 
 Can I believe the fickle winds ? 
 
 No ! we shall wed to-morrow ! " 
 
 The tempest heard and paused 
 The wild sea gentler moved 
 
 They felt the power of woman's faith 
 In the word of him she loved. 
 
THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT COASTER. 2 O; 
 
 All night to rope and spar 
 
 They clung with strength untired, 
 Till the dark clouds fled before the sun, 
 
 And the fierce storm expired. 
 
 At noon the song of bridal bells 
 
 O'er hill and valley ran ; 
 At eve he called the maiden his, 
 
 " Before the holy man." 
 
 They dwelt beside the waters 
 
 That bathe yon fallen pine, 
 And round them grew their sons and daughters, 
 
 Like wild-grapes on the vine. 
 
 And years and years flew o'er them, 
 
 Like birds with beauty on their wings, 
 
 And theirs were happy sleigh-ride winters, 
 And long and lovely springs 
 
 Such joys as thrilled the lips that kissed 
 
 The wave, rock-cooled, from Horeb's fountains, 
 
 And sorrows, fleeting as the mist 
 
 Of morning, spread upon the mountains, 
 
 Till, in a good old age, 
 
 Their life-breath passed away ; 
 Their name is on the churchyard page 
 
 Their story in my lay. 
 
2o8 THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT COASTER. 
 
 And let them rest together, 
 
 The maid, the boat, the boy, 
 Why sing of matrimony now, 
 
 In this brief hour of joy ? 
 
 Our time may come, and let it 
 
 'Tis enough for us now to know 
 That our bark will reach West Point ere long, 
 
 If the breeze keep on to blow. 
 
 We have Hudibras and Milton, 
 
 Wines, flutes, and a bugle-horn, 
 
 And a dozen cigars are lingering yet 
 Of the thousand of yester-morn. 
 
 They have gone, like life's first pleasures, 
 
 And faded in smoke away, 
 And the few that are left are like bosom friends 
 
 In the evening of our day. 
 
 We are far from the mount of battle,* 
 
 Where the wreck first met mine eye, 
 
 And now where twin forts f in the olden time rose, 
 
 Through the Race, like a swift steed, our little bark 
 goes, 
 
 And our bugle's notes echo through Anthony's Nose, 
 So wrecks and rhymes good-by. 
 
 * Stony Point t Forts Clinton and Montgomery. 
 
LINES 
 
 TO HER WHO CAN UNDERSTAND THEM. 
 
 AIR : " To ladies' eyes a round, boy ! " 
 
 | HE song that o'er me hovered, 
 
 In summer's hour, in summer's hour, 
 To-day with joy has covered 
 
 My winter bower, my winter bower. 
 Blest be the lips that breathe it, 
 
 As mine have been, as mine have been, 
 When pressed in dreams beneath it, 
 
 To hers unseen, to hers unseen. 
 And may her heart, wherever 
 
 Its hope may be, its hope may be, 
 Beat happily, though never 
 
 To beat for me, to beat for me ! 
 
 Is she a spirit given 
 
 One hour to earth, one hour to earth, 
 To bring me dreams from heaven, 
 
 Her place of birth, her place of birth ? 
 Or minstrel maiden hidden, 
 
 Like cloistered nun, like cloistered nun, 
 A bud, a flower forbidden, 
 
 To air and sun, to air and sun ? 
 
210 LINES. 
 
 For had I power to summon, 
 With harp divine, with harp divine, 
 
 The angel or the woman, 
 
 The last were mine, the last were mine. 
 
 If earth-born beauty's fingers 
 
 Awaked the lay, awaked the lay, 
 Whose echoed music lingers 
 
 Around my way, around my way, 
 Where smiles the hearth she blesses 
 
 With voice and eye, with voice and eye ? 
 Where binds the night her tresses, 
 
 When sleep is nigh, when sleep is nigh ! 
 Is Fashion's bleak cold mountain 
 
 Her bosom's throne, her bosom's throne ? 
 Or love's green vale and fountain, 
 
 With one alone, with one alone ? 
 
 Why ask ! why seek a treasure 
 
 Like her I sing, like her I sing ? 
 Her name nor pain nor pleasure 
 
 To me should bring, to me should bring. 
 Love must not grieve or gladden 
 
 My thoughts of snow, my thoughts of snow, 
 Nor woman soothe or sadden 
 
 My path below, my path below. 
 Before a worldlier altar 
 
 I've knelt too long, I've knelt too long ; 
 And if my footsteps falter, 
 
 'Tis but in song, 'tis but in song. 
 
LINES. 211 
 
 Nor would I break the vision 
 
 Young fancies frame, young fancies frame, 
 That lights with stars Elysian 
 
 A poet's name, a poet's name. 
 For she whose gentle spirit 
 
 Such dreams sublime, such dreams sublime, 
 Gives hues they do not merit 
 
 To sons of rhyme, to sons of rhyme, 
 But place the proudest near her, 
 
 Whate'er their pen, whate'er their pen, 
 She'll say (be mute who hear her) 
 
 Mere mortal men, mere mortal men ! 
 
 Yet though unseen, unseeing, 
 
 We meet and part, we meet and part, 
 Be still my worshipped being, 
 
 In mind and heart, in mind and heart. 
 And bid thy song that found me, 
 
 My minstrel-maid, my minstrel-maid ! 
 Be winter's sunbeam round me, 
 
 And summer's shade, and summer's shade. 
 I could not gaze upon thee, 
 
 And dare thy spell, and dare thy spell, 
 And when a happier won thee, 
 
 Thus bid farewell, thus bid farewell. 
 01 
 
TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH OF 
 VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 |E PoSte, inspire lorsque la terre ignore, 
 Ressemble a* les grands monts que la nou- 
 
 velle aurore 
 
 Dore avant tous son reveil, 
 Et qui, longtemps vainqueur de I'ombre, 
 G ardent j usque dans la nuit sombre 
 Le dernier rayon du soleil. 
 
 Moorland and meadow slumber 
 
 In deepest darkness now, 
 But the sunrise hues of the wakened day 
 
 Smile on the mountain's brow. 
 
 And when eve's mists are shrouding 
 
 Moorland and meadow fast, 
 That mountain greets day's sunset light, 
 
 Her loveliest and her last. 
 
 And thus the God-taught minstrel, 
 
 Above a land untaught, 
 Smiles lonely in the smiles of heaven 
 
 From his hill-tops of thought. 
 
ALBUM VERSES. 
 
 JITHIN a rock, whose shadows linger, 
 At moonlight hours, on Erie's sea, 
 Some unseen, Indian spirit's finger 
 
 Woke in far times sweet minstrelsy. 
 'Twas in the summer twilight only, 
 
 When evening winds the green leaves stirred, 
 And all beside was mute and lonely 
 Its wild aerial tones were heard. 
 
 So I that fabled rock resembling, 
 
 With heart as cold, and head as hard 
 Appear, although with fear and trembling, 
 
 At Beauty's call, as Beauty's bard. 
 Yet why despair if winds can summon 
 
 Minstrels and music when they please ? 
 For who but deems the lips of woman 
 
 More potent than an evening breeze ? 
 
 Her lips the magic word have spoken, 
 That bids me call from far and near 
 
 Each minstrel-pen, to leave its token 
 Of fealty and of friendship here. 
 
 These consecrated leaves are given 
 To you, ye rhyme-composing elves ; 
 
214 ALBUM VERSES. 
 
 To poets who were taught by Heaven, 
 And poets who have taught themselves. 
 
 To wits, whose thistle-shafts by flowers 
 
 Are hid, their points in balsam dipped ; 
 To humor, in his happiest hours, 
 
 And punsters if their wings are clipped. 
 But friendship, with her smiling features, 
 
 Will come, 'tis hoped, without a call ; 
 For though your wits are clever creatures, 
 
 One line of hers is worth them all. 
 
 Let names of heroes and of sages, 
 
 On history's leaf eternal be ; 
 A few brief years on Beauty's pages 
 
 Are worth their immortality. 
 At least this charmed book permits us 
 
 To brave oblivion's withering power, 
 Till she who summons us, forgets us ; 
 
 And who would live beyond that hour ? 
 
ODE TO GOOD-HUMOR. 
 
 | AID of the sweet, engaging smile ! 
 
 Companion of our hours of peace ! 
 Whose soothing arts can care beguile, 
 And bid discordant passions cease ; 
 Virtue in thee her favorite hails, 
 And dwells where'er thy sway prevails, 
 Life's fairest charms to thee we owe, 
 The source of pure delight, the healing balm of woe ! 
 
 Can rapture thrill congenial hearts, 
 
 Entwined by Friendship's wreath divine ? 
 If aught of bliss its bond imparts, 
 
 The praise, enchanting maid ! be thine. 
 Can we a soft attractive grace 
 In the bright beam of Beauty trace ? 
 'Tis only when with thee combined, 
 Her powers can justly claim the homage of the mind ! 
 
 When the first pair in Eden's bower 
 Enjoyed the favoring smile of Heaven, 
 
 Thy influence brightened every flower, 
 And blessed the balmy breeze of even. 
 
 And since in Love's connubial ties, 
 
 We best can learn thy sweets to prize, 
 
2l6 ODE TO GOOD-HUMOR. 
 
 'Tis in affection's fond domain, 
 Where still unruffled joys denote thy golden reign. 
 
 Deprived of thee, does earth possess 
 
 One charm to bind us here below ? 
 
 In vain may pomp and power caress, 
 
 Or wealth its glittering gifts bestow. 
 Lost is their worth when thou art fled, 
 When Discord lifts her sceptre dread, 
 And pallid Envy, Care, and Strife 
 Unite their darkening clouds to veil the noon of life. 
 
 But when thy welcome steps appear, 
 
 This dreaded train of evil flies, 
 Gay Cheerfulness is ever near, 
 
 And calm Content with placid eyes ; 
 And all that to the soul endears 
 This dreary wilderness of years, 
 All that our happiest hours employ, 
 When beats the willing heart to transport and to joy. 
 
 Where'er I tread this varied scene, 
 
 Good-Humor ! on my path attend ; 
 Alike when pleasure smiles serene, 
 
 Or pain and grief my bosom rend, 
 Do thou infuse thy sovereign power, 
 In youth's gay morn, in manhood's hour, 
 Or when, in age, life's parting ray 
 But faintly lingers low ere yet it fades away I 
 1811. 
 
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF 
 GENERAL LALLEMAND. 
 
 | WEET maid ! whose life the frost of destiny 
 Withered while yet its first spring-leaves were 
 
 green; 
 
 Pure, sainted being ! from thy home on high, 
 Look with thine eyes of love, upon the scene 
 Where, for one little hour, thy spirit moved, 
 A visitant to love, and to be loved, 
 And where thy song of youth to virtue gave 
 The music of its praises the green bowers 
 Of home and friendship wreathed with fadeless flowers, 
 And made the laurel dearer to the brave. 
 
 Still do the hearts that loved thee, beat for thee 
 Warmly, as when they beat beside thy bier. 
 And still to them, of earthly things most dear 
 And sacred, is thy pledge of memory 
 A father's gift, whose every cherished word 
 Bids the sweet echo of thy song be heard ; 
 And fain would bid their sorrows cease to be. 
 Would it could soothe a mother's griefs, but they 
 Are graven deep, and will not pass away I 
 
2i8 FROM THE FRENCH OF GEN. LALLEMAND. 
 
 Blest spirit ! long as at the name alone 
 
 Of their Eliza, tears are seen to start, 
 
 And sighs are breathed, whose birthplace is the heart 
 
 Look on thy friends from thine ethereal throne, 
 
 With smiles that greeted them in happier days; 
 
 And pardon one to thee, and thine unknown, 
 
 Whose Stranger hand strews flowers upon thy tomb, 
 
 For he hath heard the music of thy lays, 
 
 And who can listen to its tones, nor raise 
 
 His thoughts to thee, and thine Eternal home ? 
 
THE VISION OF ELIPHAZ. 
 
 PARAPHRASED FROM JOB 
 
 '|JS 1 5||WAS in the solemn midnight hour, 
 ISUil When sleep extends its balmy power, 
 
 The slumbering world around ; 
 When Darkness, o'er the extensive globe 
 Spreads, far and wide, its sable robe, 
 
 And Silence reigns profound ! 
 
 As wrapped in lonely solitude, 
 The starry canopy I viewed, 
 
 In pensive thought reclined ; 
 A sudden tremor chilled my blood, 
 My hair, with horror, upright stood, 
 
 And terror filled my mind. 
 
 Before mine eyes a spirit passed 
 I gazed, with trembling looks, aghast ! 
 
 As o'er the path it flew ; 
 It stood, but naught could I descry, 
 The gloom, that veiled the midnight sky, 
 
 Concealed it from my view. 
 
220 THE VISION OF ELIPHAZ. 
 
 Dread Silence reigned ! I, shuddering, feared ! 
 When suddenly a voice I heard, 
 
 In slow and solemn tone : 
 "Shall man," it cried, "presume to vie 
 In justice, and in majesty, 
 
 With Heaven's Eternal Throne ? 
 
 " Can man more purity display 
 
 Than He, who formed him from the clay, 
 
 The offspring of the dust ? 
 Behold ! to those that round Him stand, 
 Attentive to His dread command, 
 
 He gives no charge, or trust. 
 
 "Even angels, next in might to God, 
 Submissive at His footstool nod, 
 
 And own superior power ; 
 And ah ! how much ! how far below 
 Are mortals, doomed to pain and woe. 
 
 The pageants of an hour. . 
 
 "Before the meanest worm they die, 
 And, mouldering into dust, they lie, 
 
 Within the earth's cold bed. 
 Many, on whom the morn arose, 
 Before the evening shades, repose 
 
 In mansions of the dead. 
 
THE VISION OF ELIPHAZ. 
 
 " And soon their memory is no more, 
 Long ages roll successive o'er, 
 
 And other scenes arise ; 
 And, leagued with their departing breath, 
 Before the fatal shaft of death, 
 
 Their boasted knowledge flies." 
 
 1809. 
 
 221 
 
A POETICAL EPISTLE. 
 
 TO MRS. RUSH. 
 
 ] AD Y, I thank you for your letter ; 
 
 Would that these rhymes it asks were bettei 
 Worthy of her who taught 
 My song, when life was in its June, 
 To mingle heart with word and tune, 
 And melody with thought. 
 
 Gone are the days of sunny weather 
 
 (I quote remembered words), when we 
 "Revelled in poetry" together; 
 
 And frightened leaves from off their tree, 
 With declamation loud and long, 
 From epic sage and merry song, 
 
 And odes, and madrigals, and sonnets, 
 Till all the birds within the wood, 
 And people of the neighborhood 
 
 Said we'd "a bee in both our bonnets." 
 And he 1 sat listening, he the most 
 Honored and loved, and early lost 
 He in whose mind's brief boyhood hour 
 Was blended by the marvellous power 
 
 1 Joseph Rodman Drake. 
 
A POETICAL EPISTLE. 223 
 
 That Heaven-sent genius gave, 
 The green blade with the golden grain ; 
 Alas ! to bloom and beard in vain, 
 Sheafed round a sick-room's bed of pain, 
 
 And garnered in the grave. 
 
 They are far away, those sunny days, 
 And since we watched their setting rays, 
 The music of the voice of praise 
 From many a land, and many a clime, 
 Has greeted my astonished rhyme ; 
 Till half in doubt, half pleased, it curled 
 Its queerest lip upon the world, 
 But never heard I flattery's tone 
 Sounding around me, "Bard, well done ! " 
 Without a blessing on the One 
 Who flattered first the bonnie nurse 
 Whose young hand rocked my cradled verse. 
 
 Long may her voice, as now, be near 
 To prompt, to pardon, and to cheer ; 
 And long be smiles for goodness' sake, 
 
 Upon her best of happy faces, 
 Like Spenser's Una's given to make 
 
 A sunshine in the shadiest places I 
 
THE BLUEBIRD. 
 
 ON ITS FIRST APPEARANCE IN THE SPRING OF l8lO. 
 
 | AIL ! warbling harbinger of Spring ! 
 
 How soft thy wild notes fill the breeze ! 
 Raptured, I hear thy fluttering wing, 
 Low murmuring 'mong the leafless trees. 
 
 Now when all lone and drear 
 Bleak Winter holds her gloomy reign, 
 And spreads afar her wide domain, 
 O'er brake and dell, and lawn and plain, 
 
 With joy thy notes we hear ; 
 Their simple strains a charm impart, 
 Dear to the languid, aching heart. 
 
 Say, hast thou left yon mountains mild, 
 
 Where southern gales ambrosial blow ? 
 To cheer our fields now lone and wild, 
 And ice-chained valleys clad in snow, 
 
 The opening spring to hail ? 
 To bring the rosy charms of May, 
 The feathered choir of warblers gay, 
 And clothe in Nature's green array, 
 The mountain and the vale ? 
 
THE BLUEBIRD. 
 
 Then welcome to our groves once more, 
 Thou token sure that winter's o'er. 
 
 Sweet Bird ! the grateful muse shall pay 
 Her homage and her love to thee ; 
 
 To thee attune her earliest lay, 
 And wake the lyre's soft harmony ; 
 While each exulting mind 
 
 Shall join, accordant with her lays, 
 
 And every hand unite to raise 
 
 A wreath of honorary bays, 
 
 Around thy plumes to bind ; 
 
 To crown thee first of all the train 
 
 Whose sportive warblings glad the plain. 
 
 Ye wintry clouds ! that o'er the heart 
 A shade of sable horror threw ! 
 
 Ye shadowy sorrows ! hence ! depart 
 Ye heart-corroding thoughts adieu ! 
 With all your gloomy train, 
 
 On wings of stormy tempests fly 
 
 To Zembla's coasts or Scythia's sky ; 
 
 Then deep in trackless deserts lie, 
 And ne'er return again. 
 
 Let life a cheerful prospect wear, 
 
 Uncurtained by thy clouds' despair ! 
 
 The mournful grove, in weeds forlorn, 
 Bewails her festive summer bower : 
 
226 THE BLUEBIRD. 
 
 No warblers now to wake the morn, 
 Or charm the lonely evening hour ! 
 
 The warblers all are gone. 
 Wild is the dreary prospect round, 
 Hushed is the murmuring torrents' sound, 
 And solemn silence reigns profound, 
 
 Terrific and alone ! 
 Wild the deserted groves appear, 
 Untuneful, desolate, and drear ! 
 
 But ah ! yon songster's glad return 
 Proclaims thy reign will soon be o'er ; 
 And bids the heart no longer mourn, 
 The Spring will soon return once more, 
 
 And Nature smile serene. 
 Her smiles shall dissipate the gloom, 
 Again the fairest flowers shall bloom, 
 And Summer soon her seat resume, 
 
 Her robes of brightest green ; 
 Again the groves in state shall rise, 
 And purest azure gild the skies. 
 
 Hail ! grateful songster, tuneful bird ! 
 
 Thou earliest pledge of spring, all hail ! 
 How sweet thy plaintive notes are heard 
 Floating adown the balmy gale ! 
 How sweet thy morning song ! 
 
HONOR TO WOMAN. 
 
 As wildly trembling soft and slow, 
 Its wood-notes fill yon vale below, 
 Or, on resounding echoes, flow 
 
 The distant hills along. 
 Then welcome, lovely warbler, here 
 Thy lay announcing, " Spring is near! " 
 
 HONOR TO WOMAN. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE. 
 
 ]LL honor to WOMAN, the Sweetheart, the Wife, 
 The delight of our homesteads by night and 
 
 by day, 
 
 The darling who never does harm in her life, 
 Except when determined to have her own way. 
 
TO ELLEN. 
 
 JHE Scottish Border Minstrel's lay 
 
 Entranced me oft in boyhood's day ; 
 His forests, glens, and streams, 
 Mountains, and heather blooming fair, 
 And Highland lake, and lady, were 
 The playmates of my dreams. 
 
 Years passed away my dreams were gone ; 
 My pilgrim footsteps passed at noon 
 
 Loch Katrine's storied shores : 
 In silence slept the fairy lake, 
 Nor did the mountain-echoes wake 
 
 At music of my oars. 
 
 No tramp of warrior-men I heard ; 
 Welcome-song, or challenge-word, 
 
 I listened, but in vain ; 
 And, moored beside his favorite tree, 
 As vainly wooed the minstrelsy 
 
 Of gray-haired Allan Bane. 
 
 I saw the Highland heath-flower smile 
 In beauty, upon Ellen's isle j 
 
TO ELLEN. 229 
 
 And, couched in Ellen's bower, 
 I watched, beneath its latticed leaves, 
 Her coming, through a summer eve's 
 
 Youngest and loveliest hour. 
 
 She came not lonely was her home ; 
 Herself of airy shapes " that come 
 
 Like shadows, so depart." 
 Are there two Ellens of the mind ? 
 Or have I lived at last to find 
 
 The Ellen of my heart ? 
 
 For music, like Sir Walter's, now 
 Rings round me, and again I bow 
 
 Before the shrine of song, 
 Devoutly as I bowed in youth ; 
 For hearts that worship there, in truth 
 
 And joy, are ever young. 
 
 And dear the harp that sings to-day, 
 And well its gladdened strings obey 
 
 Its minstrel's loved command 
 A minstrel-maid's, whose infant eyes 
 Looked on Ohio's woods and skies, 
 
 My youth's unheard-of land. 
 
 And beautiful that wreath she twines 
 
 Round Albi cottage bowered in vines, 
 
 Or blest in sleigh-bell mirth ; 
 
230 TO ELLEN. 
 
 And loveliest is her song that seems 
 To bid me welcome in my dreams, 
 Beside its winter hearth. 
 
 And must I deem her beckoning smile 
 But pleasant mockery, to beguile 
 
 Some lonely hour of care ? 
 And will this Ellen prove to be 
 But like her namesake o'er the sea, 
 
 A BEING OF THE AIR ? 
 
 Or shall I take the morning wing, 
 Armed with a parson and a ring, 
 
 Speed hill and dale along ; 
 And, at her cottage-fire ere night, 
 Change into flutterings of delight, 
 Or what's more likely, of affright, 
 
 The merry mockbird's song ? 
 
MEMORY. 
 
 (TRONG as that power whose strange control 
 
 Impels the torrent's force ; 
 Directs the needle to the pole, 
 And bids the waves of ocean roll 
 
 In their appointed course ; 
 So powerful are the ties that bind 
 The scenes of childhood to the mind ; 
 So firmly to the heart adheres 
 The memory of departed years. 
 
 Whence is this passion in the breast ? 
 
 That when the past we view, 
 And think on pleasures, once possessed, 
 In Fancy's fairest colors dressed, 
 
 Those pleasures we renew ? 
 And why do memory's pains impart 
 A pleasing sadness to the heart ? 
 What potent charm to all endears 
 The days of our departed years ? 
 
 True many a rose-bud, blooming gay, 
 
 Life's opening path adorns ; 
 But all who tread that path will say 
 That, 'mid the flowers which strew its way, 
 Are care's corroding thorns. 
 
232 MEMORY. 
 
 Yet still the bosom will retain 
 Affection even for hours of pain ; 
 And we can smile, though bathed in tears, 
 At memory of departed years. 
 
 'Tis distance, our bewildered gaze 
 
 On former scenes, beguiles, 
 And memory's charm the eye betrays ; 
 For while enjoyments it displays 
 
 And robes the past in smiles, 
 Its nattering mirror proves untrue, 
 Conceals the sorrows from our view, 
 And hides the griefs, the doubts, and fears, 
 That darkened our departed years 1 
 
 Time, when our own, we oft despise ; 
 
 When gone, its loss deplore ; 
 Nor, till the fleeting moment flies, 
 Do mortals learn its worth to prize, 
 
 When it returns no more. 
 For this, an anxious look we cast, 
 With fond regret, on hours long past 
 For this, the feeling heart reveres 
 The memory of departed years 1 
 1810. 
 
RELIGION. 
 
 WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF MY PRAYER-BOOK. 
 
 |HEN Misery's tear and Sorrow's sigh 
 
 Oppress the feeling mind, 
 Say where for refuge shall we fly ? 
 And where a refuge find ? 
 
 The morn of life may open fair, 
 
 And charm the view awhile ; 
 The world around us then may wear 
 
 A universal smile ; 
 
 But Life's a transitory scene, 
 
 Its prospects all are vain ; 
 The bosom that now beats serene, 
 
 Too soon may throb with pain. 
 
 Though Pleasure Youth's gay hours adorn, 
 
 The wayward heart to please, 
 'Tis fleeting as the dew of morn, 
 
 'Tis fickle as the breeze. 
 
 Uncertain is our mortal breath, 
 On swiftest wings it flies ; 
 
234 RELIGION. 
 
 And soon the iron hand of death 
 Shall close our dying eyes. 
 
 Such is our state then, tell me, where, 
 Oppressed with care and grief, 
 
 The anxious bosom can repair, 
 To seek and find relief? 
 
 To mild Religion heavenly maid ! 
 
 Belongs the power alone, 
 To dissipate the deepest shade, 
 
 That shrouds the dark unknown. 
 
 She gives the glad inquiring mind 
 
 This solemn truth to know : 
 " The soul of man is not confined 
 
 To this short space below." 
 
 Then cherish well the hopes she gives, 
 
 To banish all our fears : 
 " The disembodied spirit lives 
 
 Beyond the vale of tears. 
 
 " Though want, contempt, and scorn, attend 
 
 The virtuous here below, 
 Their future bliss shall far transcend 
 
 Their present pain and woe. 
 
RELIGION. 
 
 " In realms of everlasting rest, 
 Where cares and sorrows cease, 
 
 The sainted spirits of the blest 
 Shall find eternal peace." 
 
 Then be to Heaven's will resigned, 
 And own Religion's power, 
 
 For there a sure resource we find, 
 In sorrow's darkest hour. 
 
 235 
 
 1 8 10. 
 
 ii 
 
THE TEMPEST. 
 
 ]ILD beamed the sun's departing ray, 
 
 Low sinking in the rosy west ; 
 Still was the closing hour of day 
 
 Sacred to silence, peace, and rest ! 
 When a poor Wanderer, bent with woe, 
 O'er the moor travelled, sad and slow. 
 
 By dire misfortune forced to roam, 
 He rambled on he knew not where ; 
 
 In hopes to find a tranquil home, 
 To find relief from want and care. 
 
 ( 
 
 The noonday of his life was past, 
 And Age his mantle o'er him cast. 
 
 He stopped, and, lingering on his road, 
 Admired the lovely prospect round ; 
 
 Slowly the lonely heath he trod, 
 And gazed, in pleasing thought profound ! 
 
 Enraptured at the enchanting scene, 
 
 His bosom heaved with joy serene. 
 
 But sudden-lowering clouds arise, 
 
 And blackening mists the scene deform ; 
 
 Terrific darkness veils the skies, 
 Foreboding an impending storm 1 
 
THE TEMPEST. 237 
 
 The traveller sees the danger near, 
 
 And shuddering stands, appalled with fear ! 
 
 Now raged the bleak wind o'er the plain, 
 
 The billows bounded on the shore ; 
 Swift fell the cold and pelting rain, 
 
 And loud the storm began to roar. 
 The unhappy wanderer mourned his fate 
 He mourned but ah ! alas ! too late. 
 
 Wild was the prospect, far and wide, 
 And all was dreadful, dark, and drear ; 
 
 No shepherd's sheep-pent fold he spied, 
 No friendly roof or shelter near ; 
 
 While fiercer still the tempest grew, 
 
 As o'er the lonely heath it flew. 
 
 Yet Hope still cheered him on his way : 
 " Night soon will fly with its dark shade ; 
 
 Aurora soon will ope the day, 
 And sweep the dew-drops down the glade. 
 
 Soon will the fearful storm be o'er, 
 
 And soon you'll see the cottage door." 
 
 But ah ! delusive Hope ! how vain 
 Are all thy fond, enrapturing dreams ; 
 Loud howled the raging wind, the rain 
 
 Still poured in swift-descending streams. 
 Before the blast the forest yields, 
 And shivered branches strew the fields. 
 
238 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 At length, worn down with toil and cold, 
 The Wanderer sunk upon the heath ; 
 
 And ere the shepherd loosed his fold, 
 His weary eyes were closed in death. 
 
 The last, the dreaded pang is o'er, 
 
 And low he lies, to rise no more ! 
 
 Such is Life's journey 'tis a scene 
 Where joy and grief alternate reign ; 
 
 Where mixed emotions intervene, 
 Of hope and fear, of bliss and pain ; 
 
 Where sunbeams dart, and tempests rage, 
 
 In every season, every age. L 
 
 As through this wilderness we roam, 
 Fond Hope may wear her sweetest smile, 
 
 And tell of happier days to come, 
 The wearied bosom to beguile ; 
 
 But vanished is her soothing power, 
 
 In disappointment's languid hour. 
 
 Then happiest he whose hopes sublime 
 
 Are centred in the joys of heaven ; 
 Calmly adown the stream of time 
 
 His peaceful bark shall then be driven. 
 Firm as the adamantine rock, 
 His heart shall brave " Misfortune's rudest shock." 
 
 1804. 
 
LINES 
 
 WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF IN OSSIAN's POEMS. 
 
 |N all that Genius calls its own, 
 
 The " Bard of Cona " soars sublime ! 
 And where the Muses' powers are known, 
 His fame shall brave the blast of Time ! 
 
 His was the soft persuasive art ! 
 
 Whene'er his fingers touched the lyre ; 
 To melt in sympathy the heart, 
 
 Or thrill the soul with Glory's fire. 
 
 Unblest with Learning's ray refined, 
 He warbled Nature's favorite child 
 
 His notes bespoke his feeling mind, 
 Sublimely simple sweetly wild. 
 
 Sweet Poet ! while the Muses' flame 
 Within my heart enrapturing glows, 
 
 That heart shall pay thy honored name 
 
 The homage which it justly owes. 
 1810. 
 
IN HER ISLAND HOME. 
 
 WRITTEN IN MISS BRONSON S ALBUM. 
 
 [In the olden time, a sect of Persian philosophers formed a society dedi- 
 cated to Silence. Their number was limited to ten. One of the brother- 
 hood, a personage who was never known to speak in his lifetime, and of 
 whom no one has ever been heard to speak since, died. Among the ap- 
 plicants for the vacant chair was "Sadi," a " sage grave man" remarkable 
 for saying nothing, at least nothing to the purpose. Unfortunately, ere he 
 reached the place of meeting, the choice had fallen on another. The pres- 
 ident announced this by placing a wineglass on the table, and filling it up 
 to the brim. As Sadi entered, he pointed toward it Sadi bowed, as is 
 usual on such occasions, then took a roseleaf from the floor, and placed it 
 so lightly on the bubbles of the wine, that not a drop was spilt They re- 
 ceived him. COTTON MATHER.] 
 
 |N her island home, her home of flowers, 
 
 The Queen of Beauty sat at noon, 
 In the shade of one of her wild-rose bowers, 
 Watching the spray of the bright sea-showers, 
 As it sparkled in the sun of June. 
 
 And the smile of delight round her lip that played 
 
 Was as sweet as a smile can be, 
 For that day had her minstrel-worshippers laid 
 On her altar a book where each pen had paid 
 
 Its vows to their island-deity. 
 
TN HER ISLAND HOME. 34! 
 
 Its words still breathed, though the ink was cold 
 
 As the hopes of the hearts she had fettered, 
 A magical name on the book was enrolled, 
 And its hot-pressed pages were tipped with gold, 
 And 'twas bound in green, and lettered. 
 
 As she counted the leaves, and counted o'er 
 
 The victims her frowns had killed, 
 A stranger-bard, from a far-off shore, 
 Came blushing, and said, " Here is one song more ; * 
 
 She answered, "The pages are filled." 
 
 He sighed, of course, but he manfully strove 
 
 To check the sigh as it rose ; 
 And, plucking a roseleaf, he tremblingly wove 
 Into very bad verses the tale which, above, 
 
 Is written in good plain prose. 
 
 And added, " In coming hours, Lady, when you 
 
 On the tears of your victims are feeding, 
 As the sunbeam feeds upon drops of dew, 
 Keep this withered leaf in the book 'twill do 
 To mark where you left off reading." 
 
TRANSLATION FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 [HERE'S one who long will think of thee, 
 
 Though thou art cold in death's last sleep ; 
 There's one will love thy memory 
 
 Till his own grave the night-dews steep. 
 And if no outward tears he weep, 
 
 And none his silent sorrows know, 
 Still doth his heart its vigils keep 
 Beside the spot where thou art low. 
 
 Sad was thy mortal pilgrimage, 
 
 And bitter tears thine eyes have shed; 
 But now the storm hath spent its rage ; 
 
 The turf is green above thy head, 
 And, loveliest of the buried dead, 
 
 Sweet may thy dreamless slumbers be ; 
 Thy grave the summer's bridal bed, 
 
 Her evening winds thy minstrelsy. 
 
 As withered on thy cheek the rose, 
 
 I cursed the hour when love betrayed thee ; 
 
 'Twas mine, in death, thine eyes to close, 
 And watch till on the bier they laid thee. 
 
TRANSLATION FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 No gloomy cypress-boughs shall shade thee, 
 
 No marble thy sad story tell ; 
 The cruel world shall ne'er upbraid thee 
 
 With having loved and loved too well. 
 
 243 
 
FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 | HERE flows the fountain silently, 
 
 It blooms a lovely flower; 
 Blue as the beauty of the sky, 
 It speaks, like kind fidelity, 
 Through fortune's sun and shower 
 "Forget-me-not!" 
 
 'Tis like thy starry eyes, more bright 
 
 Than evening's proudest star ; 
 Like purity's own halo-light, 
 It seems to smile upon thy sight, 
 
 And says to thee from far 
 
 " Forget-me-not ! " 
 
 Each dew-drop on its morning leaves 
 
 Is eloquent as tears, 
 
 That whisper, when young passion grieves, 
 For one beloved afar, and weaves 
 
 His dream of hopes and fears 
 
 " Forget-me-not ! " 
 
THE PILGRIMS. 
 
 [HEY came a life-devoting band 
 
 In winter o'er the sea ; 
 Tearless they left their fatherland, 
 
 Home of their infancy. 
 And when they battled to be free, 
 'Twas not for us and ours alone : 
 Millions may trace their destiny 
 To the wild beach they trod upon. 
 
 The brave on Bunker's Hill who stood, 
 
 And fearless fought and died, 
 Felt in their veins the pilgrims' blood, 
 
 Their spirit, and their pride. 
 That day's last sunbeam was their last, 
 
 That well-fought field their death-bed scene ; 
 But 'twas that battle's bugle-blast 
 
 That bade the march of mind begin. 
 
 It sounded o'er the Atlantic waves : 
 
 " One struggle more, and then 
 Hearts that are now to tyrants slaves, 
 
 May beat like hearts of men. 
 
246 THE PILGRIMS. 
 
 The pilgrims' names may then be heard, 
 In other tongues a battle-word 
 
 The gathering war-cry of the free , 
 And other nations, from their sleep 
 Of bondage waking, long may keep, 
 
 Like us, the pilgrims' jubilee." 
 
A FAREWELL TO CONNECTICUT. 
 
 TURNED a last look to my dear native moun- 
 tain, 
 
 As the dim blush of sunset grew pale in the sky ; 
 All was still, save the music that leaped from the fountain, 
 And the wave of the woods to the summer-wind's 
 sigh. 
 
 Far around, the gray mist of the twilight was stealing, 
 And the tints of the landscape had faded in blue, 
 
 Ere my pale lip could murmur the accents of feeling, 
 As it bade the fond scenes of my childhood adieu. 
 
 Oh ! mock not that pang, for my heart was retracing 
 Past visions of happiness, sparkling and clear : 
 
 My heart was still warm with a mother's embracing, 
 My cheek was still wet with a fond sister's tear. 
 
 Like an infant's first sleep on the lap of its mother, 
 Were the days of my childhood those* days are no 
 
 more; 
 
 And my sorrow's deep throb I had struggled to smother 
 Was that infant's wild cry when it's first sleep was 
 o'er. 
 
2 4 8 
 
 A FAREWELL TO CONNECTICUT. 
 
 Years have gone by, and remembrance now covers, 
 With the tinge of the moonbeam, the thoughts of 
 that hour ; 
 
 Yet still in his day-dream the wanderer hovers 
 Round the cottage he left and its green woven bower. 
 
 And Hope lingers near him, her wildest song breathing, 
 And points to a future day, distant and dim, 
 
 When the finger of sunset, its eglantine weaving, 
 Shall brighten the home of his childhood for him. 
 
TO LOUIS GAYLORD CLARK, ESQ. 
 
 I'VE greeted many a bonny bride 
 
 On many a bridal day, 
 In homes serene and summer-skied, 
 Where Love's spring-buds, with joy and pride 
 
 Had blossomed into May; 
 But ne'er on lovelier bride than thine 
 Looked these delighted eyes of mine, 
 And ne'er in happier bridal bower 
 Than hers, smiled rose and orange-flower 
 
 Through green leaves glad and gay, 
 When bridesmaids, grouped around her room, 
 In youth's, in truth's, in beauty's bloom, 
 Entwined, with merry fingers fair, 
 Their garlands in her sunny hair ; 
 Or bosomed them, with graceful art, 
 Above the beatings of her heart. 
 
 I well remember, as I stood, 
 Among that pleasant multitude, 
 A stranger, mateless and forlorn, 
 Pledged bachelor and hermit sworn, 
 That, when the holy voice had given, 
 In consecrated words of power, 
 
T0 LOUIS GAYLORD CLARK. 
 
 The sanction of approving Heaven 
 
 To marriage-ring, and roof, and dower ; 
 When she, a Wife, in matron pride, 
 Stood, life-devoted, at thy side ; 
 When happy lips had pressed her cheek, 
 
 And happiest lips her "bonny mou'," 
 And she had smiled with blushes meek, 
 
 On my congratulating bow, 
 A sunbeam, balmy with delight, 
 Entranced, subdued me, till I quite 
 
 Forgot my anti-nuptial vow, 
 And almost asked, with serious brow 
 
 And voice of true and earnest tone, 
 The bridesmaid with the prettiest face 
 To take me, heart and hand, and grace 
 
 A wedding of my own. 
 
 Time's years, it suits me not to say 
 
 How many, since that joyous day, 
 
 Have watched and cheered thee on thy way 
 
 O'er Duty's chosen path severe, 
 And seen thee, heart and thought full grown, 
 Tread manhood's thorns and tempters down, 
 
 And win, like Pythian charioteer, 
 The wreaths and race-cups of renown 
 Seen thee, thy name and deeds, enshrined 
 Within the peerage-book of mind 
 And seen my morning prophecy 
 Truth-blazoned on a noonday sky, 
 
TO LOUIS GAYLORD CLARK. 
 
 That he, whose worth could win a wife 
 Lovely as thine, at life's beginning, 
 
 Would always wield the power, through life, 
 Of winning all things worth the winning. 
 
 Hark ! there are songs on Summer's breeze, 
 And dance and song in Summer's trees, 
 And choruses of birds and bees 
 
 In Air, their world of happy wings ; 
 What far-off minstrelsy, whose tone 
 And words are sweeter than their own, 
 
 Has waked these cordial welcomings ? 
 'Tis nearer now, and now more near, 
 And now rings out like clarion clear. 
 They come the merry bells of Fame ! 
 They come to glad me with thy name, 
 And borne upon their music's sea, 
 From wave to wave melodiously, 
 Glad tidings bring of thine and thee. 
 They tell me that, Life's tasks well done, 
 Ere shadows mark thy westering sun, 
 Thy Bark has reached a quiet shore, 
 And rests, with slumbering sail and oar, 
 Fast anchored near a cottage door, 
 
 Thy home of pleasantness and peace, 
 
 Of Love, with eyes of Heaven's blue, 
 And Health, with cheek of rose's hue, 
 And Riches, with " the Golden Fleece : " 
 
252 TO LOUIS GAYLORD CLARK. 
 
 Where she, the Bride, a Mother now, 
 
 Encircled round with sons and daughters, 
 Waits my congratulary bow 
 
 To greet her cottage woods and waters ; 
 And thou art proving, as in youth, 
 By daily kindnesses, the truth 
 And wisdom of the Scottish rhyme 
 " To make a happy fireside clime 
 
 For children and for wife, 
 Is the true pathos and sublime," 
 
 And green and gold of Life. 
 
 From long-neglected garden-bowers 
 
 Come these, my songs' memorial flowers, 
 
 With greetings from my heart, they come 
 
 To seek the shelter of thy home ; 
 
 Though faint their hues, and brief their bloom, 
 
 And all unmeet for gorgeous room 
 
 Of " honor, love, obedience, 
 
 And troops of friends," like thine. 
 I hope thou wilt not banish thence 
 
 These few and fading flowers of mine, 
 But let their theme be their defence, 
 The love, the joy, the frankincense, 
 
 And fragrance o' LANG SYNE. 
 
 
THE CROAKERS: 
 
 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK AND JOSEPH RODM A.N DRAKE 
 
TO ENNUI. 
 
 flVAUNT ! arch-enemy of fun, 
 
 Grim nightmare of the wind ; 
 Which way, great Momus ! shall I run, 
 
 A refuge safe to find ? 
 My puppy's dead Miss Rumor's breath 
 
 Is stopped for lack of news, 
 And Fitz a is almost hypped to death, 
 And Lang 2 has got the blues. 
 
 I've read friend Noah's book quite through, 
 
 Appendix, notes, and all ; 
 I've swallowed Lady Morgan's 3 too, 
 
 And blundered through De Stael ; 3 
 The Edinburgh Review I've seen't 
 
 The last that has been shipped ; 
 I've read, in short, all books in print, 
 
 And some in manuscript. 
 
256 TO ENNUI. 
 
 I'm sick of General Jackson's toast, 
 
 Canals are naught to me : 
 Nor do I care who rules the roast, 
 
 Clinton or John Targee : 
 No stock in any Bank I own, 
 
 I fear no Lottery shark, 
 And if the Battery were gone, 
 
 Pd ramble in the Park. 
 
 Let gilded Guardsmen 4 shake their toes. 
 
 Let Altorf 5 please the pit, 
 Let Mister Hawkins blow his nose 
 
 And Spooner 6 publish it : 
 Insolvent laws let Marshall 7 break, 
 
 Let dying Baldwin cavil ; 
 And let Tenth- Ward Electors shake 
 
 Committees to the devil. 
 
 In vain for like a cruel cat 
 
 That sucks a child to death, 
 Or like the Madagascar bat 
 
 Who poisons with his breath, 
 The fiend the fiend is on me still , 
 
 Come, doctor, here's your pay 
 What potion, lotion, plaster, pill, 
 
 Will drive the beast away ? 
 
 D. 
 
ON PRESENTING 
 
 THE FREEDOM OF THE CITY 
 In a gold box to a great General* 
 
 | HE Board is met the names are read 
 
 Elate of heart, the glad committee 
 Declare the mighty man has said 
 
 He'll take " the freedom of the city." 
 He thanks the Council, and the Mayor, 
 Presents 'em all his humble service ; 
 And thinks he's time enough to spare 
 To sit an hour or two with Jervis. 
 
 Hurra ! hurra ! prepare the room 
 
 Skaats ! 10 are the ham and oysters come ? 
 
 Go make some savory whiskey-punch, 
 The General takes it with his lunch ; 
 
 For a sick stomach, 'tis a cure fit, 
 And vastly useful in a surfeit. 
 
 But see ! the Mayor is in the chair ; 
 
 The Council is convened again ; 
 And ranged in many a circle fair, 
 
 The ladies and the gentlemen 
 
258 FREEDOM OF THE CITY TO A GREAT GENERAL. 
 
 Sit mincing, smiling, bowing, talking 
 
 Of Congress balls the Indian force 
 Some think the General will be walking, 
 
 And some suppose he'll ride, of course: 
 And some are whistling some are humming, 
 
 And some are peering in the Park 
 To try if they can see him coming ; 
 
 And some are half asleep when, hark ! 
 
 
 A triumph on the warlike drum, 
 
 A heart-uplifting bugle-strain, 
 A fife's far flourish and " They come ! " 
 
 Rung from the gathered train. 
 Sit down the fun will soon commence 
 
 Quick, quick, your Honor, mount your place, 
 Present your loaded compliments, 
 
 And fire a volley in his face ! 
 
 They're at it now great guns and small 
 Squib, cracker, cannon, musketry; 
 
 Dear General, though you swallow all, 
 I must confess it sickens me. 
 
 D. 
 
THE SECRET MINE, 
 
 SPRUNG AT A LATE SUPPER 
 
 ]HE songs were good, for Mead and Hawkins 
 
 sung 'em, 
 
 The wine went round, 'twas laughter all, and joke ; 
 When crack ! the General sprung a mine among 'em, 
 
 And beat a safe retreat amid the smoke : 
 As fall the sticks of rockets when you fire 'em, 
 
 So fell the Bucktails at that toast accurst ; 
 Looking like Korah, Dathan, and Abiram, 
 When the firm earth beneath their footsteps burst. 
 
 Quelled is big Haff who oft has fire and flood stood, 
 
 More pallid grows the snowy cheek of Rose, 
 Cold sweats bedew the leathern hide of Bloodgood, 
 
 Deep sinks the concave of pug Edwards' nose. 
 But see the Generals Colden and Bogardus. 
 
 Joy sits enthroned in each elated eye ; 
 While Doyle and Mumford clap their fists as hard as 
 
 The iron mauls in Pearson's factory. 
 
 The midnight conclave met good Johnny Targee 
 
 Begins, as usual, to bestow advice : 
 12 
 
26o THE SECRET MINE. 
 
 " Declare the General a fool, I charge ye ! 
 
 And swear the toast was not his own free choice ; 
 Tell 'em that Golden prompted, and maintain it : 
 
 That is the fact, I'm sure, but we can see * 
 By sending Aleck 11 down to ascertain it." 
 
 The hint was taken, and accordingly 
 
 A certain member had a conversation, 
 
 And asked a certain surgeon all about it : 
 Some folks assert he got the information ; 
 
 'Tis also said, he came away without it. 
 Good people all ! I'm up to more than you know ; 
 
 But prudence frowns, my coward goose-quill lingers, 
 For fear that flint-and-trigger Doctor Brunaugh 
 
 Should slip a challenge in your poet's fingers ! 
 
 D 
 
BONY'S FIGHT. 
 
 "There was Captain Cucumber, Lieutenant Tripe, Ensign Pattyman 
 uid myself." 
 
 FOOTE. 
 
 |HEN Bony fought his host of foes, 
 
 Heroes and generals arose 
 Like mushrooms when he bade them ; 
 Europe, while trembling at his nod, 
 Thought him a sort of demi-god, 
 So wondrous quick he made them. 
 
 But " every dog must have his day," 
 And Bony's power has passed away, 
 
 His track let others follow ; 
 Yet in that talent of the Great, 
 With dash of goose-quill to create, 
 
 Our Clinton beats him hollow ! 
 
 Alas ! thou little god 12 of war, 
 The proud effulgence of thy star 
 
 Is dimmed, I fear, forever, 
 Though bright thy buttons long have shined, 
 And still thy powdered hair behind 
 
 Is clubbed so neat and clever. 
 
262 SONY'S FIGHT. 
 
 Yet round thee are assembled now 
 New chieftains, all intent as thou 
 
 On hard militia duty : 
 Here's King, 13 conspicuous for his hat, 
 And Ferris Pell, for God knows what, 
 
 And Bayard, for his beauty. 
 
 These are but colonels there are hosts 
 Of higher grades, like Banquo's ghosts, 
 
 Upon my sight advancing ; 
 In truth they made e'en Jackson stare, 
 When in the Park, up-tossed in air, 
 
 He saw their plumage dancing. 
 
 Yet I should wrong them not to name 
 Two Major-Generals, high in fame, 
 
 By Heaven ! a gallant pair ! 
 (They haven't any soldiers yet, ) 
 His Honor, General by brevet, 
 
 Bogardus, brevet Mayor. 
 
 Should England dare to send again 
 Her scoundrel red-coats o'er the main, 
 
 I fear some sad disaster ; 
 Each soldier wears an epaulette, 
 The Guards have turned a capering set, 
 
 And want a dancing-master. 
 
BONY'S FIGHT. 
 
 263 
 
 Sam Swartwout ! l4 where are now thy Grays ? 
 Oh, bid again their banner blaze 
 
 O'er hearts and ranks unbroken ! 
 Let drum and fife your slumbers break, 
 And bid the devil freely take 
 
 Your meadows at Hoboken ! 
 
 H. 
 
TO MR. POTTER, 16 
 
 THE VENTRILOQUIST. 
 
 | EAR Sir, you've heard that Mr. Robbin 16 
 
 Has brought in, without rhyme or reason, 
 A bill to send you jugglers hopping ; 
 That bill will pass this very season. 
 Now, as you lose your occupation, 
 
 And may perhaps be low in coffer, 
 I send for your consideration 
 The following very liberal offer : 
 
 Five hundred down, by way of bounty 
 
 Expenses paid (as shall be stated), 
 Next April to Chenango County, 
 
 And there we'll have you nominated. 
 Your duty'll be to watch the tongues 
 
 When Root's 16 brigade begins to skirmish, 
 To stop their speeches in their lungs, 
 
 And bring out such as I shall furnish. 
 
 Thy ventriloquial powers, my Potter ! 
 Shall turn to music every word, 
 
TO MR. POTTER. 765 
 
 And make the Martling 17 Deists utter 
 
 Harmonious anthems to our Lord ; 
 Then, all their former tricks upsetting, 
 
 To honey thou shalt change their gall, 
 For Sharpe 16 shall vindicate brevetting, 
 
 And Root admire the great canal. 
 
 It will be pleasant, too, to hear a 
 
 Decent speech among our swains ; 
 We almost had begun to fear a 
 
 Famine for the dearth of brains. 
 No more their tongues shall play the devil, 
 
 Thy potent art the fault prevents ; 
 Now German 16 shall, for once, be civil, 
 
 And Bacon 1B speak with common-sense. 
 
 Poor German's head is but a leaker ; 
 
 Should yours be found compact and close, 
 As you're to be the only speaker, 
 
 We'll make you SPEAKER of the House. 
 If you're in haste to "touch the siller," 
 
 Dispatch me your acceptance merely, 
 And call on trusty Mr. Miller, 18 
 
 He'll pay the cash Sir, yours sincerely, 
 
 D. 
 
TO MR. SIMPSON, 
 
 MANAGER OF THE PARK THEATRE. 
 
 |'M a friend to your theatre, oft have I told you, 
 
 And a still warmer friend, Mr. Simpson, to you ; 
 And it gives me great pain, be assured, to behold you 
 
 Go fast to the devil, as lately you do. 
 We scarcely should know you were still in existence, 
 
 Were it not for the play-bills one sees in Broadway; 
 The newspapers all seem to keep at a distance ; 
 Have your puffers deserted for want of their pay ? 
 
 Poor Woodworth ! 19 his Chronicle died broken-hearted; 
 
 What a loss to the drama, the world, and the age ! 
 And Coleman 20 is silent since Philipps departed, 
 
 And Noah's too busy to think of the stage. 
 Now, the aim of this letter is merely to mention 
 
 That, since all your critics are laid on the shelf, 
 Out of pure love for you, it is my kind intention 
 
 To take box No. 3, and turn critic myself. 
 
 Your ladies are safe if you please you may say it, 
 Perhaps they have faults, but I'll let them alone ; 
 
TO MR. SIMPSON. 2 6; 
 
 Yet I owe two a debt 'tis my duty to pay it 
 Of them I must speak in a kind, friendly tone. 
 
 Mrs. Barnes 21 Shakespeare's heart would have beat 
 
 had he seen her 
 Her magic has drawn from me many a tear, 
 
 And ne'er shall my pen or its satire chagrin her, 
 While pathos, and genius, and feeling are dear. 
 
 And there's sweet Miss Leesugg, 22 by-the-bye, she's not 
 
 pretty, 
 
 She's a little too large, and has not too much grace, 
 Yet, there's something about her so witching and witty, 
 
 'Tis pleasure to gaze on her good-humored face. 
 But as for your men I don't mean to be surly, 
 
 Of praise that they merit they'll each have his Share ; 
 For the present, there's Olliff, 23 a famous Lord Bur- 
 
 leigh, 
 And Hopper and Maywood, a promising pair. 
 
 H, 
 
THE NATIONAL PAINTING. 24 
 
 [WAKE ! ye forms of verse divine ; 
 
 Painting ! descend on canvas wing, 
 And hover o'er my head, Design ! 
 
 Your son, your glorious son, I sing ! 
 At Trumbull's name, I break my sloth, 
 
 To load him with poetic riches ; 
 The Titian of a table-cloth ! 
 The Guido of a pair of breeches ! 
 
 Come, star-eyed maid, Equality ! 
 
 In thine adorer's praise I revel ; 
 Who brings, so fierce his love to thee, 
 
 All forms and faces to a level : 
 Old, young, great, small, the grave, the gay, 
 
 Each man might swear the next his brother, 
 And there they stand in dread array, 
 
 To fire their votes at one another. 
 
 How bright their buttons shine ! how straight 
 Their coat-flaps fall in plaited grace ! 
 
 How smooth the hair on every pate ! 
 How vacant each immortal face ! 
 
THE NATIONAL PAINTING. 269 
 
 And then the tints, the shade, the flush, 
 (I wrong them with a strain too humble,) 
 
 Not mighty Sherred's 25 strength of brush 
 Can match thy glowing hues, my Trumbull ! 
 
 Go on, great painter ! dare be dull 
 
 No longer after Nature dangle ; 
 Call Rectilinear beautiful ; 
 
 Find grace and freedom in an angle : 
 Pour on the red, the green, the yellow, 
 
 " Paint till a horse may mire upon it," 
 And while I've strength to write or bellow, 
 
 I'll sound your praises in a sonnet. 
 
 D. 
 
THE BATTERY WAR. 28 
 
 " Twice twenty shoe-boys, twice two dozen guards, 
 Chairmen and 'porters, hackney-coachmen, dandies ! " 
 
 TOM THUMB. 
 
 |ERE, Dickens ! go fetch my great-coat and 
 
 umbrella, 
 
 Tell Johnny and Robert to put on their shoes ; 
 And Dickens take something to drink, my good fellow, 
 You may go with Tom Ostler, along, if you choose : 
 You must put your new coat on, but mind and be quiet, 
 Till my clerk, Mr. Scribble, shall tip you the wink ; 
 Then, roar like the devil hiss kick up a riot ! 
 I imagine we'll settle the thing in a twink." 
 
 Arrived at the Hall, they were nothing too early ; 
 
 Little Hartman was placed, like King Log, in the chair, 
 Supported, for contrast, by modest King Charlie ; 
 . The General was speaking, who is to, be Mayor: 
 Undaunted he stood in the midst of the bobbery, 
 
 Clerks, footmen, and dandies ye gods ! what a noise ! 
 No thief in Fly-Market, just caught in a robbery, 
 
 Could raise such a clatter of blackguards and boys. 
 
THE BATTERY WAR. 27 1 
 
 Mercein and Bogardus each told a long story, 
 
 Very fine, without doubt, to such folks as could hear ; 
 Then the two kings resigned, and in high gig and glory 
 
 The light-footed chief of the Guards took the chair : 
 So he made them a speech, about little or nothing, 
 
 Except he advised them to go home to bed ; 
 And the simple fact is, that, in spite of their mouthing, 
 
 'Twas the only good, sensible thing that was said. 
 
 By-the-way, though, we've heard that these sons of sedi- 
 tion, 
 
 These vile Bonapartes (to quote Jemmy Lent), 
 Are about to bring forward a second edition, 
 And Squire McGareaghan fears the event. 
 Now to let our wise Council their honest game play on 
 
 yet, 
 
 Just call out, your Honor, the Gingerbread Guards, 
 
 Bid them drive at the traitors with cutlass and bayonet, 
 
 And then pick their pockets as bare as your bard's. 
 
 D. 
 
TO CROAKER, JUNIOR. 
 
 JOUR hand, my dear Junior ! we're all in a flame 
 
 To see a few more of your flashes ; 
 The Croakers forever ! I'm proud of the name 
 But, brother, I fear, though our cause is the same, 
 We shall quarrel like Brutus and Cassius. 
 
 But why should we do so ? 'tis false what they tell 
 
 That poets can never be cronies ; 
 Unbuckle your harness, in peace let us dwell ; 
 Our goose-quills will canter together as well 
 
 As a pair of Prime 27 mouse-colored ponies. 
 
 Once blended in spirit, we'll make our appeal, 
 
 And by law be incorporate too ; 
 Apply for a charter in crackers to deal ; 
 A fly-flapper rampant shall shine on our seal, 
 
 And the firm shall be " Croaker & Co." 
 
 Fun ! prosper the union smile, Fate, on its birth ! 
 
 Miss Atropos, shut up your scissors ; 
 Together we'll range through the regions of mirth, 
 A pair of bright Gemini dropped on the earth, 
 
 The Castor and Pollux of quizzers. 
 
 D. 
 
[MR. EDITOR : I wish you to precede the lines I send you enclosed, by 
 republishing Mr. Hamilton's late letter to the Governor verbatim, in order 
 that the world may see that, on this occasion, at least, the poet does not 
 deal in fiction.] 
 
 "To De Witt Clinton, Governor of the State of New York. 
 
 " SIR : To your shame and confusion let it be recorded, that you dare 
 not assume the responsibility of preserving to our national councils a pa- 
 triotic and distinguished statesman, while you could advocate the publica- 
 tion of an insidious and base attack upon private character through the 
 public organ of yoijr administration. 
 
 " You know the motive of my visit to Mr. Root you were not ignorant 
 that the senatorial reelection of Rufus King 28 was to me a subject of deep 
 personal concern ; and on this occasion you declared that you had marked my 
 course, and that this support should recoil with vengeance upon the Repub- 
 lican party. To those intimate with your pusillanimity and intrigues, you 
 disappoint no expectation. The traducer of America's brightest ornaments 
 can only be consistent within the sphere of his degeneracy. It is the pride 
 of the name I bear, to be distinguished by your envenomed malignity one 
 and all, we are opposed to your administration and your character. I am in- 
 duced to make this explanation as a permanent obligation to the public ; to 
 my own feelings it is perfectly humiliating. I have the honor -to remain, 
 
 "Your obedient servant, ALEXANDER HAMILTON. 29 
 
 "ASSEMBLY CHAMBER, March Zth, 1819." 
 
 A VERY MODEST LETTER FROM ONE 
 GREAT MAN TO ANOTHER. 
 
 " To be a well-favored man is the gift of fortune, but to write and read 
 :omes by nature." DOGBERRY. 
 
 dare you, Sir, presume to say, 
 And write and print the paltry thing, 
 That I did wrong the other day 
 To give my vote for Mr. King ? 
 
274 A MODEST LETTER. 
 
 'Twas natural that I should take a 
 
 Particular interest in it, Sir, 
 For I've been agent at Jamaica, 
 
 And he a foreign minister. 
 
 You say you've marked my course of late, 
 And mean to make what I've been doing 
 
 A means of breaking up the State, 
 And bringing on our party's ruin. 
 
 With all who've known your scoundrel tricks, 
 Since first you came to curse the nation, 
 
 The Lucifer of politics, 
 
 " You disappoint no expectation." 
 
 It suits your mean and grovelling spirit 
 Thus to attack great men like me ; 
 
 You slander only chiefs of merit, 
 Stars in our country's galaxy ! 
 
 Elijah, when his task was done, 
 His mantle o'er Elisha threw ; 
 
 Now I'm my father's eldest son, 
 And heir to all his talents too. 
 
 We're proud to say, the world well knows 
 You never liked our family ; 
 
A MODEST LETTER. 2 
 
 We, "one and all," have been your foes, 
 My brother Jim, and John, and I. 
 
 For my own sake, you well may wonder 
 
 That I these lines to you have sent ; 
 It is to lay the public under 
 
 An ( ' obligation perhianent. " 
 
 ASSEMBLY CHAMBER, March %th. 
 
 Done Into English and verse by H. 
 
TO THE SURGEON-GENERAL 30 OF THE 
 STATE OF NEW YORK. 
 
 " Why, Tom ! he knows all things. An it be not the devil himself, we 
 may thank God." . VILLAGE WIZARD. 
 
 |H ! Mitchill, lord of granite flints, 
 
 Doctu.s in law and wholesome dishes ; 
 Protector of the patent splints, 
 
 The foe of whales the friend of fishes, 
 " Tom Codus," " Septon " " Phlogobombas ! " 
 
 What title shall we find to fit you ? 
 Inquisitor of sprats and compost, 
 Or Surgeon-General of militia ! 
 
 We hail thee mammoth of the State ! 
 
 Steam frigate on the waves of physic ! 
 Equal in practice or debate, 
 
 To cure the nation or the phthisic ; 
 The amateur of Tartar dogs, 
 
 Wheat-flies, and maggots that create 'em ! 
 Of mummies, and of mummy chogs 1 
 
 Of brickbats, lotteries, and pomatum ! 
 
TO THE SURGEON-GENERAL OF NEW YORK. 277 
 
 It matters not how low or high it is, 
 
 Thou knowest each hill and vale of knowledge ; 
 Fellow of forty-nine societies, 
 
 And lecturer in Hosack's College. 
 And when thou diest, for life is brief, 
 
 Thy name, in all its gathered glory, 
 Shall shine, immortal, as the leaf 
 
 Of Delaplaine's Repository ! 31 
 
 D. 
 
TO JOHN MINSHULL, ESQ., 82 
 
 POET AND PLAYWRIGHT : FORMERLY OF MAIDEN LANE, BUT NOW 
 ABSENT IN EUROPE. 
 
 |H 1 bard of the West, hasten back from Great 
 
 Britain, 
 
 Our harp-strings are silent, they droop on the tree; 
 What poet among us is worthy to sit in 
 
 The chair whose fair cushion was hallowed by thee ? 
 In vain the wild clouds o'er our mountain-tops hover, 
 
 Our rivers flow sadly, our groves are bereft ; 
 They have lost, and forever, their poet, their lover ! 
 And Woodworth and Paulding are all we have left. 
 
 Great Woodworth, the champion of Buckets and Free- 
 dom, 
 
 Thou editor, author, and critic to boot, 
 I must leave thy rich volumes to those that can read 'em, 
 
 For my part I never had patience to do't. 
 And as for poor Upham (who in a fine huff says 
 
 He'll yield to no Briton the laurel of wit), 
 Alas ! they have "stolen his ideas," as Puff says, 
 
 I had read all his verses before they were writ. 
 
TO JOHN MINSHULL, ESQ. 
 
 279 
 
 But hail to thee, Paulding, the pride of the Backwood ! 
 
 The poet of cabbages, 33 log huts, and gin, 
 God forbid thou shouldst get in the clutches of Black- 
 wood I 
 
 Oh, Lord ! how the wits of old England would grin ! 
 In pathos, oh ! who could be flatter or funnier ? 
 
 Were ever descriptions more vulgar and tame ? 
 I wronged thee, by Heaven ! when I said there were 
 
 none here 
 
 Could cope with great Minshull, thou peer of his fame ! 
 
 D. 
 
THE MAN WHO FRETS AT WORLDLY 
 STRIFE. 
 
 ' A merry heart goes all the way, 
 A sad one tires in a mile-a." 
 
 WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 JHE man who frets at worldly strife, 
 
 Grows sallow, sour, and thin ; 
 Give us the lad whose happy life 
 
 Is one perpetual grin ; 
 He, Midas-like, turns all to gold, 
 
 He smiles when others sigh, 
 Enjoys alike the hot and cold, 
 And laughs through wet and dry. 
 
 There's fun in every thing we meet, 
 
 The greatest, worst, and best, 
 Existence is a merry treat, 
 
 And every speech a jest : 
 Be't ours to watch the crowds that pass 
 
 Where Mirth's gay banner waves ; 
 To show fools through a quizzing-glass, 
 
 And basrinade the knaves. 
 
THE MAN WHO FRETS. 2 8l 
 
 The serious world will scold and ban, 
 
 In clamor loud and hard, 
 To hear Meigs called a Congressman, 
 
 And Paulding styled a bard ; 
 But, come what may, the man's in luck 
 
 Who turns it all to glee, 
 And laughing, cries, with honest Puck, 
 
 " Great Lord ! what fools ye be." 
 
 D. 
 
TO E. SIMPSON, ESQ., 
 
 ON WITNESSING THE REPRESENTATION OF THE NEW TRAGEDY 
 OF BRUTUS. 
 
 HAVE been every night, whether empty or 
 
 crowded, 
 
 And taken my seat in your Box No. 3 ; 
 In a sort of poetical Scotch mist I'm shrouded, 
 As the far-famed Invisible Girl used to be. 
 
 As a critic professed, 'tis my province to flout you, 
 And hiss as they did at poor Charley's 34 Macheath ; 
 
 But all is so right and so proper about you, 
 
 That I'm forced to be civil in spite of my teeth. 
 
 In your dresses and scenery, classic and clever ; 
 
 Such invention ! such blending of old things and new ! 
 Let Kemble's proud laurels be withered forever ! 
 
 Wear the wreath, my dear Simpson, 'tis fairly your 
 due. 
 
 How apropos now was that street scene in Brutus, 
 Where the sign "Coffee-House" in plain English 
 was writ ! 
 
TO E. SIMPSON, ESQ. 283 
 
 By-the-way, " Billy Niblo's" 35 would much better suit 
 
 us, 
 And box, pit, and gallery, roar at the wit. 
 
 How sparkled the eyes of the raptured beholders, 
 To see Kilner, 36 a Roman, in robes " a la Grec ! " 
 
 How graceful they flowed o'er his neatly-turned shoul- 
 ders! 
 How completely they set off his Johnny-Bull neck ! 
 
 But to hint at the thousand fine things that amuse me, 
 Would take me a month so adieu till my next. 
 
 And your actors, they must for the present excuse me ; 
 One word though, en passant, for fear they'll be vexed. 
 
 Moreland, Howard, and Garner, the last importation ! 
 
 Three feathers as bright as the Prince Regent's plume ! 
 Though puffing is, certainly, not my vocation, 
 
 I always shall praise them, whenever I've room. 
 
 With manners so formed to persuade and to win you, 
 With faces one need but to look on to love, 
 
 They're like Jefferson's " Natural Bridge" in Virginia 
 " Worth a voyage across the Atlantic" by Jove ! 
 
 H. 
 13 
 
TO JOHN LANG, ESQ. 37 
 
 |E'VE twined the wreath of honor 
 Round Doctor Mitchill's brow ; 
 Though bold and daring was the theme, 
 
 A loftier waits us now. 
 In thee, immortal Lang ! have all 
 
 The Sister Graces met, 
 Thou Statesman Sage and Editor 
 Of the New- York Gazette ! 
 
 A second Faustus in thine art ! 
 
 The Newton of our clime ! 
 The Bonaparte of Bulletins ! 
 
 The Johnson of thy time I 
 At thy dread name, the terriers bark, 
 
 The rats fly to their holes ! 
 Thou Prince of "Petty Paragraphs," 
 
 11 Red Notes," and " Signal-Poles ! " 
 
 There's genius in thy speaking face, 
 There's greatness in thine air ; 
 
 Take Franklin's Bust from off thy roof, 
 And place thine own head there ! 
 
TO JOHN LANG, ESQ., 
 
 Eight corners within pistol-shot 
 Long with thy fame have rang, 
 
 And bluebirds sung and mad cows lowed 
 The name of Johnny Lang ! 
 
 28 5 
 
 H. 
 
TO DOMESTIC PEACE. 
 
 " Malbrook s'en va-t-en guerre." 
 
 |H, Peace ! ascend again thy throne, 
 
 Resume the spotless olive-leaf, 
 Display thy snowy muslin gown, 
 And wave o'er this distracted town 
 Thy cambric pocket-handkerchief! 
 
 Or, if thou dost not like the dress 
 
 (We own we have our doubts upon it), 
 
 Come like some pretty Quakeress, 
 
 And let thine orbs of quietness 
 Shine, dove-like, from a satin bonnet ! 
 
 We need thee, row-abhorring maid ! 
 
 The dogs of party bark alarms, 
 And e'er the Battery tax is laid, 
 And e'er the next election's made, 
 
 E'en Murray's Guards will rush to arms 
 
 Feds, Goodies, Bucktails, s8 all in flame, 
 With peals of nonsense frighten thee ; 
 
TO DOMESTIC PEACE. 2 8; 
 
 Sweet Peace ! thou wert not much to blame, 
 If thou shouldst loathe the very name 
 Of Clinton, or of John Targee. 
 
 For us, enthroned in elbow-chair, 
 Thy foes alone- with ink we sprinkle ; 
 
 We love to smooth the cheek of care, 
 
 Until we leave no furrow there, 
 Save laughter's evanescent wrinkle. 
 
 With thee and mirth, we'll quit the throng 
 
 Each hour shall see our pleasures vary ; 
 Jarvis shall bring his Cats along, 
 And Lynch shall float in floods of song 
 Pure as his highest-priced Madeira ! 
 
 D. 
 
TO E. SIMPSON, ESQ., 
 
 MANAGER OF THE NEW- YORK THEATRE. 
 
 |R. PHILIPPS has gone and he carries away 
 
 with him 
 
 Much of my cash, and my hearty good-will ; 
 To both he is welcome, and long may they stay with 
 
 him 
 Poor as he's made me, I'll cherish him still. 
 
 For when the wild spell of his melody bound me, 
 I marked not the flight of the gay, happy hours ; 
 
 His music created a fairy-land round me ; 
 Above it, was sunshine below it, were flowers. 
 
 But 'tis folly to weep we must cease to regret him ; 
 
 Look about you have many as brilliant a star : 
 There's Barnes 39 (you may laugh if you will), but just 
 let him 
 
 Play Belino for once ; he'll beat Philipps by far ! 
 
 When he sings "Love's Young Dream" every heart 
 
 will be beating, 
 The ladies shall wave their white kerchiefs in air ; 
 
TO E. SIMPSON, ESQ. 289 
 
 The peals of applauses shall hail the repeating 
 Of his " Eveleerfs Bower," and his " Robin Adair ! " 
 
 Fancy's sketch ! such fine shakes and such comic ex- 
 pression 
 
 He'll give it ; 'twill put all the fiddles in tone ! 
 And let Olliff (clean shaved, with a new hero dress on) 
 
 Play Baron Toraldijfrr that night alone. 
 
 If you wish to give all your acquaintance delight, 
 Fill your house to the brim, take this hint it will 
 go; 
 
 The humor will make e'en your candles burn bright, 
 And crowd every seat, to the very fourth row. 
 
 Besides, entre-nous, there's another good reason 
 Perhaps 'twill the proud heart of Beekman beguile ; 
 
 He may promise to lower your rent the next season, 
 And, for once in his life, take his hat off and smile. 
 
 H. 
 
TO CAPTAIN SEAMAN WEEKS, 
 
 CHAIRMAN OF THE TENTH WARD INDEPENDENT ELECTORS. 40 
 
 |APTAIN WEEKS, your right hand though I 
 
 never have seen it, 
 I shake it on paper, full ten times a day : 
 I love your Tenth Ward, and I wish I lived in it ; 
 
 Do you know any house there to let against May ? 
 I don't mind what the rent is, so long as I get off 
 From these party-mad beings, these tongues without 
 
 heads ! 
 
 I'm ashamed to be seen, sir, among such a set of 
 Clintonians, Tammanies, Goodies, and Feds ! 
 
 Besides, I am nervous, and can't bear the racket 
 
 These gentlemen make when they're begging for 
 
 votes ; 
 There's John Haff, and Ben Bailly, and Christian, and 
 
 Bracket, 
 Only think what fine music must come from their 
 
 throats ! 
 Colonel Warner calls Clinton a "star in the banner," 
 
 Mapes swears by his sword-knot he'll ruin us all ; 
 While Meigs flashes out in his fine classic manner, 
 " The meteor Gorgon of Clinton must fall ! " 
 
TO CAPTAIN SEAMAN WEEKS. 29 1 
 
 In vain I endeavor to give them a hint on 
 
 Sense, reason, or temper they laugh at it all ; 
 For sense is nonsense when it makes against Clinton, 
 
 And reason is treason in Tammany Hall. 
 So I mean (though I fear I shall seem unto some a 
 
 Strange, obstinate, odd-headed kind of an elf) 
 To strike my old tent in the Fourth, and become a 
 
 " Tenth Ward independent elector " myself. 
 
 D. 
 
ABSTRACT OF THE SURGEON-GENERAL'S 
 REPORT. 41 
 
 | HE Surgeon-General by brevet, 
 
 With zeal for public service burning, 
 Thinks this a happy time to get 
 
 Another chance to show his learning ; 
 He has in consequence collected 
 
 His wits, and stewed them in retorts ; 
 By distillation thus perfected, 
 He hopes to shine, and so reports 
 
 That he has searched authorities 
 
 From Johnson down to Ashe and Shelley, 
 And finds that a militia is 
 
 What he is now about to tell ye : 
 Militia means such citizens 
 
 As e'en in peace are kept campaigning 
 The gallant souls that shoulder guns, 
 
 And, twice a year, go out a-training ! 
 
 This point being fixed, we must, I think, sir, 
 
 Proceed unto the second part, 
 Entitled Grog a kind of drink, sir, 
 
 Which, by its action on the heart, 
 Makes men so brave, they dare attack 
 A bastion at its angle salient ; 
 
ABSTRACT, ETC. 293 
 
 This is a well-established fact 
 
 The very proverb sayspof-valiant. 
 
 Grog I'll define it in a minute 
 
 Take gin, rum, whiskey, or peach-brandy, 
 Put but a little water in it, 
 
 And that is Grog now understand me, 
 I mean to say, that should the spirit 
 
 Be left out by some careless dog, 
 It is I wish the world may hear it ! 
 
 It is plain water, and not Grog. 
 
 Having precisely fixed what Grog is 
 
 (My reasoning, sir, that question settles !), 
 We next must ascertain what Prog is 
 
 Now Prog, in vulgar phrase, is victuals : 
 This will embrace all kinds of food, 
 
 Which on the smoking board can charm ye, 
 And by digestion furnish blood, 
 
 A thing essential in an army ! 
 
 These things should all be swallowed* warm, 
 
 For heat, digestion much facilitates ; 
 Cold is a tonic, and does harm ; 
 
 A tonic always, sir, debilitates. 
 My plan then is to raise, as fast 
 
 As possible, a corps of cooks, 
 And drill them daily from the last 
 
 Editions of your cookery-books ! 
 
 Done into English and likewise into verse by H. AND D. 
 
TO AN ELDERLY COQUETTE 
 
 ; Parcius junctas quatiunt fenestras." 
 
 HORACE, Book i., Ode 25. 
 
 |H, Chloe ! no more at each party and ball 
 
 You shine the gay queen of the hour, 
 The lip, that alluringly smiled upon all, 
 Finds none to acknowledge its power ; 
 No longer the hearts of the dandies you break, 
 
 No poet adores you in numbers ; 
 No billets-doux sweeten, nor serenades wake 
 The peaceful repose of your slumbers. 
 
 Dissipation has clouded those eloquent eyes, 
 
 That sparkled like gems of the ocean ; 
 Thy bosom is fair but its billowy rise 
 
 Awakens no kindred commotion : 
 And pale are those rubies of rapture, where Love 
 
 Had showered his sweetest of blisses ; 
 And the wrinkles which Time has implanted above, 
 
 Are covered in vain with false tresses. 
 
 The autumn is on thee fell Scandal prepares 
 To hasten the wane of thy glory ; 
 
TO AN ELDERLY COQUETTE. 
 
 295 
 
 Too soon Disappointment will hand thee down-stairs, 
 And old maidenhood end the sad story : 
 
 For me long escaped from your trammels I choose 
 To enlist in the new corps of jokers ; 
 
 Abandoning Chloe, I kneel to the Muse, 
 And, instead of love-ditties, write Croakers. 
 
 D. 
 
TO * * * *, ESQUIRE. 
 
 |OME, shut up your Blackstone*, and sparkle again 
 
 The leader and light of our classical revels ; 
 While statues and cases bewilder your brain, 
 
 No wonder you're vexed and beset with blue devils : 
 But a change in your diet will banish the blues ; 
 
 Then come, my old chum, to our banquet sublime ; 
 Our wine shall be caught from the lips of the Muse, 
 And each plate and tureen shall be hallowed in rhyme. 
 
 "Scott, from old Albin, shall furnish the dishes 
 
 With wild-fowl and ven'son that none can surpass ; 
 And Mitchill, who sung the amours of the fishes, 
 
 Shall fetch his most exquisite tomcod and bass. 
 Leigh Hunt shall select, at his Hampstead Parnassus, 
 
 Fine greens, from the hot-bed, the table to cheer ; 
 And Wordsworth shall bring us whole bowls of molasses 
 
 Diluted with water from sweet Windermere. 
 
 To rouse the dull fancy and give us an appetite. 
 
 Black wormwood bitters Lord Byron shall bear, 
 And Montgomery bring (to consumptives a happy sight) 
 . Tepid soup-meagre and " 1'eau capillaire ; " 
 
TO * *, ESQ. 297 
 
 George Coleman shall sparkle in old bottled cider, 
 Roast-beef and potatoes friend Crabbe will supply ; 
 
 Rogers shall hash us an "olla podrida," 
 And the best of fresh " cabbage " from Paulding we'll 
 buy. 
 
 Mr. Tennant free> fanciful, laughing, and lofty, 
 
 Shall pour out Tokay and Scotch whiskey like rain ; 
 Southey shall sober our spirits with coffee, 
 
 And Horace in London " flash up in champagne." 
 Tom Campbell shall cheer us with rosy Madeira, 
 
 Refined by long keeping, rich, sparkling, and pure ; 
 And Moore, "pourchasse cafe," to each one shall bear a 
 
 Sip-witching bumper of parfait amour. 
 
 Then come to our banquet oh ! how can you pause 
 
 A moment between merry rhyme and dull reason ? 
 Preferring the wit-blighting " Spirit of Laws" 
 
 To the spirit of verse, is poetical treason ! 
 Judge Phoebus will certainly issue his writ, 
 
 No quirk or evasion your cause can make good, man ; 
 Only think what you'll suffer, when sentenced to sit 
 
 And be kept broad awake till you've read the Back- 
 woodsman ! 
 
 D. 
 
ODE TO IMPUDENCE. 
 
 " Integer vitae, scelerisque purus." 
 
 HORACE, Book i., Ode 22. 
 
 | HE man who wears a brazen face, 
 
 Quite a son aise his glass may quaff; 
 And whether in or out of place, 
 May twirl his stick, and laugh. 
 Useless to him the broad doubloon, 
 
 Red note, or dollar of the mill ; 
 
 Though all his gold be in the moon, 
 
 His brass is current money still. 
 
 Thus, when my cash was at low water, 
 . At Niblo's I sat down to dine ; 
 And after a tremendous slaughter 
 
 Among the wild-fowl and the wine, 
 The bill before mine eyes was placed 
 
 When, slightly turning round my head, 
 " Charge it" cried I the man amazed, 
 
 Stared, made his conge, and obeyed. 
 
 Oh ! bear me to some forest thick, 
 Where wampumed Choctaws prowl alone, 
 
ODE TO IMPUDENCE. 
 
 Where ne'er was heard the name of tick, 
 And bankrupt laws are quite unknown ; 
 
 Or to some shop, by bucks abhorred, 
 Where to the longing pauper's sorrow, 
 
 The cursed inscription decks the board 
 Of "Pay to-day and trust to-morrow." 
 
 Or plunge me in the dungeon-tower ; 
 
 With bolts and turnkeys dim mine eyes ; 
 While, called from death by Marshall's power, 
 
 The ghosts of murdered debts arise ! 
 The easy dupes I'll wheedle still, 
 
 With looks of brass and words of honey ; 
 And having scored a decent bill, 
 
 Pay off my impudence for money. 
 
 D. 
 
TO MRS. BARNES, 
 
 THE ACTRESS. 
 
 | EAR Ma'am we seldom take the pen 
 
 To praise, for whim and jest our trade is 
 We're used to deal with gentlemen, 
 To spatter folly's skirts, and then 
 We're somewhat bashful with the ladies. 
 
 Nor is it meant to give advice ; 
 
 We dare not take so much upon us ; 
 But merely wish, inr phrase concise, 
 To beg you, Ma'am, and Mr. Price, 
 
 For God's sake, to have mercy on us ! 
 
 Oh ! wave again thy wand of power, 
 
 No more in melodramas whine, 
 Nor toil Aladdin's lamp to scour, 
 Nor dance fandangoes by the hour 
 
 To Morgiana's tambourine ! 
 
 Think, Lady, what we're doomed to feel 
 
 By Heaven ! 'twould rouse the wrath of Stoics, 
 To see the queen of sorrows deal 
 
TO MRS. BARNES. 30! 
 
 In thundering "lofty-low" by Shiell, 
 Or mad Maturin's mock-heroics. 
 
 Away with passion's withering kiss, 
 
 A purer spell be thine to win us ; 
 Unlock the fount of holiness 
 While gentle Pity weeps in bliss, 
 
 And hearts throb sweetly sad within us, 
 
 Or call those smiles again to thee 
 That shone upon the lip that won them, 
 
 Like sun-drops on a summer-sea, 
 
 When waters ripple pleasantly 
 
 To wanton winds that flutter o'er them. 
 
 When Pity wears her willow- wreath, 
 
 Let Desdemona's woes be seen ; 
 Sweet Beverly's confiding faith, 
 Or Juliet, loving on in death, 
 
 Or uncomplaining Imogen. 
 
 When wit and mirth their temples bind 
 With thistle-shafts o'.erhung with flowers, 
 
 Then quaint and merry Rosalind, 
 
 Beatrice with her April mind 
 And Dinah's simple heart be ours. 
 
 For long thy modest orb has been 
 Eclipsed by heartless, cold parade ; 
 
302 
 
 TO MRS. BARNES. 
 
 So sinks the light of evening's queen 
 When the dull earth intrudes between, 
 Her beauties from the sun to shade. 
 
 Let Fashion's worthless plaudits rise 
 
 At the deep tone and practised start ; 
 Be thine true feeling's stifled sighs, 
 Tears wrung from stern and stubborn eyes, 
 And smiles that sparkle from the heart. 
 
 H AND D. 
 
TO SIMON, 
 
 THE OMNIPOTENT AND OMNIPRESENT CATERER FOR FASHIONABLE 
 SUPPER-PARTIES. 
 
 | EAR Simon 1 Princ*e of pastry-cooks, 
 
 Oysters, and ham, and cold neat's tongue, 
 Pupil of Mitchill's cookery-books, 
 
 And bosom friend of old and young ! 
 Sure from some higher, brighter sphere 
 
 In showers of gravy thou wert hurled, . 
 To aid our routs and parties here, 
 And grace the fashionable world ! 
 
 Taught by thy art, we closely follow 
 
 And ape the English lords and misses ; 
 For music, we've the Black Apollo, 
 
 And Mrs. Poppleton 42 for kisses. 
 We borrow all the rest, you know, 
 
 Our glass from Christie 48 for the time, 
 Plate from our friends to make a show, 
 
 And cash, to pay small bills from Prime. 
 
 What though old Squaretoes will not bless thee 
 He fears your power and dreads your bill ; 
 
 Mother and her dear girls caress thee, 
 And pat thy cheek, and praise thee still. 
 
304 T0 SIMON. 
 
 Oh, Simon ! how we envy thee, 
 
 When belles that long have frowned on all, 
 Greet thee with smiles, and bend the knee, 
 
 To beg you'll help them " give a ball ! " 
 
 Though it is ungenteel to think, 
 
 For thought affects the nerves and brain ! 
 Yet oft we think of thee, "and drink 
 
 Thy health in Lynch's best champagne. 
 'Tis pity that thy signal merit 
 
 Should slumber in so low a station ; 
 Act, Simon, like a lad of spirit, 
 
 And thou, in time, mayst rule the nation ! 
 
 Break up your Saturdays "at home," 
 
 Cut Guinea and your sable clan, 
 Buy a new eye-glass and become 
 
 A dandy and a gentleman. 
 You must speak French, and make a bow, 
 
 Ten lessons are enough for that ; 
 And Leavenworth 44 will teach you how 
 
 To wear your corsets and cravat. 
 
 Knock all your chambers into one, 
 Hire fiddlers, glasses, Barons too, 
 
 And then invite the whole haut-ton ; 
 Ask Hosack, he can tell you who. 
 
 The great that are, and wish to be, 
 Within your brilliant rooms will meet, 
 
TO SIMON. 305 
 
 And belles of high and low degree, 
 From Broadway up to Cherry Street. 
 
 This will insure you free admission 
 
 To all our routs, for years to come ; 
 And when you die, a long procession 
 
 Of dandies shall surround your tomb. 
 We'll raise an almond statue where 
 
 In dust your honored head reposes ; 
 Mothers shall lead their daughters there, 
 
 And bid them twine your bust with roses. 
 
 H. AND D. 
 
A LOVING EPISTLE 
 
 TO MR. WILLIAM COBBETT, 45 OF NORTH HEMPSTEAD, LONG ISLAND. 
 
 " Beloved of Heaven ! the smiling Muse shall shed 
 Her moonlight halo on thy beauteous head ! " 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 [RIDE, boast, and glory of each hemisphere ! 
 Well known and loved in both great Cob- 
 
 bett, hail ! 
 Hero of Botley there, and Hempstead here, 
 
 Of Newgate, and a Pennsylvanian jail ! 
 Long shall this grateful nation bless the hour, 
 
 When,* by the beadle and your debts pursued, 
 The victim, like famed Barrington, 46 of power, 
 " You left your country for your country 's good '/ " 
 
 Terror of Borough-mongers, Banks, and Crowns, 
 
 Thorburn the seedsman, and Lord Castlereagh ! 
 Potato-tops fall withering at your frowns, 
 
 Grand Ruta-Baga Turnip of your day ! 
 Banish the memory of Lockhart's cane, 
 
 And Philadelphian pole-cats from your mind ; 
 Let the world scoff, still you and Hunt remain, 
 
 Yourselves a host the envy of mankind ! 
 
A LOVING EPISTLE TO WILLIAM COBBETT. 307 
 
 Whether, as once in " Peter Porcupine," 
 
 You curse the country whose free air you breathe, 
 Or, as plain William Cobbett, toil to twine 
 
 Around your brows Sedition's poisoned wreath, 
 Or, in your letter to Sir Francis, tear 
 
 All moral ties asunder with your pen, 
 We trace your gentle spirit everywhere, 
 
 And greet you prince of Slander's scribbling men. 
 
 Well may our hearts with pride and pleasure swell, 
 
 To know that face to face we soon shall meet, 
 We'll gaze upon you as you stand and sell 
 
 Grammars and Garden Seeds in Fulton Street ! 
 And praise your book that tells about the weather, 
 
 Our laws, religion, hogs, and things, to boot, 
 Where your unequalled talents teach together 
 
 Turnips and "young ideas how to shoot." 
 
 In recompense, that you've designed to make 
 
 Choice of our soil above all other lands, 
 A purse we'll raise to pay your debts, and take 
 
 Your unsold Registers all off your hands. 
 For this, we ask that you, for once will show 
 
 Some gratitude and, if you can, be civil ; 
 Burn all your books, sell all your pigs, and go 
 
 No matter where to England, or the devil ! 
 
 H H. 
 
THE FORUM. 
 
 |IS o'er the fatal hour has come, 
 The voice of eloquence is dumb, 
 Mute are the members of the Forum ! 
 We've shed what tears we had to spare, 
 There now remains the pious care 
 
 Of chanting a sad requiem o'er 'em. 
 
 The Roman drank the Tiber's wave, 
 Ilissus' stream its virtues gave 
 
 To bid the Grecian live forever ; 
 Our Forum orators a draught 
 Of greater potency have quaffed, 
 
 Sparkling and pure from the North River ! 
 
 Proudly our bosoms beat to claim 
 Communion with our country's fame 
 
 From Bunker's Hill to Chippewa. 
 All who on battle-field or wave, 
 Have met the death that waits the brave, 
 Or pealed, above their foeman's grave, 
 
 The victor's wild hurrah ! 
 
THE FORUM. 
 
 The one that quelled a tyrant king, 
 
 And he who " grasped the lightning's wing," 
 
 Were nurtured in our country's bowers ; 
 But now a brighter gem is set 
 Upon her star-wrought coronet, 
 
 The world's first orators are ours. 
 
 The name of every Forum chief 47 
 Shall gleam upon our history's leaf, 
 
 Circled with glory's quenchless fires ; 
 And poet's pen and painter's pallet 
 Shall tell of William Paxson Hallett, 
 
 And Richard Varick Dey Esquires 1 
 
 Resort of fashion, beauty, taste, 
 The Forum-hall was nightly graced 
 With all who blushed their hours to waste 
 
 At balls and such ungodly places ; 
 And Quaker girls were there allowed 
 To show, among the worldly crowd, 
 
 Their sweet blue eyes and pretty faces. 
 
 And thither all our wise ones went, 
 On charity and learning bent, 
 
 With open ears and purses willing, 
 Where they could dry the mourner's tear, 
 And see the world, and speeches hear, 
 
 All, for " a matter of two shilling ! " 
 
3IO THE FORUM. 
 
 Let Envy drop her raven quill, 
 Let Slander's venomed lip be still, 
 
 And hushed Detraction's croaking song, 
 That dared, devoid of taste and sense, 
 To call these sons of Eloquence 
 
 A spouting, stammering, schoolboy throng 
 
 In vain, for they in grave debate 
 
 Weighed mighty themes of church and state 
 
 With words of power, and looks of sages ; 
 While far diffused, their gracious smile 
 Soothed Bony in his prison-isle. 
 
 And Turkish wives in harem-cages ! 
 
 Heaven bless them ! for their generous pity 
 Toiled hard to light our darkened city, 
 
 With that firm zeal that never flinches ; 
 And long, to prove the love they bore us, 
 With " more last words " they lingered o'er us, 
 
 And died, like a tom-cat, by inches ! 
 
 H. 
 
ODE TO FORTUNE 
 
 | AIR lady with the bandaged eye ! 
 I'll pardon all thy scurvy tricks, 
 So thou wilt cut me, and deny 
 
 Alike thy kisses and thy kicks : 
 I'm quite contented as I am, 
 
 Have cash to keep my duns at bay, 
 Can choose between beefsteaks and ham, 
 And drink Madeira every day. 
 
 My station is the middle rank, 
 
 My fortune just a competence 
 Ten thousand in the Franklin Bank, 
 
 And twenty in the six per cents. ; 
 No amorous chains my heart enthrall, 
 
 I neither borrow, lend, nor sell ; 
 Fearless I roam the City Hall, 
 
 And "bite my thumb" at Sheriff Bell. 
 
 The horse that twice a week I ride, 
 At Mother Dawson's 49 eats his fill ; 
 
 My books at Goodrich's 60 abide, 
 My country-seat is Weehawk hill ; 
 
312 ODE TO FORTUNE. 
 
 My morning lounge is Eastburn's shop, 
 At Poppleton's I take my lunch, 
 
 Niblo prepares my mutton-chop, 
 
 And Jennings 51 makes my whiskey-punch. 
 
 When merry, I the hours amuse 
 
 By squibbing Bucktails, Guards, and Balls, 
 And when I'm troubled with the blues, 
 
 Damn Clinton and abuse canals : 
 Then, Fortune ! since I ask no prize, 
 
 At least preserve me from thy frown ! 
 The man who don't attempt to rise, 
 
 'Twere cruelty to tumble down. 
 
 H. AND D. 
 
THE LOVE OF NOTORIETY. 
 
 |HERE are laurels our temples throb warmly to 
 
 claim, 
 
 Unwet by the blood-dripping fingers of War, 
 And as dear to the heart are the whispers of fame, 
 As the blasts of her bugle rang fiercely and far ; 
 The death-dirge is sung o'er the warrior's tomb, 
 
 Ere the world to his valor its homage will give, 
 But the feathers that form Notoriety's plume, 
 Are plucked in the sunshine, and live while we live. 
 
 There's a wonderful charm in that sort of renown 
 Which consists in becoming " the talk of the town ; " 
 'Tis a pleasure which none but your " truly great " feels, 
 To be followed about by a mob at one's heels ; 
 And to hear from the gazing and mouth-open throng, 
 The dear words " Thafs he," as one trudges along; 
 While Beauty, all anxious, stands up on tip-toes, 
 Leans on her beau's shoulder, and lisps " There he goes." 
 
 For this the young Dandy, half whalebone, half starch, 
 Parades through Broadway with the stiff Steuben march ; 
 A new species of being, created, they say, 
 By nine London tailors, who ventured one day 
 
314 THE LOVE OF NOTORIETY. 
 
 To cabbage a spark of Promethean fire, 
 
 Which they placed in a German doll latticed with wire, 
 
 And formed of the scarecrow a Dandy divine, 
 
 But mum about tailors I haven't paid mine. 
 
 And for this, little Brummagem mounts with a smile 
 
 His own hackney buggy, and dashes in style 
 
 From some livery stable to Cato's 62 Hotel, 
 
 And though 'tis a desperate task to be striving 
 
 With .these sons of John Bull in the science of driving, 
 
 We have still a few Jockies who do it as well. 
 
 There are two, "par example," 'tis joy to behold, 
 
 With their Haytian grooms trotting graceful behind 
 
 them, 
 In their livery jackets of blue, green, and gold, 
 
 Their bright varnished hats and the laces that bind 
 
 them: 
 The one's an Adonis, who, since the sad day 
 
 That he shot at himself 53 has been courted no more ; 
 The other's a name it were treason to say, 
 
 A very great man with "two lamps at his door" 
 
 H. 
 
AN ODE TO SIMEON DE WITT, ESQ., 
 
 SURVEYOR-GENERAL OF THE STATE OF NEW YORK. 
 
 When the Western District was surveyed, the power of naming its 
 townships was intrusted to the Surveyor-General. Fancying the Indian 
 appellations too sonorous and poetical, and conscious that his own ear was 
 not altogether adapted for the musical combination of syllables, this gentle- 
 man hit upon a plan which for laughable absurdity has never been paralleled, 
 except by the " Philosophy," "Philanthropy," and "Big Little Dry" sys- 
 tem of Lewis and Clarke. It was no other than selecting from Lempriere 
 and the " British Plutarch," the great names which these works commemo- 
 rate. This plan he executed with the most ridiculous fidelity, and reared 
 for himself an everlasting monument of pedantry and folly. 
 
 |F, on the deathless page of Fame, 
 
 The warrior's deeds are writ, 
 If that bright record bear the name 
 Of each whose hallowed brow might claim 
 
 The wreath of wisdom or of wit ; 
 If even they, whose cash and care 
 Have nursed the infant arts, be there, 
 
 What place remains for thee, 
 Who, neither warrior, bard, nor sage, 
 Has poured on this benighted age 
 
 The blended light of all the tttree ? 
 
 Godfather of the christened West ! 
 Thy wonder-working power 
 
316 ODE TO SIMEON DE WITT, ESQ. 
 
 Has called from their eternal rest 
 The poets and the chiefs who blest 
 
 Old Europe in her happier hour : 
 Thou givest to the buried great 
 A citizen's certificate ; 
 
 And, aliens now no more, 
 The children of each classic town 
 Shall emulate their sires' renown 
 
 In science, wisdom, or in war. 
 
 The bard who treads on Homer's earth 
 
 Shall mount the epic throne, 
 And pour, like breezes of the north, 
 Such spirit-stirring stanzas forth 
 
 As Paulding would not blush to own. 
 And he, who casts around his eyes 
 Where Hampderfs bright stone-fences rise, 
 
 Shall swear with thrilling joint, 
 As German 55 did "We yet are free, 
 And this accursed tax should be 
 
 Resisted at the bayonet's point ! " 
 
 What man, where Scipio's praises skip 
 
 From every rustling leaf, 
 But girds cdld iron on his hip, 
 With " Shoulder firelock ! " arms nis lip 
 
 And struts a bold militia chief! 
 And who that breathes where Cato lies, 
 
ODE TO SIMEON DE WITT, ESQ. 3x7 
 
 But feels the Censor spirit rise 
 
 At folly's idle pranks ? 
 With voice that fills the Congress halls, 
 " Domestic manufactures " bawls, 
 
 And damns the Dandies and the Banks ! 
 
 Behold ! where Junius town is set, 
 
 A Brutus is the judge ; B6 
 'Tis true he serves the Tarquin yet, 
 Still winds his limbs in folly's net, 
 
 And seems a very patient drudge. 
 But let the Despot fall, and bright 
 As morning from the shades of night, 
 
 Forth in his pride he'll stand, 
 The guard and glory of our soil, 
 A head for thought, a hand for toil, 
 
 A tongue to warn, persuade, command. 
 
 Lo ! Galen sends her Doctors round, 
 
 Proficients in their trade ; 
 Historians are in Livy found, 
 Ulysses, from her teeming ground 
 
 Pours politicians ready made ; 
 Fresh orators in Tully rise, 
 Nestor our counsellors supplies, 
 
 Wise, vigilant, and close ; 
 Gracchus our tavern-statesmen rears, 
 And Milton finds us pamphleteers, 
 
 As well as poets, by the gross. 
 
318 ODE TO SIMEON DE WITT, ESQ. 
 
 Surveyor of the Western plains ! 
 
 The sapient work is thine ; 
 Full-fledged, it sprang from out thy brains, 
 One added touch alone remains 
 
 To consummate the grand design : 
 Select a town and christen it 
 With thy unrivalled name De Witt ! 
 
 Soon shall the glorious bantling bless us 
 With a fair progeny of Fools, 
 To fill our colleges and schools 
 
 With tutors, regents, and professors. 
 
 H. AND D. 
 
TO E. SIMPSON, ESQ., 
 
 MANAGER OF THE PARK THEATRE. 67 
 
 | EAR Simpson, since the day is near 
 
 Destined to close your late campaign, 
 'Tis well to greet the coming year, 
 And learn how best you may appear 
 
 Before the public eye again. 
 One thing, at least, whate'er you do, 
 For Heaven's sake give us something new ! 
 For though your actors have not lost 
 
 One lightning-flash of Thespian fire, 
 Yet beauties that delight us most, 
 
 The wearied eye, in time, will tire, 
 'Tis thus the sated gaze of taste 
 
 Holland's 68 drop-curtain heedless passes ; 
 And thus the schoolboy loathes at last 
 
 His sugar-candy and molasses. 
 
 Now, if you will but take advice, 
 
 Bank-notes shall fall like summer rain, 
 
 And next year you and Mr. Price 
 
 May cut your cider for champagne. 
 
 Just hand your present corps down-stairs, 
 Disband them all, and then create 
 
320 TO E. SIMPSON, ESQ. 
 
 Another army from the Players 
 That figure on the stage of State. 
 
 A better set there cannot be 
 
 For clap-trap and stage trickery, 
 And they'll be well content to quit 
 
 Their present posts for higher pay ; 
 For if they but good salaries get, 
 
 It matters not what parts they play. 
 You'll have no quarelling about 
 The characters you deal them out ; 
 Their public acts too well have shown 
 They care but little for their own. 
 
 How nicely would Judge Spencer fit 
 
 For "Overreach" and "Bajazet; " 
 
 Van Buren, nimble, sly, and thin, 
 
 Would make a noble " Harlequin ; " 
 
 Clinton would play " King Dick the Surly," 
 
 The learned "Pangloss" and grave ''Lord Burleigh; " 
 
 Woodworth (whose name the Muse shall hallow) 
 
 Is quite at home in " Justice Shallow; " 
 
 And slippery, smooth-faced Tallmadge stands 
 
 A "Joseph Surface" at your hands. 
 
 Lo ! where the acting Council sits, 
 
 A grand triumvirate of wits, 
 
 Cut out express by Nature's chisel 
 
 For " Noodle, Doodle, and Lord Grizzle ; " 
 
TO E. SIMPSON, ESQ. 321 
 
 The Members who contrived to fill 
 The State purse from the steamboat-till, 
 Dressed out in turbans and white sleeves, 
 Would figure in the " Forty Thieves." 
 
 We'll linger with delighted grin 
 To see old Root in " Nippcrkin," 
 And gaze with reverential wonder 
 On Skinner's sapient face in " Ponder ! " 
 
 While Peter R , the jovial soul, 
 
 Will toss off Jobson's " brimming bowl," 
 
 Fit for a Senator to swim in ; 
 And bravos rung from half the town, 
 Would tell the fame of Walter Bowne, 
 
 In " Cacafogo " and old women. 
 
 Our City Aldermen, you know, 
 
 Are conjurors, ex officio j 
 
 And, with the Mayor in his silk breeches, 
 
 Would do for " Hecate and the witches." 
 
 Christian and Warner, long the scourges 
 
 Of Bucks and other " vagrom men," 
 Would find in " Dogberry and Verges" 
 
 Their very selves restored again. 
 
 Buckmaster, fat, and full of glee, 
 
 Might rival Cooke in "Jack Falstaff ; " 
 
 " Pistol " and " Bobadil " would be 
 Revived once more in Captain Hatf. 
 
322 TO E. SIMPSON; ESQ. 
 
 To classic Meigs, who soon, thank Heaven ! 
 
 In Congress, will illume the age, 
 The brightest wages should be given, 
 
 To trim the lamps and light the stage. 
 Van Wyck will play the " Giant Wife," 
 And " Death " in " Blue Beard " to the life ; 
 And surly German do, at least, 
 For " Bear " in " Beauty and the Beast." 
 
 Maxwell and Gardenier, you'll fix 
 
 With strong indentures, by all means ; 
 They're used to shifting politics, 
 
 And soon would learn to shift the scenes. 
 Bacon might bustle on in " Meddler," 
 Gilbert play new tricks in " Diddler," 
 
 Good honest Peter H. Wendover 
 In " Vortex " read his one speech over, 
 While Pell would strike the critics dumb, 
 A perfect miniature " Tom Thumb ; " 
 And Mitchill, as in all the past, 
 Talk Science, and cut corns in " Last." 
 
 H. AND D. 
 
THE COUNCIL OF APPOINTMENT AT 
 ALBANY. 
 
 | HERE'S magic in the robe of power, 
 Ennobling every thing beneath it ; 
 Its spell is like the Upas bower, 
 
 Whose air vt'fhpuffup all that breathe it. 
 Alike it charms the horse-hair tress 
 
 That Turkey's three-tailed Bashaws wear, 
 And hallows Clinton's levee-dress 
 Cut by the classic shears of Baehr. 59 
 
 Before its witchery, of late, 
 
 Our proudest politicians trembled, 
 When the five Heads that rule the State 
 
 Around the Council-board assembled. 
 There, arbiter of fates and fortunes, 
 
 Of brains it well supplied the loss, 
 Gave Bates 60 and Rosencrantz importance, 
 
 And made a gentleman of Ross. 
 
 'Tis vain to win a great man's name 
 Without some proof of having been one ; 
 
324 THE COUNCIL OF APPOINTMENT AT ALBANY. 
 
 And Killing's a sure path to fame, 
 Vide Jack Ketch and Mr. Clinton ! 
 
 Our Council well this path have trod, 
 Honor's immortal wreath securing ; 
 
 They've dipped their hatchets in the blood, 
 The patriot blood, of Mat Van Buren. 
 
 He bears, as every hero ought, 
 
 The mandate of the powers that rule 
 (He's higher game in view, 'tis thought, 
 
 All in good time ; the man's no fool). 
 With him, some dozens prostrate fall, 
 
 No friend to mourn, nor foe to flout them, 
 They die unsung, unwept by all, 
 
 For no one cares a sou about them. 
 
 Wortman and Scott may grace the bar again, 
 
 For them, a blest exchange we make ; 
 We've dignity in Ned McGareaghan, 
 
 And all, but that, in Jerry Drake. 
 And lo ! the wreath of withered leaves 
 
 That lately twined Van Buren's brow, 
 Oakley's pure, spotless hand receives ; 
 
 He's earned it 'tis no matter how. 
 
 Let office-holders cease to weep, 
 And put once more their gala-dress on ; 
 
THE COUNCIL OF APPOINTMENT AT ALBANY. 
 
 The Council's closed, and they may sleep 
 
 In quiet, till the winter session. 
 Since all, or in or out of place, 
 
 Wear Knavery's cloak or Folly's feather, 
 'Tis ours their ups and downs to trace, 
 
 And laugh at ins and outs together. 
 
 H. 
 
 325 
 
THE MILITIA OF THE CITY. 
 
 ]R. CLINTON, whose worth we shall know when 
 
 we've lost him, 
 Is delightfully free of his gifts, if they cost him 
 But little or nothing, like smiles and brevets ; 
 With what wonderful tact he appreciates merit 
 In bestowing on all our grown lads of high spirit 
 His parchment commissions and gold epaulettes ! 
 
 'Tis amusing to see these young nurslings of fame, 
 With their sashes of crimson and collars of flame ; 
 Their cocked hats enchanting their buttons divine, 
 And even the cloth of their coats superfine ! 
 Displaying, around us, their new tinsel riches, 
 As proud as a boy in his first pair of breeches. 
 
 Ah ! who does not envy their steps of delight, 
 Through the streets to their battle-drums prancing, 
 
 While scared at their " chimney-sweep " badges so 
 bright, 
 
 Cartmen, pigs, and old women, seek safety in flight, 
 As, in exquisite order, their lines are advancing ! 
 
 Long live the Militia ! from sergeant to drummer 
 They've the true soldier-aspect, chivalric and wild, 
 
THE MILITIA OF THE CITY. 327 
 
 In their clothes of more hues than the rainbow of sum- 
 mer, 
 
 Or the dress which the Patriarch wore when a child. 
 Unawed by court-martials, by fines or by fears, 
 They glow with the feelings of free Volunteers. 
 
 Yes ! long live the Militia ! that free school of glory 
 
 Where Mapes, Golden, and Steddiford took their 
 
 degree ; 
 Lives there a man who ne'er heard their proud story, 
 
 What an ignorant, unlettered cub he must be ! 
 From the Battery flag-staff their fame has ascended 
 
 To the sand-hills of Greenwich and plains of Bellevue 
 And the belles of Park Place for the palm have con- 
 tended 
 
 Of rewarding the feats they have promised to do ! 
 Let the poets of Europe still scribble as hard as 
 
 They please, of their Caesars and Bonys to tell 
 Be ours the bright names of Laight, Ward, and Bogar- 
 dus, 
 
 And that promising genius, the bold Colonel Pell. 
 
 H. 
 
AN ADDRESS 61 
 
 For the opening of the new Theatre, Sept. I, 1821, 
 to be spoken by Mr. Olliff. 
 
 IADIES AND GENTLEMEN : 
 
 Enlightened as you were, you all must know 
 Our playhouse was burnt down some time ago, 
 Without insurance. 'Twas a famous blaze, 
 Fine fun for firemen, but dull sport for plays ; 
 The proudest of our whole dramatic corps 
 Such warm reception never met before. 
 It was a woeful night for us and ours, 
 Worse than dry weather to the fields and flowers. 
 The evening found us gay as summer's lark, 
 
 Happy as sturgeons in the Tappan Sea ; 
 The morning, like the dove from Noah's ark, 
 
 As homeless, houseless, desolate as she. 
 
 But thanks to those who always have been known 
 To love the public interest, when their own 
 Thanks to the men of talent and of trade, 
 Who joy in doing well when they're well paid 
 Again our fireworn mansion is rebuilt, 
 Inside and outside, neatly carved and gilt, 
 
AN ADDRESS. 
 
 329 
 
 With best of paint and canvas, lath and plaster, 
 
 The Lord bless Beekman 8<J and John Jacob Astor ! 
 
 As an old coat, from Jenning's 6J patent screw, 
 
 Comes out clean scoured and brighter than the new ; 
 
 As an old head in Saunders' 63 patent wig, 
 
 Looks wiser than when young, and twice as big ; 
 
 As Mat Van Buren in the Senate-hall, 
 
 Repairs the loss we met in Spencer's fall ; 
 
 As the new Constitution will (we're told) 
 
 Be worth, at least, a dozen of the old, 
 
 So is our new house better than its brother, 
 
 Its roof is painted yellower than the other, 
 
 It is insured at three per cent, 'gainst fire, 
 
 And cost three times as much, and is six inches higher. 
 
 Tis not alone the house the prompter's clothes 
 Are all quite new, so are the fiddlers' bows ; 
 The supernumeraries are newly shaved, 
 New drilled, and all extremely well behaved 
 (They'll each one be allowed, I pause to mention, 
 The right of suffrage by the new Convention). 
 We've some new thunder, several new plays, 
 And a new splendid carpet of green baize. 
 So that there's naught remains to bid us reach 
 The topmost bough of favor, but a speech 
 A speech, the prelude to each public meeting, 
 Whether for morals, charity, or eating 
 A speech, the modern mode of winning hearts, 
 And power, and fame, in politics and arts. 
 
330 AN ADDRESS. 
 
 What made the good Monroe 64 our President ? 
 'Twas that through all this blessed land he went 
 With his immortal cocked hat and short breeches, 
 Dining wherever asked and making speeches. 
 What, when Missouri stood on her last legs, 
 Revived her hopes ? The speech of Henry Meigs. 6 
 What proves our country wise, learned, and happy ? 
 MitchilPs address to the Phi Beta Kappa. 
 What has convinced the world that we have men, 
 First with the sword, the chisel, brush, and pen, 
 Shaming all English rivals, men or madams ? 
 The " Fourth of July" speech of Mr. Adams. 
 Yes, if our managers grow great and rich, 
 And players prosper, let them thank my speech, 
 And let the name of Olliff proudly go 
 With Meigs and Adams, Mitchill and Monroe ! 
 
 H. 
 
EPISTLE TO ROBERT HOGBIN, ESQ., 
 
 Chairman of the Committee of Working-Men, etc., at 
 the Westckester Hotel, Bowery, Nov.,, 1830. 
 
 JR. HOGBIN, I work as a weaver of rhyme 
 And therefore presume with a working-man's 
 
 To address you as one I have liked for some time, 
 Though I know not (no doubt it's a fine one) your face. 
 
 There is much in a name, and I'll lay you a wager 
 (Two ale-jugs from Reynolds' 66 ), that Nature de- 
 
 signed, 
 When she formed you, that you should become the 
 
 drum-major 
 
 In that choice piece of music, the Grand March of 
 Mind. 
 
 A Hogbin ! a Hogbin ! how cheering the shout 
 Of all that keep step to that beautiful air, 
 
 Which leads, like the treadmill, about and about, 
 And leaves us exactly, at last, where we were ! 
 
 Yes, there's much in a name, and a Hogbin's so fit is 
 For that great moral purpose whose impulse divine 
 15 
 
332 EPISTLE TO ROBERT HOGBIN, ESQ. 
 
 Bids men leave their own workshops to work in com- 
 mittees, 
 
 And their own wedded wives to protect yours and 
 mine ! 
 
 That we working-men prophets are sadly mistaken, 
 If yours is not, Hogbin, a durable fame, 
 
 As lasting as England's philosopher Bacon, 
 Whom your ancestors housed, if we judge by his 
 name. 
 
 When the moment arrives that we've won the good fight, 
 And broken the chains of laws, churches, and mar- 
 riages, 
 
 When no infants are born under six feet in height, 
 And our chimney-sweeps mount up a flue in theii 
 carriages 
 
 That glorious time when our daughters and sons 
 Enjoy a blue Monday each day of the week, 
 
 And a clean shirt is classed with the mastodon's bones. 
 Or a mummy from Thebes, an undoubted antique-- 
 
 Then, then, my dear Hogbin, your statue in straw, 
 By some modern /Y^malion delightfully wrought, 
 
 Shall embellish the Park, and our youths' only law 
 Shall be to be Hogbins in feeling and thought. 
 
 H. 
 
LAMENTINGS. 
 
 ' I cannot but remember such things were, 
 And were most precious to me." 
 
 MACDUFF. 
 
 |H ! where are now the lights that shed 
 
 A lustre o'er my darkened hours, 
 The priests of pleasure's fane, who spread, 
 Each night beneath my weary head, 
 Endymion's moonlight couch of flowers ? 
 
 No more in chains of music bound, 
 
 I listen to those airy reels, 
 When quavering Philipps cuts around 
 Fantastic pigeon-wings of sound, 
 Like Byrne, 67 who, without touching ground, 
 
 Eleven times can cross his heels. 
 
 No longer Cooper's tongue of tongues, 
 Pumps thunder from his stormy lungs ; 
 
 Turner 68 has shut his classic pages, 
 Southward his face Magenis e * turns, 
 And for the halls of Congress spurns 
 
 The mansion of our civic sages. 
 
334 LAMENTINGS. 
 
 And Wallack, 69 too, no longer dips 
 
 In bathos, for the tragic prize ; 
 And Bartley, 69 a melalogue that slips 
 Melodious from her honeyed lips, 
 No more in murmured music dies. 
 
 Yet, though fell Fortune has bereft 
 My heart of all, one mode is left 
 
 In slumber's vision to restore 'em ; 
 Weekly I'll buy with pious pence, 
 A dose of opiate eloquence, 
 
 And sleep in quiet at the Forum. 
 
 D. 
 
TO QUACKERY. 
 
 [ODDESS ! for such thou art, who rules 
 
 This honest and enlightened city ; 
 True patroness of knaves and fools, 
 
 To thee we dedicate our ditty. 
 Whether in Barclay Street thou sittest, 
 
 Or, on papyrean pinions borne, 
 Dropping mercurial dews, thou flittest 
 Around thine own anointed Home : 70 
 
 Whether, arrayed in gown and band, 
 
 Thy pious zeal distributes Bibles, 
 Or, perched on Spooner's classic hand, 
 
 Writes merry eulogistic libels ; 
 Where'er we turn our raptured eyes, 
 
 We see this puffing generation, 
 Cheered by thy smile, propitious, rise 
 
 To profit, power, and reputation. 
 
 Then come, ye Quacks ! the anthem swell ; 
 
 Come, Allen, with thy lottery bills ; 
 Come, four-herbed Angelis, 70 who fell 
 
 From heaven in a shower of pills ; 
 Come, Geib, whose potent word creates 
 
 Prime analytical musicians ; 
 
236 T O QUACKERY. 
 
 And come, ye hosts that hold brevets 
 From Hosack's college of physicians. 
 
 And thou, botanic Hosack, bring 
 
 Thy poppy-breathing lips along ; 
 Thy name in steeple-bells shall ring, 
 
 Thou monarch of the motley throng. 
 Yet Mitchill may the votes estrange, 
 
 Or Doctor Clinton, to confound ye, 
 Again produce some queer melange 
 
 Of scientific Salmagundi. 
 
 Clinton ! the name my fancy fires, 
 
 I see him, with a sage's look, 
 Exhausting Nature, and whole quires 
 
 Of foolscap, in his wondrous book. 
 Columbia's genius hovers o'er him, 
 
 Fair Science, smiling, lingers near, 
 Encyclopaedias lie before him, 
 
 And Mitchill whispers in his ear. 
 
 Enough ! the swelling wave has borne 
 
 Upon its bosom chiefs and kings 
 From Mitchill, Clinton, Hosack, Horne, 
 
 One cannot stoop to meaner things. 
 Yet once again we'll raise the song, 
 
 And passing forums, banks, and brokers, 
 Join with the bubble-blowing throng, 
 
 Seize Quackery's pipe, and puff the Croakers. 
 
 D. 
 
TO THE DIRECTORS OF THE ACADEMY 
 OF ARTS. 
 
 ILLUSTRIOUS autocrats of taste ! 
 Inspectors of the wonders traced 
 By pencil, brush, or chisel ! 
 Accept a nameless poet's lay, 
 Who longs to twine a sprig of bay 
 Around his penny whistle. 
 
 Ye learned and enlightened few 
 Who keep the portal of virtu, 
 
 I pray you now unlock it, 
 And grant a peep, for all my pains, 
 Within your oil-bedaubed domains, 
 The Dome where now the poor in brains 
 
 Succeed the poor in pocket. 
 
 All honored be the rich repast 
 At which the sage decree was past 
 
 Of pauper health so tender, 
 Which sent the beggars to Bellevue, 
 And left the classic fame to you 
 
 And Scudder's Witch of Endor. 
 
338 TO THE DIRECTORS, ETC. 
 
 Obliging all, you fear no harm 
 From Disappointment's angry arm, 
 
 No cudgels, sneers, or libels ; 
 Alike you smile on worst and best, 
 From great Rubens and Quaker West, 
 
 To wooden cuts for Bibles. 
 
 Lo ! next the Gallic thunderbolt, 
 Some nameless, shapeless, ugly dolt, 
 
 His plastic phiz advances ; 
 And vestal footsteps lightly tread, 
 And Cupids sport around the head 
 
 Of gentle Doctor Francis. 
 
 While placed on high exalted pegs, 
 Apollo blushes for his legs, 
 
 And mourns his severed fingers ; 
 Some amorous wight, with passion drunk, 
 O'er Cytherea's headless trunk 
 
 Luxuriously lingers. 
 
 Here Danae rolls her humid eyes 
 To meet the ruler of the skies 
 
 In tricks that please old Satan ; 
 And there our eyes delighted trace 
 The scarlet coat and lily face 
 
 Of gallant Captain Creighton. 71 
 
TO THE DIRECTORS, ETC. 339 
 
 Here West's creative pencil shines, 
 And paints, in tear-compelling lines, 
 
 Polony's frenzied daughter ; 
 A hang-dog king, and sheepish queen, 
 And her, who looks as if she'd been 
 
 Just fished up from the water ! 
 
 Thy glories, too, are blazoned there, 
 King Ben's first-born immortal heir 
 
 Apparent to the pallet ; 
 Orlando weighs his cons and pros, 
 Forgetting quite his heedless toes 
 
 Are in the Phoca's gullet. 
 
 D. 
 
CUTTING. 
 
 [HE world is not a perfect one, 
 
 All women are not wise or pretty, 
 All that are willing are not won 
 
 More's the pity more's the pity ! 
 "Playing wall-flower's rather flat," 
 
 L'Allegro or Penseroso 
 Not that women care for that 
 But oh ! they hate the slighting beau so ! 
 
 Delia says my dancing's bad 
 
 She's found it out since I have cut her ; 
 She says wit I never had 
 
 I said she " smelt of bread and butter." 
 Mrs. Milton coldly bows 
 
 I did not think her baby " cunning ; " 
 Gertrude says I've little " NOUS " 
 
 I tired of her atrocious punning. 
 
 Tom's wife says my taste is vile 
 
 I condemned her macarony ; 
 Miss McLush, my flirt awhile, 
 
 Hates me I preferred her crony ; 
 
CUTTING. 341 
 
 Isabella, Sarah Anne, 
 
 Fat Estella, and one other, 
 Call me an immoral man 
 
 I have cut their drinking brother. 
 
 Thus it is be only civil- 
 Dance with stupid, short and tall 
 
 Know no line 'twixt saint and devil- 
 Spend your wit on fools and all 
 
 Simper with the milk-and-waters 
 Suffer bores, and talk of caps 
 
 Trot out people's awkward daughters 
 You may scandal 'scape perhaps ! 
 
 But prefer the wise and pretty 
 
 Pass Reserve to dance with Wit 
 Let the slight be e'er so petty. 
 
 Pride will never pardon it. 
 Woman never yet refused 
 
 Virtues to a seeming wooer 
 Woman never yet abused 
 
 Him who had been civil to her. 
 
 H. 
 
THE DINNER-PARTY. 
 
 |OHNNY. R * * * " gave a dinner last night, 
 
 The best I have tasted this season ; 
 The wine and the wit sparkled bright, 
 'Twas a frolic of soul and of reason. 
 For the guests there was Cooper 73 and Kean ; 74 
 
 Bishop Hobart 75 and Alderman Brasher, 76 
 Buchanan, 77 that foe to the Queen, 
 And Sherred the painter and glazier. 
 
 The beef had been warm, it is true, 
 
 But when we sat down it was colder ; 
 The wine when we entered was new ; 
 
 When we drank it, 'twas six hours older. 
 Mr. Kean, by-the-way, he's no dunce ; 
 
 His plate was so often repeating. 
 I thought he'd a genius at once 
 
 Not only fo* acting but eating. 
 
 Mr. Cooper, a sensible man, 
 
 Talked much of his scheme of rebuilding 
 The theatre on a new plan, 
 
 With fantastical carving and gilding. 
 
THE DINNER-PARTY. 343 
 
 Said he, '* I've a thought of my own : 
 
 Of the people, so stupid the taste is, 
 I could fill the new playhouse in June 
 
 If I only could furnish new faces." 
 
 In addition to those I have named, 
 
 Harry Cruger 78 was there in his glory, 
 That ci-devant jeitne homme so famed 
 
 In Paris but that's an old story. 
 And General .Lewis, 79 by Jove ! 
 
 With two vests, and a new fashioned eye-glass, 
 He looked like the young god of love 
 
 At distance beheld through a spy-glass. 
 
 I have read my first stanza again, 
 
 And find that for once I have erred : 
 For Robert and, Mat were the men, 
 
 Instead of Buchanan and Sherred. 
 Two Frenchmen, the best I have met, 
 
 At home in bad English and flummery, 
 Were there just to make up the set, 
 
 Together with Master Montgomery. 80 
 
 Jack Nicholson 81 wanted to come 
 With his pea-jacket on, but the ladies 
 
 Compelled him to leave it at home ; 
 So he wore, as becoming his trade is, 
 
344 THE DINNER-PARTY. 
 
 Two epaulets one on each arm, 
 
 And a sword, once of laurels the winner, 
 
 Ever ready, in case of alarm, 
 At carving a foe or a dinner. 
 
 Bishop Hobart said grace with an air 
 
 'Twould have done your heart good to have seen him, 
 And Lewis so sweetly did swear, 
 
 You'd have thought that the devil was in him. 
 And Alderman Brasher began 
 
 A song, but he could not go through it. 
 When Johnny R * * * asks me again 
 
 To a fdte by the Lord, I'll go to it ! 
 
 H. 
 
THE NIGHTMARE. 
 
 ' Sure he was sent from heaven express to be the pillar of the State ; 
 So terrible his name, 'Clintonian* nurses frightened children with it" 
 
 TOM THUMB. 
 
 | REAMING, last night, of Pierre Van Wyck 
 
 I felt the nightmare creeping o'er me ; 
 In vain I strove to speak or strike, 
 
 The horrid form was still before me ; 
 Till panting struggling to be free, 
 
 I raised my weak but desperate head, 
 
 And faintly muttered " John Targee ! " 
 
 When with a howl the goblin fled. 
 
 1 waked and cried in glad surprise : 
 
 " The man is found ordained by Fate 
 To break our bonds, and exorcise 
 
 The nightmare of the sleeping State. 
 He'll chase the demons great and small ; 
 
 They'll sink his withering gaze before. 
 Then rouse ! ye Sachems at the Hall, 
 
 And nominate him Governor. 
 
 " Up with the name on Freedom's cause, 
 Inscribe it, Bucktails, on your banner ; 
 
346 THE NIGHTMARE. 
 
 Fame's pewter trump shall sound applause, 
 And blasts from party's furnace fan her. 
 
 Pledge high his health in mugs of beer, 
 And, roaring like the boisterous sea, 
 
 Thunder in Clinton's frightened ear, 
 
 The conquering name of John Targee.! " 
 
 D. 
 
THE MODERN HYDRA. 
 
 | HERE is a beast sublime and savage, 
 
 The Hydra by denomination ; 
 Well doth he know his foes to ravage, 
 And barks and bites to admiration. 
 Fox wolf cat dog of each, at least, he 
 
 Has a full share, and never scants 'em ; 
 But what is strangest in this beast, he 
 
 Can make new heads whene'er he wants 'em. 
 
 But when our Tammany Alcides 
 
 Had tomahawked his head political, 
 Straight from the bleeding trunk, out slid his 
 
 Well-filled noddle scientifical. 
 Another comes another ! see 
 
 They rise in infinite variety ; 
 One cries aloud, " Free-school trustee ! " 
 
 The next exclaims, " Humane Society ! " 
 
 Behold the fourth bewhiskered big 
 A warlike cocked hat frowns upon it ; 
 
 The fifth uprears a doctor's wig, 
 
 The sixth displays the judgment-bonnet. 
 
348 THE MODERN HYDRA 
 
 Herculean Noah ! your strength you waste, 
 Reserve your furious cuts and slashes, 
 
 Till Satan stands beside the beast 
 With red-hot steel to sear the gashes. 
 
 D. 
 
THE TEA-PARTY. 
 
 [HE tea-urn is singing, the tea-cups are gay, 
 
 And the fire sparkles bright in the room of D. K. 
 For the first time these six months, a broom has been 
 
 there, 
 
 And the housemaid has brushed every table and chair ; 
 Drugs, minerals, books, are all hidden from view, 
 And the five shabby pictures are varnished anew ; 
 There's a feast going on, there's the devil to pay 
 In the furnished apartments of Doctor D. K. fc2 
 
 What magic has raised all this bustle and noise, 
 Disturbing the bachelor's still quiet joys ; 
 A pair of young witches have doomed them to death, 
 They are distant relations to those in Macbeth. 
 Not as ugly, 'tis true, but as mischievous quite, 
 And like them in teasing and talking delight ; 
 This morning they sent him a billet to say, 
 "To-night we take tea with you, Doctor D. K." 
 
 There is Mrs. J. D., 83 in her high glee and glory, 
 And E. McC., 84 with her song and her story; 
 
350 THE TEA-PARTY. 
 
 There's a smile on each lip, and a leer on each brow, 
 Arid they both are determined to kick up a row. . 
 They're mistaken for once, as they'll presently see, 
 For D. K.'s drinking whiskey w^h Langstaff and me : 
 They'll find the cage there, but the bird is away 
 Catch a weasel asleep, and catch Doctor D. K. 
 
 H. 
 
THE MEETING OF THE GROCERS. 
 
 |HE knights of the firkin are gathered around, 
 
 The rag-idols' rights to assert ; 
 Each gatherer pricks up his ears at the sound, 
 Town rags are advancing a penny a pound, 
 While country rags sink in the dirt. 
 
 Aghast stand the brokers the carrying- trade 
 
 Is lost if the butter-boys win 
 The farmers are quaking, the worst is dismayed, 
 Omnipotent Fundable trembles afraid, 
 
 And Wall Street is all in a din. 
 
 'Twasn't so when the banks in a body prepared 
 
 To cut their own corporate throats ; 
 And, biting their thumbs at the farmers, declared 
 To the thunderstruck dealers in butter and lard, 
 They would handle no more of their notes. 
 
 Oh, Fundable ! Fundable! look to thine own, 
 
 Now, now, let thy management shine ; 
 I fear the young Franklin will worry thee down, 
 And if all the bad paper be kicked out of town, 
 
 Dear Fundable ! where will be thine ? 
 
 D. 
 
THE KING OF THE DOCTORS. 85 
 
 |OW stately yon palace uplifts its proud head/ 6 
 Where Broadway and Barclay Street meet ; 
 Abhorring its old-fashioned tunic of red, 
 It shines in the lustre of chromate of lead, 
 And its doors open into the street ! 
 
 No longer it rings to the merry sleigh-bells, 
 The steeds' gallant neighings are o'er; 
 Instead of the pitchfork, we meet with scalpels, 
 And the throne of his medical majesty dwells 
 Where the horse-trough resided before. 
 
 Oh, David ! how dreadful and dire was the note, 
 
 When Rebellion beleaguered the place, 
 When the bull-dog of discord unbolted his throat, 
 And the hot Digitalis 87 unbuttoned his coat, 
 And doubled his fist in your face ! 
 
 Then Syncope seized thee ; all wild with affright 
 
 The Lord Chamberlain cried " God defend ye! " 
 Mac 8B swung his shillelah in hopes of a fight, 
 While the brave Surgeon-General 89 exclaimed in de- 
 light, 
 " Pugnatum est arte medendi." 
 
THE KING OF THE DOCTORS. 353 
 
 But your wars are all ended, you're now at your ease, 
 The Regents are bound for your debts ; 
 
 You may fleece your poor students as much as you 
 please, 
 
 Tax boldly, matriculate, double your fees, 
 You can pay off all scores in brevets. 
 
 So a health to your highness, and long may you reign, 
 
 O'er subjects obedient and true ; 
 If the snaffle won't hold them, apply the curb-rein ; 
 And if ever they prance, or go backward again, 
 
 May you horsewhip them all black and blue ! 
 
 D. 
 
TO THE BARON VON HOFFMAN, 80 
 
 Morrison's Hotel, Dublin , June 20, 1823. 
 
 | ARE WELL, farewell to thee, Baron von Hoff- 
 man, 
 
 Thus warbled a creditor over his wine, 
 Of unmeaning faces I've gazed on enough, man, 
 But never on one half as stupid as thine. 
 
 Oh, gay as the negro who trotted behind thee, 
 
 How light was thy heart till thy money was gone ! 
 
 But when all was gone, 'twas the devil to find thee ; 
 The nest still remained, but the eagle was flown. 
 
 Yet long upon Harlem's gray rocks and green high- 
 lands 
 
 Shall Burnham 91 and Cato remember the name 
 Of him who away in the far British Islands 
 
 Now lights his cigar at the blaze of his fame. 
 
 And still when the bell at the Coffee-House ringing 
 Assembles, of brokers, the young and the old, 
 
 The happiest there to his memory bringing 
 Thy frolics, shall swear when thy story is told. 
 
TO THE BARON VON HOFFMAN. 355 
 
 And Jacob, the tailor, as fondly he lingers 
 O'er the leaves of his ledger by night and by day, 
 
 Will count the sums due him from thee on his fingers, 
 And mournfully turn from their figures away. 
 
 Nor shall Carlo, 92 beloved of thy bosom, forget thee, 
 In his merriest hour at thy name he will start ; 
 
 By the side of his chaise and his horses he'll set thee, 
 Embalmed in the innermost shrine of his heart. 
 
 Farewell, farewell, while the spirit of evil 
 Has power in a creditor's bosom, we swear 
 
 To be with thee on earth if thou goest to the devil, 
 He is an old friend of ours, and will visit thee there. 
 
 Farewell, be it ours to embitter thy pillow 
 With thistles whose wounds are eternal and deep, 
 
 There are packets of letters afloat on the billow 
 
 That shall poison thy whiskey and torture thy sleep. 
 
 Around thee shall hover the constable gentry, 
 Those bloodhounds of law, ever thirsty and true 
 
 Worse foes than the Frenchmen who saw you a sentry 
 In a platoon of Dutchmen at red Waterloo. 
 
 We'll dine where the bailiffs in Bow Street are drinking, 
 And bribe all their clubs to be aimed at thy head ; 
 
 And when of thy snug German home thou art thinking, 
 Take out a ca. sa. and take thee out of bed. 
 
 ,6 H - 
 
A LAMENT FOR GREAT MEN DEPARTED. 
 
 Hung be the heavens with black." 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 HERE is a gloom on every brow, 
 A sadness in each face we see ; 
 The City Hall is lonely now, 
 
 The Franklin Bank looks wearily. 
 
 The Surgeons' Hall in Barclay Street, 
 
 Wears to the eye a ghastlier hue ! 
 And Staten Island's Summer-seat 
 
 Has lost its best attractions too ! 
 
 Well may we mourn a stage-and-four 
 
 (Our curse upon the rogue that drove it !) 
 
 From out our city lately bore 
 All that adorn, and grace, and love it. 
 
 Ah, little knew each scoundrel horse 
 
 How much they vexed, and grieved, and marred us ; 
 They cared not sixpence for the loss 
 
 We feel in Golden and Bogardus. 
 
A LAMENT FOR GREAT MEN DEPARTED. 
 
 And Doctor Mitchill, LL. D., 
 
 And Tompkins, Lord of Staten Island ! 
 Hushed be the strain of mirth and glee, 
 
 'Twere reason now to laugh or smile. 
 
 Long has proud Albany, elate, 
 Reared her two steeples 93 high in air, 
 
 And boasted that she ruled the State, 
 Because the Governor lives there. 
 
 But loftier now will be her tone 
 To know, within her walls are met 
 
 The brightest gems that ever shone 
 Upon a city's coronet. 
 
 Though heavy is our load of pain 
 To feel that Fate has so bereft us, 
 
 Some consolations yet remain, 
 For Dicky Riker still is left us ! 
 
 And Hope, with smile and gesture proud, 
 Points to a day of triumph nigh, 
 
 When, like a sunbeam from the cloud, 
 That dims awhile an April sky, 
 
 Our champions shall again return, 
 
 Their pockets with new honors crowded, 
 
35 g A LAMENT FOR GREAT MEN DEPARTED. 
 
 That every heart may cease to mourn, 
 And hats no more in crape be shrouded. 
 
 The Park shall throng with merry feet, 
 And boys and beauties hasten there, 
 
 To place the new Judge on his seat ! 
 And hail the great Bogardus, Mayor ! 
 
 a 
 
THE GREAT MORAL PICTURE. 04 
 
 [" Resolved that this Board will visit the Academy of Arts, for the pur- 
 pose of viewing a painting, now on exhibition there, from the pencil of Mr. 
 Rembrandt Peale, and that it be recommended to our fellow-citizens gener- 
 ally to go also."] 
 
 Extract from the Minutes of the Common Council, Dec. 26, 1820. 
 
 [EN the wild waters from the deluged earth 
 Retired, and Nature woke to second birth, 
 And the first rainbow met the patriarch's gaze, 
 In the blue west a pledge of better days ; 
 What crowded feelings of delight were his 
 In that bright hour of hope and happiness ! 
 What tears of rapture glistened in his eye, 
 His early tears forgot his life's long agony ! 
 
 So did the heart of Mr. Rembrandt Peale, 
 The "moral picture-painter," beat and feel, 
 When by the Mayor and Aldermen was passed 
 That vote which made his talent known at last, 
 And those wise arbiters of taste and fame 
 Pronounced him worthy of his Christian name. 
 
 Long did he linger anxiously, in vain, 
 Beside his painting in the classic fane 
 Of science (where, arranged by Scudder's hand, 
 The curiosities of every land, 
 
360 THE GREAT MORAL PICTURE. 
 
 From Babel brickbats, and the Cashmere goat, 
 Down to the famous Knickerbocker boat, 
 Applause and wonder from the gazer seek, 
 Aided by martial music once a week) 
 Long did he linger there, and but a few 
 Odd shillings his " Great Moral Picture " drew. 
 
 In vain the newspapers its beauties told, 
 
 In vain they swore 'twas worth its weight in gold, 
 
 In vain invoked each patriotic spirit, 
 
 And talked of native genius, power, and merit ; 
 
 In vain the artist threatened to lay by 
 
 His innate hope of immortality, 
 
 Grow rich by painting merely human faces, 
 
 Nor longer stay and starve in public places 
 
 All would not do his" work remained unseen, 
 
 Taste, Beauty, Fashion, talked of Mr. Kean ; 
 
 But of the Moral Picture not a word 
 
 From lips of woman or of man was heard. 
 
 The scene has changed, thanks to the Corporation, 
 And Peale has now a city's approbation. 
 "Resolved," the Council Records say, " that we 
 Untie the purse-strings of the Treasury, 
 Take out just five-and-twenty cents a head, 
 And by the Mayor in grave procession led, 
 Visit the Academy of Arts, and then, 
 Preceded by the Mayor walk back again." 
 
THE GREAT MORAL PICTURE. 361 
 
 Hide your diminished heads, ye sage Reviewers ! 
 Thank Heaven, the day is o'er with you and yours 
 No longer at your shrines will Genius bow, 
 For mayors and aldermen are critics now. 
 Alike to them the Crichtons of their age, 
 The painter's canvas, and the poet's page, 
 From high to low, from law to verse they stoop, 
 Judges of Sessions, Science, Arts, and Soup. 
 
 Time was, when Dr. MitchilPs word was law, 
 
 When monkeys, monsters, whales, and Esquimaux, 
 
 Asked but a letter from his ready hand, 
 
 To be the theme and wonder of the land. 
 
 That time is past, henceforth each showman's doom 
 
 Must be decided in the Council Room ; 
 
 A.nd there the city's guardians will decree 
 
 An artist's or an author's destiny, 
 
 Pronounce the fate of poem, song, or sonnet, 
 
 And shape the fashion of a lady's bonnet ; 
 
 Gravely determine when, and how, and where, 
 
 Brsted shall write, and Saunders shall cut hair, 
 
 'Till even the very buttons of a coat 
 
 B^ settled, like assessment laws, by vote. 
 
 H. 
 
GOVERNOR CLINTON'S SPEECH 
 
 At the opening of the New-York Legislature in January , 1825 
 
 ]O Tallmadge 95 of the Upper House, 
 
 And Crolius 96 of the lower, 
 After " non nobis, Domine," 
 Thus saith the Governor : 
 
 It seems by general admission, 
 
 That, as a nation, we are thriving ; 
 Settled in excellent condition, 
 
 Bargaining, building, and beehiving ; 
 That each one fearlessly reclines 
 
 Beneath his " fig-tree and his vines " 
 (The dream of philosophic man), 
 
 And all is quiet as a Sunday, 
 From Orleans to the Bay of Fundy, 
 
 From Beersheba to Dan. 
 
 I've climbed my country's loftiest tree, 
 And reached its highest bough, save one. 
 
 Why not the highest ? blame not me ; 
 "What man dare" do, I've done. 
 
GOVERNOR CLINTON'S SPEECH. -53 
 
 And though thy city Washington ! 
 
 Still mocks my eagle wing and eye, 
 Yet is there joy upon a throne 
 
 Even here at Albany. 
 For though but second in command, 
 
 Far floats my banner in the breeze, 
 A Captain-General's on the land, 
 
 An Admiral on the seas. 
 And if Ambition can ask more, 
 My very title Governor 
 
 A princely pride creates, . 
 
 Because it gives me kindred claims 
 To greatness with those glorious names 
 
 A Sancho and a Yates ! 
 
 As party spirit has departed, 
 
 This life to breathe and blast no more, 
 The patriot and the honest-hearted 
 
 Shall form my diplomatic corps. 
 The wise, the wittiest, the good, 
 
 Selected from my band of yore, 
 My own devoted band, who've stood 
 Beside me, stemming faction's flood 
 
 Like rocks on Ocean's shore 
 Men, who, if now the field were lost, 
 
 Again would buckle sword and mail on. 
 Followed by them, themselves a host, 
 Haines, 97 Hurtell, Herring, Pell, and Post, 
 Judge Miller, Mumford, and Van Wyck, 
 
364 GOVERNOR CLINTON'S SPEECH. 
 
 'Tis said I look extremely like 
 
 A Highland chieftain with his tail on. 
 
 A clear and comprehensive view 
 Of every thing in art or nature, 
 
 In this, my opening speech, is due 
 To an enlightened Legislature. 
 
 I therefore have arranged with care, 
 In orderly classification, 
 
 The following subjects, which should share 
 Your most mature deliberation : 
 
 Physicians, senators, and makers 
 
 Of patent medicines and machines, 
 The train-bands and the Shaking Quakers. 
 
 Forts, colleges, and quarantines ; 
 Debts, cadets, coal-mines, and canals, 
 
 Salt the Comptroller's next report, 
 Reform within our prison walls, 
 
 The customs and the Supreme Court ; 
 Delinquents, juvenile and gray, 
 
 Schools, steamboats, justices of peace 
 Republics of the present day, 
 
 And those of Italy and Greece ; 
 Militia-officers, and they 
 
 Who serve in the police 
 Madmen and laws, a great variety, 
 The horticultural society, 
 
GOVERNOR CLINTON'S SPEECH. 365 
 
 The rate of interests and of tolls, 
 The numbering of tax-worthy souls, 
 
 Roads and a mail three times a week, 
 From where the gentle Erie rolls 
 
 To Conewango Creek. 
 
 These are a few affairs of state 
 
 On which I ask your reasoning powers, 
 
 High themes for study and debate, 
 For closet and for caucus hours. 
 
 This is my longest speech, but those 
 
 Who feel, that, like a cable's strength 
 
 Its power increases with its length, 
 Will weep to hear its close. 
 Weep not, my next shall be as long, 
 And that, like this, enbalmed in song, 
 Will be, when two brief years are told, 
 
 Mine own no longer, but the Nation's, 
 With all my speeches, new and old, 
 And what is more, the place I hold, 
 
 Together with its pay and rations. 
 
 H. 
 
NO TES. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 (1) Page 13. MARCO BOZZARIS, one of the best and bravest of the mod- 
 ern Greek chieftains. He fell in a night attack upon the Turkish camp at 
 Laspi, the site of the ancient Plataea, August 20, 1823, and expired in the 
 moment of victory. 
 
 (2) Page 18. ALNWICK CASTLE, Northumberlandshire, a seat of the 
 Puke of Northumberland. Written in October, 1822, after visiting the 
 " Home of the Percy's high-born race." 
 
 (3) Page 20. From him -wJw once his standard set. One of the an- 
 cestors of the Percy family was an Emperor at Constantinople. 
 
 (4) Page 20. Fought for King George at Lexington. The late duke. 
 He commanded a detachment of the British army, in the affair at Lexington 
 and Concord, in 1775. 
 
 (5) Page 21. From royal Berwick' s beach of sand. Berwick was for- 
 merly a principality. Richard II. was styled " King of England, France, 
 and*Ireland, and Berwick-upon-Tweed." 
 
 (6) Page 30. WYOMING. The allusion in the following stanzas can be 
 understood by those only who have read Campbell's beautiful poem, 
 " GERTRUDE OF WYOMING : " but who has not read it ? 
 
 (7) Page 46. " RED JACKET " appeared originally in 1828, soon after 
 the publication of Mr. Cooper's " NOTIONS OF THE AMERICANS." 
 
 (8) Page 57. MAGDALEN. Written in 1823, for a love-stricken young 
 officer on his way to Greece. The reader will have the kindness to pre- 
 sume that he died there. 
 
 (9) Page 87. Lieut. ALLEN. He commanded the U. S. sloop-of-wai 
 Alligator, and was mortally wounded on the gth of November, 1822, in an 
 
370 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 action with pirates, near Matanzas, in the Island of Cuba. His mother, a 
 few hours after hearing of his death, died literally of a broken heart. 
 
 (10) Page 89. WALTER BOWNE, then, and for two years previous, a 
 Senator at Albany, and member of the Council of Appointment. He was 
 afterward Mayor of New York, where he died in August, 1846. 
 
 (n) Page 93. During the second war with Great Britain, Mr. Halleck 
 joined a New- York infantry company, " Swartwout's gallant corps, the 
 Iron Grays," as he afterward wrote in " Fanny," and excited their martial 
 ardor by this spirited ode. Among the few survivors of this much-admired 
 corps, are Gouverneur S. Bibby, Stephen Cambreleng, Dr. Edward Dela- 
 field, Hickson W. Field, James W. Gerard, and Charles W. Sandford. 
 
 (12) Page 96. CONTOIT'S GARDEN, open to the public under the au- 
 spices of a Frenchman of that name, on the west side of Broadway, between 
 Leonard and Franklin Streets. 
 
 (13) Page 96. MADAME SAINT MARTIN, the proprietress of a milliner's 
 and perfumery shop on Broadway, next door to the Garden. 
 
 (14) Page 97. The " OPERA FRANCAIS," a name given during the 
 summer season, while occupied by a troupe of French actors from New 
 Orleans, to the Chatham Garden Theatre of Mr. Palmo, situated on the 
 west side of Chatham Street, between Duane and Pearl. The " Opera " 
 was a place of fashionable resort, and patronized particularly by the distin- 
 guished personages named Mrs. President J. Q. Adams and Joseph Bona- 
 parte, ex-King of Spain. The three " danseuses" mentioned were among 
 the principal performers attached to the Opera. 
 
 (15) Page 97. " SWAMP PLACE," a name given, either in jest or ear- 
 nest, to a plot of ground in the neighborhood of Jacob and Ferry Streets, 
 near which some medical Columbus of the time had found or fancied a 
 mineral spring of imperishable merit. Unfortunately, it proved itself to be 
 less than a " nine days' wonder," by vanishing one morning, like a dream. 
 
 (16) Page 98. The names of John Quincy Adams, Henry Clay, 
 De Witt Clinton, Andrew Jackson, and Daniel Webster, which occur on 
 this page, belong to history. 
 
 (17) Page 98. The "ANNUAL REGISTER," edited by Joseph Blunt, a 
 young lawyer of ability. The pub'icaticn then in progress, was soon after 
 discontinued. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 371 
 
 Stanza i. " FANNY. "^Of this young lady and her worthy father, to 
 whose exemplary and typical career the author was indebted for the theme 
 of his story, we are not permitted to reveal more han that they wish to be 
 known and remembered only in the words from Milton, on the title-page, 
 among 
 
 " Gay creatures of the element, 
 That in the colors of the rainbow live, 
 And play in the plighted clouds." 
 
 Stanza 6, etc. Doctors MITCHILL, HOSACK, and FRANCIS, then (1819) 
 eminent physicians in New York, highly distinguished, not only in their 
 profession, and as authors of popular works connected with medicine and 
 general knowledge, but as active and useful leaders in the social, literary, and 
 scientific institutions of the city. Doctor Mitchill, moreover, had won the 
 name of a philosopher by his frequent discoveries, more or less important, in 
 geology and other conjectural sciences. 
 
 Stanza 8, etc. JAMES K. PAULDING, one of the best and most popular 
 of early American authors. The quotation is from his poem, "The Back- 
 woodsman," then recently published. He afterward rose, or fell, from 
 literature to politics, and became navy agent at New York, and Secretary of 
 the Navy during President Van Buren's administration. 
 
 Stanza 13. The " MODERN SOLOMON," a nom* de plume given to Mr. 
 Lang by the pleasantry of his brethren of the press. The front door of his 
 office was surmounted by the figure-head of his assumed prototype, Doctor 
 Franklin, mentioned in stanza 49. The bust and statue therein named as 
 specimens of the fine arts in America at the period were to be seen, the one 
 in plaster at the Academy of Arts (stanza 51), the one in wax at Scudder's 
 Museum (stanza 68). Poor McDonald Clarke, the mad poet of New York, 
 having been called in Lang's paper a person with " zig-zag brains," imme- 
 diately responded in the following neat epigram : 
 
 " I can tell Johnny Lang, in the way of a laugh, 
 In reply to his rude and unmannerly scrawl, 
 That in my humble sense it is better by half 
 To have brains that are zig-zag than to have none at all." 
 
 Stanza 16, etc. CADWALLADER D. GOLDEN, then Mayor of the city, 
 before whose door, in accordance with immemorial usage, two prominent 
 lamps were placed, in token of his magisterial position, to remain during 
 and after his mayoralty. His residence, and the office of Mr. Lang, the 
 editor of the New- York Gazette (see stanzas n and 49), were in the neigh- 
 borhood of Pearl Street and Hanover Square. 
 
 Stanza 23. DOMINICK LYNCH, a popular importer of French wines, who 
 ranked among the prominent merchants of the city. He was well known 
 
372 NOTES. 
 
 in social circles by his elegant entertainments at his residence, No. i Green- 
 wich Street One of his sons sang Moore's melodies with taste and deep 
 feeling. 
 
 Stanza 25. JOHN BRISTED, an English gentleman, then recently arrived 
 in America. He was a graduate of Oxford University, a highly accom- 
 plished scholar, and the author of several ably-written works on various 
 topics, published in New York, among them the one entitled "The 
 Resources of Great Britain in Time of Peace," alluded to in stanza 141. 
 He married a daughter of John Jacob Astor. 
 
 Stanza 29. Monsieur GUILLE, an aeronaut, recently from France, whose 
 balloon ascensions, then a rare and exciting exhibition, had proved a failure. 
 
 Stanza 32. DAVID GELSTON, the collector of the customs. 
 
 Stanza 38, etc. DE WITT CLINTON, then Governor of the State of New 
 York; MARTIN VAN BUREN, then its Attorney-General, afterward Presi- 
 dent of the United States ; and DANIEL D. TOMPKINS, Vice-President of the 
 United States. These prominent and popular statesmen require no intro- 
 duction to the reader. 
 
 Stanza 39, etc. The "NATIONAL ADVOCATE," a daily newspaper, con- 
 ducted by Mordecai M. Noah, a veteran editor, highly distinguished in the 
 political strife of words, for wielding, alike powerfully and playfully, the pen 
 of a "ready writer." As the champion of a party (his party, for the time 
 being), he was a faithful friend and a formidable antagonist. He was 
 favorably known as the author of an interesting book of travels in Europe, 
 etc., and of several dramas successful on the stage. 
 
 " PELL'S POLITE REVIEW." A political pamphlet, by Ferris Pell, an 
 enterprising young lawyer and politician. 
 
 Stanza 47. CHRISTIAN BAEHR, one of the fashionable tailors of the 
 period, and a colonel in the militia. 
 
 Stanza 51. S. & M. ALLEN and WAITE & Co. (see stanza 55), dealers 
 in lottery tickets. 
 
 " THE ACADEMY OF ARTS." A society of artists and amateurs, among 
 whose presiding officers and patrons, Doctor Hosack, John G. Bogart (see 
 stanza 49), and Colonel Trumbull, the celebrated painter, were honorably 
 conspicuous. On the formation, soon after, of the present " National Acad- 
 emy of- the Arts of Design," it ceased to exist 
 
 Stanza 52. "CULLEN'S MAGNESIAN SHOP." A soda-water, etc., 
 establishment, on the corner of Broadway and Park Place, rivalled in its 
 embellishments by the cottage of Mr. Gautier, at Hoboken, near the ferry. 
 
 "The EUTERPIAN SOCIETY." An association of amateur musicians 
 occasionally giving public concerts. 
 
NOTES. 373 
 
 Stanza 53. Doctor WM. JAMES McNEVEN. One of the ablest and 
 purest of the banished Irish patriots of '98. His excellent personal charac- 
 ter, without reference to political antecedents, insured him a warm recep- 
 tion in New York, and soon placed him among the most cherished of her 
 adopted citizens. His monument stands in St Paul's Churchyard, New 
 York, near that of his friend Thomas Addis Emmet 
 
 Doctor QUACKENBOS, in spite of his name, a young physician in good 
 repute. 
 
 " THE FORUM." A society of young and promising lawyers and others 
 emulating the " Speculative Society " of Edinburgh. Their meetings for 
 debate weie public, and drew flattering and fashionable audiences. 
 
 Stanza 54. Doctor JOHN L. GRAHAM. The Nestor of the New-York 
 bar. His legal merits had gained him the diploma of Doctor of Laws. He 
 was among the last of the gentlemen of the " old school," and remarkable 
 for the courtesy and dignity of his manners. 
 
 Stanza 55. Doctor GEORGE T. HORNE. An advertising physician of 
 New- York City. The motto at the head of his advertisements was " Salus 
 Populi Supremo. Lex." 
 
 Stanza 60. SAMUEL WOODWORTH, etc. Popular authors of the period, 
 then and previously beginning an honorable literary career. 
 
 Stanzas 64 and 65. " GENERAL LAIGHT'S BRIGADE OF STATE MILITIA." 
 A "corps d'armee" quite distinct from the uniformed volunteer com- 
 panics of the time, and one that Falstaff " would not march through Coven- 
 try with." Its officers were the young aristocracy of the city, but its 
 soldiers were men or boys, who, either from choice or necessity, declined 
 paying a fine of twenty-five dollars for non-attendance on parade days 
 three times a year the penalty imposed by the then existing militia law. 
 
 Stanza 66. Monsieur CHARLES. The travelling magician and conjurer 
 of the time. 
 
 AMBROSE SPENCER. Then Chief Justice of the State, a judge uni- 
 versally respected for integrity and ability in the discharge of his official 
 duties, but accused by his political opponents of exercising in party politics 
 a controlling power injurious to their interests. 
 
 MEAD'S " WALL STREET," a drama whose characters were designed tt 
 be played by STOCK actors only. 
 
 Stanza 68. Doctor JOHN GRISCOM. A highly-esteemed Quaker phy- 
 sician then delivering lectures upon chemistry, etc. His office was in the 
 building called the " Old Aims-House," situated in the rear of the City Hall, 
 facing Chambers Street Its rooms facing Broadway were occupied by 
 the museum of John Scudder, the "illustrious predecessor" of the 
 
374 NOTES. 
 
 late world-renowned showman P. T. Barnum. Among its attractions was 
 the band of music commemorated in stanza 175. 
 
 Stanza 71. TAMMANY HALL, comer of Nassau and Frankfort Streets. 
 Then the home of the " Saint Tammany Society," whose members still 
 claim to represent, par excellence, the Democratic party of the country in its 
 pristine purity. Their once famous appellation of "Bucktails" (see stanza 
 83), was derived from their custom of wearing, when on duty, a deer's tail in 
 their hats as a badge of membership. Among their leading Sachems were 
 William Mooney (stanza 78) and John Targee (see stanzas 72, etc). The 
 latter gentleman, from his steadfast refusal to accept a money-making office 
 in the gift of the society, an example of self-denial previously unrecorded in 
 their annals, became a sort of mythical personage, like Shakespeare's 
 " Cuckoo in June," " ne'er seen but wondered at." The fact, however, 
 enlarged upon in stanzas 73, etc., of his political and musical intimacy with 
 Tom Moore, is one that, in the newspaper phrase, wants confirmation. 
 The Tammany Hall of 1819 is now known as the Sun Building, the 
 Society having erected a more spacious edifice in Fourteenth Street, for- 
 mally opened on the Fourth of July, 1868. Here the Democratic Convention 
 was held which nominated Horatio Seymour, of New York, for President, 
 and Francis P. Plair, Jr., of Missouri, as their candidate for the Vice-Presi- 
 dency of the United States. 
 
 Song, Page 124. WILLIAM B. COZZENS. Then the proprietor of the 
 " Tammany Hall Hotel " more recently of the princely establishment at 
 West Point known by his name, and now conducted by his son. 
 
 Stanza 81. SYLVANUS MILLER. An active and influential party 
 leader, for many years surrogate of the city, and a gentleman who was 
 never seen without his inseparable companion a cigar. As a smoker, he 
 even excelled General Grant. 
 
 Stanza 84. Judge SKINNER and Mr. MC!NTYRE. Members of the 
 State Senate. The one a political opponent of Governor Clinton, the 
 other of ex-Governor Daniel D. Tompkins. 
 
 Stanza 86. HENRY MEIGS and PETER H. WENDOVER. Members of 
 Congress from the city. . The former one of the original founders of the 
 " American Institute," and for a long time its secretary. To the latter is 
 owing the invention of the present legal arrangement of the stars and 
 stripes in the United States flag. 
 
 Stanza 90. Captain RILEY'S book. A somewhat Munchausen-like 
 
 narrative of his shipwreck on the coast of Africa. 
 
 Stanza 91. " DELAPLAINE'S REPOSITORY." A biographical work 
 published in Philadelphia, valuable for its engraved portraits of the most 
 distinguished men of the day. 
 
NOTES. 375 
 
 Stanza 92. DANIEL D. TOMPKINS. Then a resident of Staten Island. 
 
 Stanza 93. " THE TURTLE CLUB." From New York, whose frequent 
 open-air festivities, at Hoboken, were devoted to punch and politics. 
 
 Stanza 107. SIMON THOMAS. A man of color, the orthodox and omni- 
 present caterer for fashionable dinner and supper parties. 
 
 Stanza 114. THOMAS WHALE. An eminent dancing-master, and a fine 
 specimen of the old-school gentleman. He always appeared in knee- 
 breeches and silk stockings, and was a constant reader at the Society Li- 
 brary, of which venerable institution he was a member. 
 
 Stanza 116. EDMUND SIMPSON and JAMES W. WALLACK, managers of 
 the city theatres, and actors highly esteemed, then and now. 
 
 Stanza 118. The "CROAKERS " see note, page 377. 
 
 " WOODWORTH'S CABINET." A periodical conducted by the poet of the 
 name. 
 
 The "NEW SALMAGUNDI." A continuation, by James K. Paulding, 
 of a work under a similar title, published in 1808, the joint production of 
 himself and his friend Washington Irving. 
 
 Stanza 124. Madame BOUQUET and Monsieur PARDES$US. The 
 fashionable milliner and ladies' slipper-maker of the day. 
 
 Stanza 138. Mr. R. P. LAWRENCE. A coach-maker in John Street. 
 Stanza 140. DE WITT CLINTON. Governor of the State of New York. 
 
 Stanza 141. " EASTBURN'S ROOMS," in the building occupied by James 
 Eastburn & Co., booksellers and publishers, on the corner of Broadway 
 and Pine Street a favorite resort of men of letters and leisure. Bishop 
 Eastburn, of the Episcopal Church, and James W. Eastburn, the young 
 poet, who died at twenty-two, are sons of the worthy bookseller, for whom 
 Mr. Halleck entertained a great friendship, and to whose reading-room he 
 was a constant visitor. 
 
 Stanza 144. The " LYCEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY." An association 
 of men of science, and patronized by the most highly cultivated of the city 
 scholars, still existing. 
 
 Stanza 172. The "COUNCIL OF APPOINTMENT" at Albany. Then an 
 important department of the State government, abolished upon the revision 
 of the Constitution in 1821, having become a notorious political machine. 
 
 Stanza 173. Colonel AARON BURR, then Vice-President of the United 
 States, the theme of one of the most interesting episodes in American 
 history. 
 
376 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 THE RECORDER. 
 
 (1) Page 161. RICHARD RIKER. The Recorder of the city at the date 
 of the poem. A gentleman of great merit, who had previously filled, and 
 continued to fill through life, offices of the highest trust. In the poem he 
 is sportively made to appear, not in his excellent and estimable personal 
 character, but as the "burden of a merry song "--the embodied represent- 
 ative of a party leader, and of party men in general, in their proverbial 
 obnoxiousness. Like the scape-goat of antiquity, he is forced to bear the 
 sins of others, not his own, and is "sent out into the wilderness of criticism," 
 with a heavy load of them upon his innocent shoulders. In the duel 
 alluded to on page 162, which took place early in his political career, the 
 result of a political difference of opinion between him and his antagonist, 
 General Robert Swartwout, Mr. Riker was slightly wounded. 
 
 (2) Page 165. A sculptor, rather mechanical than artistic, famous, 
 for a time, for moulding the busts of notorious men into the immortality of 
 plaster in lieu of marble. 
 
 (3) Page 165. "GARDEN FLOWERS." An allusion to those of Mr. 
 William Prince, near Flushing, Long Island. 
 
 (4) Page 169. A favorite French air. In English, " Where can one be 
 more happy than in the bosom of one's family ? " 
 
 (5) Page 169. NATHANIEL PITCHER, then Governor of the State, 
 accused, in like manner, of being under the political control of Martin 
 Van Buren, then on his way to the presidency of the United States. 
 
 (6) Page 169. "BURGUNDY AND BUSINESS." Mr. Riker was a direc- 
 tor in the Tradesmen's Bank, and " ex cffitio " a. visitor to the Sing-Sing 
 Prison, the Bellevue Hospital, etc., and was accused, by his party 
 opponents, of making the civic and social meetings there, of himself and 
 his colleagues, subservient to party purposes. 
 
 (7) Page 169. The " PEWTER MUG." The sign conspicuous over the 
 door of a tavern in Frankfort Street, in the rear of Tammany Hall, the 
 frequent resort of politicians in general, and of the Tammany-Hall party in 
 particular. 
 
 (8) Page 170. An allusion to Philip Hone, then the LATE Mayor of 
 the city, recently, by the party rule of rotation, displaced from an office in 
 which for several preceding years he had won, by his conduct as an upright 
 magistrate, and a noble and generous man, "honor, love, obedience, 
 troops of friends," from the highest as well as from the humblest of his con- 
 stituents. 
 
 (9) Page 171. HILLHOUSE, BRYANT, and HALLECK. Three names 
 
NOTES. 377 
 
 honestly drawn out from a lottery comprising those of the thirty-seven city 
 poets, and impartially representing the whole lot Where the writings ol 
 all were of equal value, choice was impossible, and chance the only arbiter 
 except the account-sales of their several publishers a class of accountants 
 whose hieroglyphics are proverbially difficult to decipher. 
 
 (10) Page 172. STEPHEN ALLEN, BENJAMIN BAILEY, and JOHN TAR- 
 GEE, prominent members of the Tammany Society. Mr. Allen became in 
 after-years Mayor of the city. 
 
 (u) Page 173. Signorina GARCIA, then attached to her father's opera 
 company, soon after to become the world-renowned and lamented cantatrice 
 
 THE CROAKERS. 
 
 (1) Page 253. A signature adopted by Halleck and Drake, from an 
 amusing character in Goldsmith's comedy of " The Good-natured Man," 
 and attached to a series of verses appearing from time to time in the New- 
 York Evening Post, and in other periodicals, in and after the month of 
 March, 1819. The letters H. and D. represent the names of Fitz-Greene 
 Halleck and Joseph Rodman Drake, and indicate the respective authorship 
 of the poems. 
 
 (2) Page 255. FITZ and LANG, the names abbreviated of Fitz-Greene 
 Halleck and Dr. William Langstaff, intimate friends of the writer, and in 
 daily intercourse with him. The latter studied medicine with Drs. Bruce 
 and Romayne, Drake and DeKay being fellow-pupils. Langstaff not being 
 successful as a physician, his friend Henry Eckford aided him in establish- 
 ing an apothecary and drug store at No. 360 Broadway, which business he 
 carried on for many years. By the liberality of the same gentleman Lang- 
 staft accompanied Dr. and Mrs. Drake in their tour through Europe in 
 1818. 
 
 (3) Page 255." Lady MORGAN and Madame DE STAEL." The 
 "France" of the one, and the "French Revolution" of the other, had 
 been recently published. 
 
 (4) Page 256. " GUARDSMEN," the Governor's Guard. A company 
 of young gentlemen, in scarlet and gold, commanded by James B. Murray, 
 then an active and able young merchant ; in after-life an alderman of the 
 city, and among her most public-spirited magistrates. 
 
 (5) Page 256. " ALTORF." A drama founded on the tradition of 
 WilHam Tell, and unsuccessfully played at the Park Theatre. Its author, 
 Miss Fanny Wright, a Scottish lady, was for a time a public lecturer on 
 morals and religion, from a somewhat infidel point of view. Her chief 
 theme was "just knowledge," which she pronounced " joost nolidge." 
 
378 NOTES. 
 
 (6) Page 256. "SPOONER and BALDWIN," editors of newspapers, the 
 one in Brooklyn, the other in New York. The former had quoted in his 
 columns the three words alluded to from the chorus to a song, to the tune 
 of " Yankee Doodle," gracing a comic and comical opera, entitled the 
 " Saw-mill " the work of Mr. Micah Hawkins, a merry and musical genius 
 from Long Island performed once, and, I believe, but once, at the Chatham 
 Garden Theatre. 
 
 (7) Page 256. Chief- Justice MARSHALL, of the United States Supreme 
 Court, whose recent decision had denied the validity of the New- York State 
 Insolvent Laws. 
 
 (8) Page 25 7. General JACKSON, since President of the United States, 
 on his first visit to New York. At the dinner with which he was welcomed 
 (see the " Secret Mine ") by the Tammany Society, its Grand Sachem, Mr. 
 Mooney, eloquently assured him that, at the announcement of his intended 
 visit, the hearts of its members had "expanded to explosion." In reply to 
 which the General gave as a toast, " De Witt Clinton, the Governor of the 
 great and patriotic State of New York." As a large proportion of the 
 guests were bitterly opposed to Mr. Clinton in politics, a compliment so 
 flattering to him alike surprised and annoyed them. The gentlemen named 
 in the verses were all prominent leaders in the two adverse parties, and 
 designated, by their approval or non-approval of tile toast, their party 
 attachments. 
 
 (9) Page 257. JOHN WESLEY JARVIS, the popular portrait-painter of 
 the day, a favorite of his patrons and of many social circles for his genial 
 drollery of song and story. Most of the portraits of our officers, civil and 
 military, then winning honorable distinction, and now gracing our public 
 halls and chambers, we owe to his admired and admirable pencil. Hal- 
 leek's portrait, painted by Jarvis for Dr. DeKay (now in the possession of 
 Drake's daughter, Mrs. Commodore DeKay), is by many esteemed the 
 best likeness we have of the poet 
 
 (10) Page 257. BARTHOLOMEW SKAATS, or " BARTY SKAATS," as he 
 was familiarly known superintendent and curator of the City Hall, and 
 for many years crier of the courts which were held in the old City Hall in 
 Wall Street 
 
 (n) Page 260. "ALECK," the name of Alexander Hamilton abbre- 
 viated, a member of the Legislature at the time, and especially opposed to 
 Mr. Clinton ; the eldest son of the illustrious soldier and statesman of the 
 same name, whose death, a few years previous, in the duel with Colonel 
 Burr, had put the hearts of his countrymen in mourning. 
 
 (12) Page 261. Major-General MORTON, commanding the militia of 
 the city. In dignity and courtesy, a worthy representative of the old 
 
NOTES. 379 
 
 school, and retaining in many respects its costume, particularly in the 
 arrangement of his hair. 
 
 (13) Page 262. CHARLES KING. The lately lost and lamented presi 
 dent of Columbia College ; her model of an accomplished scholar and 
 gentleman. In early life an aide to a military commander. 
 
 ROBERT BAYARD. A young officer in a similar military position. He 
 was one of the firm of Le Roy, Bayard, and McEve'-s, prominent mer- 
 chants of New York, and a brother-in-law of the late General Stephen Van 
 Rensselaer. Mr. Bayard is still a resident of this city. 
 
 (14) Page 263. " SAMUEL SWARTWOUT " (see previous note). He 
 was for a time the proprietor of the meadows between Weehawken and 
 Jersey City. 
 
 (15) Page 264. "Mr. POTTER." Then exhibiting his powers as a ven- 
 triloquist in Washington Hall, corner of Broadway and Chambers Street, 
 where A. T. Stewart's store now stands. 
 
 (16) Page 264. LEVI ROBBINS, ERASTUS ROOT, PETER SHARPS, 
 OBADIAH GERMAN, and EZEKIEL BACON, members of the New- York 
 Legislature, and leading politicians. 
 
 (17) Page 265. "ABRAHAM B. MARTLING." The proprietor of the 
 Tammany-Hall Hotel, and successor of Barty Skaats as the keeper of the 
 City Hall. 
 
 (18) Page 265. SYLVANUS MILLER, Surrogate. See previous note to 
 " Fanny," on page 374. 
 
 (19) Page 266. " WOODWORTH'S CHRONICLE." A periodical con- 
 ducted by that popular poet for a brief period. 
 
 (20) Page 266. WILLIAM COLEMAN. The editor of the New-York 
 Evening Post He died during the summer of 1829. 
 
 (21) Page 267. Mrs. JOHN BARNES appeared for the last time in Phila- 
 delphia, July 25, 1851, as Lady Randolph, which character she sustained 
 with almost undiminished excellence. 
 
 (22) Page 267. Miss CATHERINE LEESUGG, afterward Mrs. James H. 
 Hackett and Mrs. Barnes. As ladies and actresses, well meriting thfl 
 poet's eulogiums, and highly estimated in public and private life. 
 
 (23) Page 267. OLLIFF, etc. Actors of meritin various departments of 
 their profession. 
 
 (24) Page 268. The national painting, "The Declaration of Indepen- 
 dence," by Colonel Trumbull. 
 
 (25} Page 269. JACOB SHEERED. A wealthy painter and glazier. 
 17 
 
380 NOTES. 
 
 (26) Page 270. A public meeting concerning the enlargement of the 
 Battery, over which Lewis Hartman, a politician of some note, and 
 Charles King, presided. Thomas R. Mercein and Robert Bogardus weie 
 lawyers of distinction, James Lent was city Register, and Edward 
 McGaraghan a magistrate. 
 
 (27) Page 272. NATHANIEL PRIME. A wealthy and worthy banker of 
 the house of Prime, Ward & Sands, in Wall Street. 
 
 (28) Page 273. RUFUS KING, then recently chosen United-States 
 Senator from the State of New York, an eminent statesman and diplomatist 
 
 (29) Page 273." Mr. HAMILTON'S LETTER." See previous note for 
 that gentleman's position. 
 
 (30) Page 276. "THE SURGEON-GENERAL." An office held by Doctor 
 Mitchill. See previous references to him. 
 
 (31) Page 277. See previous note to " Fanny," page 374. 
 
 (32) Page 278. JOHN MINSHULL. An Englishman by birth, who was 
 a butt of the critics of the day. His plays were performed at the Park 
 Theatre, and afterward published. 
 
 (33) Page 279. " So have I seen in gardens rich and rare 
 
 A stately cabbage waxing fat each day ; 
 
 Unlike the lively foliage of the trees, 
 
 Its stubborn leaves ne'er wave in summer breeze, 
 
 Nor flower, like those that prank the walks around. 
 
 Upon its clumsy stem is ever found: 
 
 It heeds not noontide heats, or evening's balm, 
 
 And stands unmov'd in one eternal calm. 
 
 At last, when all the garden's pride is lost, 
 
 It ripens in drear autumn's killing frost ; 
 
 And in a savory sourkrout finds its end, 
 
 From which detested dish, me Heaven defend ! " 
 
 PAULDING'S " Backwoodsman," Book II. 
 
 (34) Page 282. " CHARLEY MACHEATH." In which character in the 
 Beggars' Opera the celebrated English singer, Mr. Charles Incledon, dur- 
 ing his engagement some time previous at the Park Theatre, had been 
 favorably received. 
 
 (35) Page 283. WILLIAM NIBLO. The proprietor of the then most 
 popular hotel and restaurant in New York, on the corner of William and 
 Pine Streets, and still a highly-respected resident of this city. 
 
 (36) Page 283. THOMAS KILNER, etc., etc. Comedians at the theatre. 
 
NOTES. 381 
 
 The three latter had been recently engaged in England by Mr. Simpson 
 during a professional visit there. 
 
 (37) Page 284. Mr. LANG. See previous notes. The words in italics 
 are quotations from his paper, The New- York Gazette. 
 
 (38) Page 286. " FEDS," etc. Theassumedor imputed titles of various 
 party factions at war with each other. 
 
 (39) Page 288 . JOHN BARNES, a comedian of much excellence, the 
 great favorite of laughter-loving audiences, and the husband of the lady 
 mentioned in notes 21 and 22. 
 
 (40) Page 290. TENTH- WARD ELECTORS. Those composing a party 
 in opposition for a short time to the regular nominees at Tammany Hall. 
 
 (41) Page 292. The Surgeon-General, Doctor SAMUEL L. MITCHILL. 
 
 (42) Page 303. Mrs. POPPLETON, the fashionable confectioner at No. 
 206 Broadway. 
 
 (43) Page 303. Messrs. CHRISTIAN, china and glass dealers in Maiden 
 Lane. 
 
 (44) Page 304. NATHANIEL LEAVENWORTH. A young gentleman of 
 fortune and fashion, recently returned from his travels abroad, then residing 
 at 30 Greenwich Street, which, strange as it may now appear, was fifty 
 years ago a fashionable place of residence. 
 
 (45) Page 306. WILLIAM COBBETT. The career of this very powerful 
 writer and political agitator, here and in England, is too prominent in the 
 records of both countries to be other than slightly mentioned. At the time 
 of the appearance of the verses, he was a resident of Hempstead, Long 
 Island. 
 
 (46) Page 306. GEORGE BARRINGTON, the celebrated burglar and 
 light-fingered gentleman. The line is said to have been written by him 
 when a convict at Botany Bay. 
 
 (47) Page 309. The FORUM. See previous note. Mr. Hallett and Mr. 
 Dey were young lawyers. Mr. Dey afterward became a clergyman. The 
 career of Napoleon, and Turkish social life, were among their subjects of 
 debate. 
 
 (48) Page 311. JAMES L. BELL, the High Sheriff of the County. 
 
 (49) Page 311. ROBERT DAWSON, the keeper of a livery stable at 
 No. 9 Dey Street. 
 
 (50) Page 311. A. T. GOODRICH & Co., booksellers at the corner of 
 Broadway and Cedar Street, who kept a popular circulating library'. 
 
 (51) Page 312. CHESTER JENNINGS, the lessee of the City Hotel, os 
 Broadway, between Cedar and Thames Streets. 
 
382 NOTES. 
 
 (52) Page 314. For nearly half a century, Cato Alexander kept a house 
 of entertainment on the old post-road, about four miles from the City Hall. 
 It was the fashionable out-of-town resort for the young men of the day. 
 
 (53) Page 314. The Baron VON HOFFMAN. An adventurer styling 
 himself a Dutch nobleman of high distinction, and by the fashionable 
 circles courted and caiessed accordingly, until detected as an impostor. 
 "A fish can as veil live out of water as I can live out of de ladies," was a 
 favorite remark of the bogus baron, who came very near winning the hand 
 of a noted New- York belle and heiress. Among his attempts at notoriety 
 was that of shooting at himself with the wad of a pistol. He soon after dis- 
 appeared from New York, and when last heard from was at Morrison's 
 Hotel, Dublin, quietly luxuriating in the blaze of his fame. 
 
 (54) Page 314. Two lamps, or gaslights, are always placed before the 
 door of the house occupied by a Mayor of New- York City. 
 
 (55) Page 316. " Mr. GERMAN." From a speech of his when a 
 member of the Legislature. 
 
 (56) Page 317. JOHN McLEAN. A judge of the county court in the 
 town of "Junius," recently appointed by Governor Clinton. 
 
 (57) Page 319. " LINES TO Mr. SIMPSON." A twofold knowledge, 
 that of the then acted plays, and of the personal peculiarities of the political 
 gentlemen named, is requisite for the understanding and enjoying of these 
 verses. For many of the names, and for the existing Council of Appoint- 
 ment, see previous notes. Among them, Peter R. Livingston was dis- 
 tinguished for persuasive and genial oratory, Charles Christian and James 
 Warner were police justices, Pierre C. Van Wyck was City Recorder, and 
 Hugh Maxwell City Attorney. Barent Gardenier was a member of Con- 
 gress. He was renowned for a time as an eloquent speaker, and is noticed 
 for all time in that matchless specimen of the pleasantry of genius, the 
 " Knickerbocker " of Washington Irving. 
 
 The " STEAMBOAT BILL." The members who had voted a tax on passen- 
 gers on board the North- River boats. 
 
 (58) Page 319. JOHN JOSEPH HOLLAND, the scene-painter of the theatre. 
 
 (59) Page 323. CHRISTIAN BAEHR, a fashionable Wall-Street tailor. 
 
 (60) Page 323. STEPHEN BATHS, etc. , were members of the Legislature; 
 TUNIS WORTMAN, etc., city judges and lawyers of party eminence. 
 
 (61) Page 328. This amusing burlesque address, first published in the 
 New- York Evening- Post, was included in a small volume containing the 
 Rejected Addresses, together with the prize address, written by Charles 
 Sprague, and spoken by Edmund Simpson, on the reopening of the Park 
 Theatre, Septentber ist, 1821. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 383 
 
 (62) Page 329. Messrs. JOHN K. BEEKMAN and JOHN JACOB ASTOR 
 were joint proprietors of the Park Theatre. The former, from his love of 
 theatricals, was familiarly known as "Theatre Jack." 
 
 (63) Page 329. ISAAC JENNINGS, was a well-known dealer in old clothes, 
 and GEORGE SAUNDERS was a fashionable wig-maker. 
 
 (64) Page 330. The PRESIDENT, James Monroe, had a short time pre- 
 viously made a tour through the Middle and Eastern States. 
 
 (65) Page 330. HENRY MEIGS, when a member of Congress, had advo- 
 cated the admission of Missouri into the Union, on Southern terms. 
 
 (66) Page 331. WILLIAM REYNOLDS, the proprietor of a celebrated 
 English ale-house in Thames Street, in the rear of the City Hotel. He pro- 
 nounced Mr. Halleck the only gentleman that ever came into his house, 
 "because he never interferes with my fire." 
 
 (67) Page 333. Mr. BYRNE, a dancer from Paris, was performing at the 
 Park Theatre. 
 
 (68) Page 333. Mr. TURNER and Mr. MAGENIS were public lecturers in 
 the rooms of the City Hotel. 
 
 (69) Page 334. JAMES W. WALLACK and Mrs. BARTLEY were great 
 favorites with the theatre-goers of that day. The melologue referred to 
 in the poem was written for Mrs. B. by Thomes Moore. 
 
 (70) Page 335. Doctor HORNE and Doctor GIDEON DE ANGELIS, well- 
 known advertising physicians. The latter's Four-herb Pills were an- 
 nounced as a panacea for all the diseases that flesh is heir to. 
 
 (71) Page 338. Captain OGDEN CREIGHTON, an officer in the Brit- 
 ish service, and a brother of the late Rev. Dr. Creighton, of Tarrytown. 
 
 (72) Page 342.^-JoHN R. LIVINGSTON. A wealthy gentleman, who 
 dispensed liberal hospitalities both at his city residence and at his country- 
 seat on the Hudson. Among the notabilities whom he entertained at the 
 latter place was the Prince of Saxe-Weimar, who visited the United States 
 in i825-*26. Mr. Livingston was a brother of the Chancellor, and at one 
 time a member of the New- York Assembly. 
 
 (73) Page 342. THOMAS A. COOPER. The celebrated actor, and for a 
 time manager of the Park Theatre. His daughter married a son of Presi- 
 dent Tyler, who gave him an appointment in the New-York Custom-House, 
 which he held for several years. 
 
 (74) Page 342. EDMUND KEAN, who ranks among the greatest of mod- 
 ern actors, second only to Garrick and John Philip Kemble. He visited 
 
384 NOTES. 
 
 the United States in 1820 and again in 1825. His last appearance in public 
 was at Covent Garden Theatre, London, in 1833, when he played Othello 
 to the lago of his son Charles, but, on repeating the words "Othello's occu- 
 pation's gone," he sank exhausted, and died soon after, in his forty-sixth 
 year. 
 
 (75) Page 342. The Right Rev. JOHN HENRY HOBART, D. D., who, in 
 1811, was elected Bishop of the Diocese of New- York, and was consecrated in 
 Trinity Church where a full-length effigy of him is to be seen by Bishops 
 White, Provost, and Jarvis. His episcopate lasted twenty-nine years. 
 
 (76) Page 342. PHILIP BRASHER. A New- York alderman, a member 
 of the Legislature for eight years, and a noted bon-vivant, 
 
 (77) Page 342. JAMES BUCHANAN. For many years British Consul at 
 New York, and bitterly opposed to Queen Caroline, wife of George the 
 Fourth, by whom he was appointed to his office through the influence of his 
 friend Lord Castlereagh. He died in 1851, at Montreal. 
 
 (78) Page 343. HENRY CRUGER, a native of New York, was educated 
 in England, where he became a successful merchant, and was, in 1774, 
 elected to the British Parliament as the colleague of Edmund Burke. He 
 returned to his native land on a visit in 1783, and seven years later became 
 a permanent resident of this city. Upon the first senatorial election after 
 his return, he was chosen to the State Senate. He died at his residence in 
 Greenwich Street then a fashionabk locality in 1827, in his eighty-eighth 
 year. 
 
 (79) Page 343. MORGAN LEWIS held many honorabb positions, among 
 which were those of Chief- Justice of the State, Governor, and the command 
 of the forces destined for the defence of New York, with the rank of Major- 
 General. In 1835 he was elected President of the New- York Historical 
 Society. He lived to the same age as Lord Brougham, of whom he was a 
 great admirer. 
 
 (80) Page 343. MONTGOMERY LIVINGSTONE, a son of the gentleman 
 whose entertainment is described by the poet. 
 
 (81) Page 343. Captain J. R. NICHOLSON, a gallant officer, who served 
 under Decatur ; like Halleck, a bachelor, and, like his poet-friend, always 
 an admirer of, and admired by, the ladies. 
 
 (82) Page 349. JAMES E. DEKAY was educated a physician, but de- 
 voted himself from his early years to natural history, and, in the State Survey 
 of New York, the Department of Zoology was assigned to him. It was 
 through Dr. DeKay that Halleck and Drake became acquainted in the 
 summer of 1813. He died August 8th, 1851, at his residence, Oyster 
 Bay, Long Island. 
 
NOTES. 385 
 
 (83) Page 349. Mrs. JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE, wife of the poet, and 
 daughter of Henry Eckford, the celebrated ship-builder, of New York. 
 
 (84) Page 349. Miss ELIZA McCALL, a young lady of many accomplish- 
 ments, and a charming singer, who was much admired by Halleck and Drake. 
 Both the poets wrote songs for her. The. beautiful lines by the former, 
 "The world is bright before thee," were written for Miss McCall, and 
 Drake's " Yes, Heaven protect thee," and " Though fate upon this faded 
 flower," were also inscribed to the same young lady. 
 
 (85) Page 352. Doctor DAVID HOSACK. See previous notes. 
 
 (86) Page 352. The college was originally a stable, on the walls of 
 which a wag of a student inscribed these lines : 
 
 " Once a stable for horses, 
 Now a college for asses." 
 
 (87) Page 352. WILLIAM HAMERSLEY, Professor of Clinical Medicine, 
 whose almost universal remedy for the cure of pulmonary consumption and 
 heart disease was digitalis. Hence his sobriquet. 
 
 (88) Page 352. Dr. MACNEVAN. See note to " Fanny," page 371. 
 
 (89) Page 352. Dr. SAMUEL L. MITCHILL. See previous notes. 
 
 (90) Page 354. Baron VON HOFFMAN. The New- York Evening Post, 
 of June 12, 1823, says : " Baron Von Hoffman of Sirony, who used to 
 serenade our ladies with, the Tyrolese air so merrily, under their windows in 
 Broadway, a year or two ago, and one day took French leave of them all, 
 now shows away as one of the ' nobility and persons of distinction in Dub- 
 lin.'" Vide also note to the Croakers, No. 53. 
 
 (91) Page 354. JAMES BURNHAM kept a famous hostelry on the Bloom- 
 ingdale road, still extant Few New Yorkers of the past fifty years are un- 
 acquainted with "Burnham's," which was for many years as well known 
 and popular as Cato's, already referred to in another note. 
 
 (92) Page 355. CARLO, the Baron's colored groom. 
 
 (93) Page 357. The NORTH DUTCH CHURCH. The only fane at tl"- 
 State capital that could then boast of two spires. 
 
 (94) Page 359. The " Court of Death," which the Cpmmon Council 
 of New York pronounced an effort of uncommon genius, deserving the 
 patronage of an enlightened public. 
 
 (95) Page 362. JAMES TALLMADGE, of Dutchess County, Lieutenant- 
 Governor of the State, and president of the Senate, afterward appointed 
 American Minister to Russia. " Veracity of history," says Hammond 
 
386 NOTES. 
 
 in his Political History of New- York, "compels me to state that in no part 
 of New York were political bargains more common than among some of the 
 politicians of Dutchess County, and that Mr. Livingston (Peter R.), and 
 Mr. Tallmadge (James), were prominent party leaders in that county." 
 
 (96) Page 362. CLARKSOX CROLIUS, Speaker of the State Assembly at 
 Albany, and for many years Grand Sachem of the Tammany Society. 
 
 (97) Page 363. Colonel CHARLES G. HAINES and the others mentioned 
 were zealous and devoted partisans of De Witt Clinton. 
 
INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 AGAIN ye come, again ye throng around me 62 
 
 Ah, Chloe ! no more at each party and ball 294 
 
 A Lady asks the Minstrel's rhyme 66 
 
 All honor to woman, the sweetheart, the wife 227 
 
 A sword, whose blade has ne'er been wet 57 
 
 At midnight, in his guarded tent 13 
 
 Avaunt ! arch-enemy of fun 255 
 
 Awake ! ye forms of verse divine 268 
 
 Beside the nuptial curtain bright 55 
 
 Captain Weeks, your right hand though I never have seen it 290 
 
 Come, shut up your Blackstone, and sparkle again 296 
 
 Cooper, whose name is with his country's woven 46 
 
 Dear Ma'am, we seldom take the pen 300 
 
 Dear ****,! am writing not to you, but at you 95 
 
 Dear Simon ! Prince of pastry-cooks 303 
 
 Dear Simpson, since the day is near 319 
 
 Dear Sir, you've heard that Mr. Robbin 264 
 
 Dreaming, last night, of Pierre Van Wyck 345 
 
 Enlightened as you were, you all must know 328 
 
 Eyes with the same blue witchery as those 60 
 
 Fair lady, with the bandaged eye ! 311 
 
 Fanny was younger once than she is now 101 
 
 Farewell, farewell to thee, Baron von Hoffman 354 
 
 Goddess ! for such thou art, who rules 335 
 
 Green be the turf above thee 34 
 
 Hail, warbling harbinger of Spring 224 
 
 He hath been mourned, as brave men mourn the brave 87 
 
 Here, Dickens ! go fetch my great coat and umbrella 270 
 
388 
 
 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 Her Leghorn hat was of the bright gold tint 53 
 
 Her side is in the water 203 
 
 His shop is a grocer's a snug, genteel place 193 
 
 Home of the Percy's high-born race 18 
 
 How dare you, Sir, presume to say 273 
 
 How stately yon palace uplifts its proud head 352 
 
 Ifon the deathless page of Fame 315 
 
 I have been every night, whether empty or crowded 282 
 
 Illustrious autocrats of taste ! 337 
 
 I'm a friend to your theatre, oft have I told you 266 
 
 In all that Genius calls its own 239 
 
 In her island home, her home of flowers 240 
 
 It is a boy whom fourteen years have seen 177 
 
 I turned a last look to my dear native mountain 247 
 
 I've greeted many a bonny bride 249 
 
 Johnny R * * * gave a dinner last night 343 
 
 Lady, although we have not met 64 
 
 Lady, I thank you for your letter 222 
 
 Maid of the sweet, engaging smile 215 
 
 Mild beamed the sun's departing ray 236 
 
 Moorland and meadow slumber 212 
 
 Mr. Clinton, whose worth we shall know when we've lost him 326 
 
 Mr. Hogbin, I work as a weaver of rhyme 331 
 
 Mr. Philipp's has gone and he carries away with him 288 
 
 My dear Recorder, you and 1 161 
 
 Oh ! bard of the West, hasten back from Great Britain 278 
 
 Oh ! Mitchill, lord of granite flints 276 
 
 Oh ! Peace, ascend again thy throne 286 
 
 Oh ! where are now the lights that shed 333 
 
 Pride, boast, and glory of each hemisphere ! 306 
 
 Still her gray rocks tower above the sea 70 
 
 Strangers, your eyes are on that valley fixed 41 
 
 Strong as that power whose strange control 231 
 
 Sweet boy ! before thy lips can learn 84 
 
 Sweet maid ! whose life the frost of destiny 217 
 
 The Board is met, the names are read 257 
 
 The harp of love, when first I heard 199 
 
 The knights of the firkin are gathered around t<;i 
 
INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 389 
 
 The man who frets at wordly strife 280 
 
 The man who wears a brazen face 298 
 
 The Scottish Border Minstrel's lay 228 
 
 The song that o'er me hovered ... 209 
 
 The songs were good, for Mead and Hawkins sung 'em 259 
 
 The Surgeon-General by brevet 292 
 
 The winds of March are humming *97 
 
 The world is bright before thee 4 
 
 There are laurels our temples throb warmly to claim 213 
 
 There is a beast sublime and savage 347 
 
 There is a gloom on every brow 35^ 
 
 There is an evening twilight of the heart 36 
 
 There's one who long will think of thee 242 
 
 There's magic in the robe of power 3 2 3 
 
 The world is not a perfect one 34 
 
 They came a life-devoting band 245 
 
 The tea-urn is singing, the tea-cups are gay 349 
 
 Thou com'st, in beauty, on my gaze at last 30 
 
 'Tis o'er the fatal hour has come 38 
 
 To Tallmadge of the Upper House 362 
 
 'Twas in the solemn midnight hour 219 
 
 We do not blame you, Walter Bowne 89 
 
 We twine the wreath of honor 93 
 
 We sat us down and wept 38 
 
 We've twined the wreath of honor 284 
 
 When Bony fought his host of foes 261 
 
 When Misery's tear and Sorrow's sigh 233 
 
 When the tree of Love is budding first 51 
 
 When the wild waters from the deluged earth 359 
 
 Where dwells the Drama's spirit ? not alone 200 
 
 Where flows the fountain silently 244 
 
 Wild Rose of Alloway ! my thanks 23 
 
 Within a rock, whose shadows linger 213 
 
 Your hand, my dear Junior ! we're all in a flame 271 
 
FITZ- GREENE HALLECK'S POETICAL WORKS. 
 
 EDITED BY JAMES GRANT WILSON. 
 
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 EDITED BY EVERT A. DUYCKINCK. 
 
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WORKS 
 
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A STANDARD BOOK OF REFERENCE. 
 
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THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, SANTA CRUZ 
 
 This book is due on the last DATE stamped below. 
 
 W 
 
 NOV 2 9 1978 REC'D 
 
 100m-8,'65(F6282s8)2373 
 
PS1780.A2 1882 
 
 3 21 06 00206 9547