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+The Project Gutenberg eBook, Fanny, by Fitz-Greene Halleck
+
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+
+
+
+Title: Fanny
+       With Other Poems
+
+
+Author: Fitz-Greene Halleck
+
+
+
+Release Date: December 30, 2010  [eBook #34762]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
+
+
+***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FANNY***
+
+
+E-text prepared by Barbara Tozier, Stephanie McKee, Bill Tozier, and the
+Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
+
+
+
+Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
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+
+
+Transcriber's note:
+
+      In many places, this work contains asterisks within words
+      (as a form of censorship?) or to represent missing fragments
+      of text. These asterisks, while they appear clumsy, are
+      preserved in order to avoid changing the meaning of the
+      text. Because of the prevalence of asterisks in the work,
+      thought breaks are denoted by strings of dashes instead of
+      the standard strings of asterisks.
+
+      Text surrounded by underscores is italicized in the original
+      work.
+
+
+
+
+
+FANNY
+WITH
+OTHER POEMS.
+
+
+[Illustration: WEEHAWKEN.]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+New-York
+Harper & Brothers
+
+
+
+
+FANNY,
+
+
+                        "A fairy vision
+    Of some gay creatures of the element,
+    That in the colours of the rainbow live,
+    And play in the plighted clouds."
+
+                                        MILTON.
+
+
+
+FROM THE EDITION OF 1821.
+
+F. G. Halleck.
+
+New-York:
+Harper & Brothers, 82 Cliff Street
+1846.
+
+Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1839, by
+Harper & Brothers,
+in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New-York.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS.
+
+
+                                               PAGE
+ Fanny ...........................................5
+ The Recorder ...................................73
+
+ EPISTLES, ETC.
+
+ To W*lt*r B*wne, Esq. ..........................95
+ To ***** ......................................101
+ A Fragment ....................................107
+ Song, by Miss *** .............................111
+ Song, for the Drama of the Spy ................115
+ Address at the Opening of a new Theatre .......117
+ The Rhyme of the Ancient Coaster ..............121
+
+
+
+
+FANNY.
+
+
+    I.
+
+    Fanny 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 worshipp'd them: alas!
+    They never thank'd me for't--but let that pass.
+
+
+    III.
+
+    I've felt full many a heart-ache 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 are 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-good shop in Chatham-street,
+    And nursed his little earnings, sure though slow,
+      Till, having muster'd wherewithal to meet
+    The gaze of the great world, he breathed the air
+    Of Pearl-street--and "set up" in Hanover-square.
+
+
+    VI.
+
+    Money is power, 'tis said--I never tried;
+      I'm but a poet--and bank-notes to me
+    Are curiosities, as closely eyed,
+      Whene'er I get them, as a stone would be,
+    Toss'd from the moon on Doctor Mitchill's 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 neighbours 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
+
+
+    X.
+
+    Flash'd like the midnight lightning on the eyes
+      Of all who knew him; brilliant traits of mind,
+    And genius, clear and countless as the dies
+      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 join'd to fill
+    His brain with knowledge; for there first he met
+    The editor of the New-York Gazette,
+
+
+    XII.
+
+    The sapient Mr. L**G. 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.
+    He would have hang'd himself for very spite,
+      And she, bless'd woman, might have had the honour
+    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 sway'd
+      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 L**G supplied the loss of school and college.
+
+
+    XV.
+
+    For there he learn'd 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 neighbour's fortunes,
+    And, best of all--he there learn'd self-importance.
+
+
+    XVI.
+
+    Nor were these all the advantages derived
+      From change of scene; for near his domicil,
+    He of the pair of polish'd 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,
+
+
+    XVII.
+
+    And politics, and country; the pure glow
+      Of patriot ardour, 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 honour."
+
+
+    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 pass'd away.
+
+
+    XX.
+
+    There are some happy moments in this lone
+      And desolate world of ours, that well repay
+    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 dream'd of, beckons near--it's rose-wreathed bower,
+      And cloudless skies before us: we become
+    Changed on the instant--all gold leaf and gilding:
+    This is, in vulgar phrase, call'd "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
+    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,
+    I'd recommend segars--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.
+
+
+    XXV.
+
+    Dear 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
+
+
+    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. Cl*n*on.
+
+
+    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,
+    Unhonour'd 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 soar'd 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;
+    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 Rumour (she's a famous liar, yet
+      'Tis wonderful how easy we believe her)
+    Had whisper'd he was rich, and all he met
+      In Wall-street, nodded, smiled, and "tipp'd the beaver;"
+    All, from Mr. Gelston, the collector,
+    Down to the broker, and the bank director.
+
+    XXXIII.
+
+    A few brief years pass'd over, and his rank
+      Among the worthies of that street was fix'd;
+    He had become director of a bank,
+      And six insurance offices, and mix'd
+    Familiarly, as one among his peers,
+    With grocers, dry-good 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 neighbour--legally, of course.
+
+
+    XXXV.
+
+    And there he shone a planetary star,
+      Circled around by lesser orbs, whose beams
+    From his were borrow'd. 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 deem'd 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.
+
+
+    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 hearts 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 turban'd with a bucktail wreath,
+      A broach of terrapin her bosom wore,
+    Tompkins' 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 pommell'd black and blue.
+
+
+    XL.
+
+    She was in fashion's elegant undress,
+      Muffled from throat to ankle; and her hair
+    Was all "_en papillotes_," each auburn tress
+      Prettily pinn'd apart. You well might swear
+    She was no beauty; yet, when "made up," ready
+    For visiters, '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 toe;
+    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 dress'd in,
+    Look Eve-like, angel-like, and interesting.
+
+
+    XLIV.
+
+    But Miss Ambition was, as I was saying,
+      "_Deshabillee_"--his bedside tripping near,
+    And, gently on his nose her fingers laying,
+      She roar'd out Tammany! in his frighted ear.
+    The potent word awoke him from his nap,
+    And then she vanish'd, whisp'ring _verbum sap_.
+
+
+    XLV.
+
+    The last words were beyond his comprehension,
+      For he had left off schooling, ere the Greek
+    Or Latin classics claim'd 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 candour, be confess'd,
+    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;
+    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 enlighten'd 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 own'd 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.
+
+
+    L.
+
+    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.
+
+
+    LI.
+
+    In painting, we have Trumbull's proud _chef d'oeuvre_,
+      Blending in one the funny and the fine:
+    His "Independence" will endure for ever,
+      And so will Mr. Allen's lottery sign;
+    And all that grace the Academy of Arts,
+    From Dr. Hosack's face to Bonaparte's.
+
+
+    LII.
+
+    In architecture, our unrivall'd 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 M'Neven,
+      Famed for long heads, short lectures, and long bills;
+    And Quackenboss and others, who from heaven
+      Were rain'd upon us in a shower of pills;
+    They'd beat the deathless Esculapius hollow,
+    And make a starveling druggist of Apollo.
+
+
+    LIV.
+
+    And who, that ever slumber'd at the Forum,
+      But owns the first of orators we claim;
+    Cicero would have bow'd the knee before 'em--
+      And for law eloquence, we've Doctor Graham.
+    Compared with him, their Justins and Quintillians
+    Had dwindled into second-rate civilians.
+
+
+    LV.
+
+    For purity and chastity of style,
+      There's Pell's preface, and puffs by Horne 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 shipp'd 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.
+
+
+    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 polish'd lines
+
+
+    LX.
+
+    Of Woodworth, Doctor Farmer, Moses Scott--
+      Names hallow'd 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,
+    Seen in their native element, will be
+      Known to a future age, the pride of ours.
+    There is none breathing who 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!
+    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 damn'd 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, unmatch'd 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 undismay'd;
+    Yet what were these to General Laight's brigade
+
+
+    LXV.
+
+    Of veterans? nursed in that Free School of glory,
+      The New-York State Militia. From Bellevue,
+    E'en to the Battery flagstaff, the proud story
+      Of their manoeuvres at the last review
+    Has rang; 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 letter'd men,
+      Those "grave and reverend seigniors," who compose
+    Our learn'd societies--but here my pen
+      Stops short; for they themselves, the rumour 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
+    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 fair 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 cordial 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.
+
+
+    LXXII.
+
+    'Twas a propitious moment; for a while
+      The waves of party were at rest. Upon
+    Each complacent brow was gay good humour'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 excell'd 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 favourite 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;
+    And the spray-showers their noonday halos wreathing
+      Around "Cohoes," are brighten'd 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 oarsmen'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 wander'd--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 flow'd in mutual speech,
+    'Twere vain to tell how much each taught to each.
+
+
+    LXXVIII.
+
+    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;
+    '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 segar, 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 nose 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.
+
+
+        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 and 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 wither'd that hung o'er the wave,
+          But some blossoms were gather'd while freshly they shone;
+        And a dew was distill'd 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.
+    He learn'd the party countersigns by rote,
+    And when to clap his hands, and how to vote.
+
+
+    LXXX.
+
+    He learn'd 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 touch'd 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'd quoted from the devil even--
+    "Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven."
+
+
+    LXXXIII.
+
+    To these authentic facts each bucktail swore;
+      But Clinton's friends averr'd, 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 borrow'd 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. M'Intyre.
+
+
+    LXXXV.
+
+    In short, each one with whom in conversation
+      He join'd, contrived to give him different views
+    Of men and measures; and the information
+      Which he obtain'd, but aided to confuse
+    His brain. At best, 'twas never very clear;
+    And now 'twas turn'd with politics and beer.
+
+
+    LXXXVI.
+
+    And he was puff'd, and flatter'd, and caress'd
+      By all, till he sincerely thought that nature
+    Had form'd him for an alderman at least--
+      Perhaps, a member of the legislature;
+    And that he had the talents, ten times over,
+    Of H*n*y M**gs, or P*t*r H. W*nd*ver.
+
+
+    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 learn'd, of course, good breeding.
+
+
+    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, cover'd with green baize.
+
+
+    XCII.
+
+    His travels had extended to Bath races;
+      And Bloomingdale and Bergen he had seen,
+    And Harlaem 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.
+
+
+    XCIII.
+
+    And he had dined, by special invitation,
+      On turtle, with "the party" at Hoboken;
+    And thank'd them for his card in an oration,
+      Declared to be the shortest ever spoken.
+    And he had stroll'd one day o'er Weehawk hill:
+    A day worth all the rest--he recollects it still.
+
+
+    XCIV.
+
+    Weehawken! 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.
+
+
+    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 pass'd 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.
+
+
+    C.
+
+    "This may be poetry, for aught I know,"
+      Said an old, worthy friend of mine, while leaning
+    Over my shoulder as I wrote, "although
+      I can't exactly comprehend its meaning.
+    For my part, I have long been a petitioner
+    To Mr. John M'Comb, 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."
+
+
+    CII.
+
+    The devil take you and John M'Comb, said I;
+      Lang, in its praise, has penn'd 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.
+
+
+    CIII.
+
+    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 flaming lines
+
+
+        TO THE HORSEBOAT.
+
+        1
+
+        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,
+
+        3
+
+        Yet, far in the west, where the day's faded roses,
+          Touch'd by the moonbeam, are withering fast;
+        Where the half-seen spirit of twilight reposes,
+          Hymning the dirge of the hours that are past,
+
+        4
+
+        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.
+
+        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.
+
+        6
+
+        Then away o'er the wave, while thy pennant is streaming
+          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,
+          Bless'd 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,
+
+
+    CV.
+
+    As a true dandy of the modern schools.
+      One hates to be oldfashion'd; 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 enlighten'd 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 or 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,
+    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 "pour'd her soul" in song,
+      That all was hush'd around. 'Tis now "the rage"
+    To deem a song, like bugle-tones in battle,
+    A signal note, that bids each tongue's artillery rattle.
+
+
+    CX.
+
+    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 "_q'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 spurn'd, as far beneath
+    One whose high destiny it was to breathe,
+
+
+    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 a while, 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
+    Was but to be admired by all she met,
+      And the free homage of the heart to claim;
+    And if she show'd 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 patronised the Theatre, and thought
+      That Wallack look'd 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 vex'd and half afraid,
+      With looks of smother'd 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 skimm'd the latest novels, good and bad,
+      And read the Croakers, when they were in fashion;
+    And Doctor Chalmers' sermons, of a Sunday;
+    And Woodworth's Cabinet, and the new Salmagundi.
+
+
+    CXIX.
+
+    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 learn'd 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,
+    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.
+                                                  1819.
+
+
+    CXXV.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+    CXXVI.
+
+    "There was a sound of revelry by night;"
+      Broadway was throng'd 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 swell'd wild and high,
+    And hearts and heels kept tune in tremulous ecstasy.
+
+
+    CXXVII.
+
+    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.
+
+
+    CXXVIII.
+
+    That is to say--the rich and the well-bred,
+      The arbiters of fashion and gentility,
+    In different grades of splendour, 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,
+    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 roll'd up the day before,
+      And, with a breath, two rooms became but one,
+    Like man and wife--and, on the polish'd 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 press'd on flowers.
+
+
+    CXXXI.
+
+    And when the thousand lights of spermaceti
+      Stream'd like a shower of sunbeams--and free tresses
+    Wild as the heads that waved them--and a pretty
+      Collection of the latest Paris dresses
+    Wander'd about the rooms 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-soul'd courtesies.
+
+
+    CXXXIII.
+
+    And he, the hero of the night, was there,
+      In breeches of light drab, and coat of blue.
+    Taste was conspicuous in his powder'd 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 reign'd 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 the sire had kept her word.
+      He had the rose, no matter for its thorn,
+    And he seem'd 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.
+    He bade adieu, when safely on the shore,
+      To poetry--and, as he thought, for ever.
+    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 walk'd Broadway, enraptured the next day;
+    Purchased a house there--I've forgot the number--
+      And sign'd 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 fill'd his rooms with servants, and whatever
+    Is necessary for a "genteel liver."
+
+
+    CXXXIX.
+
+    This last removal fix'd him: every stain
+      Was blotted from his "household coat," and he
+    Now "show'd the world he was a gentleman,"
+      And, what is better, could afford to be;
+    His step was loftier than it was of old,
+    His laugh less frequent, and his manner told
+
+
+    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 guess'd, would knock Judge Skinner down.
+
+
+    CXLI.
+
+    And for "Resources," both of purse and head,
+      He was a subject worthy Bristed's pen;
+    Believed devoutly all his flatterers said,
+      And deem'd himself a Croesus among men;
+    Spread to the liberal air his silken sails,
+    And lavish'd guineas like a Prince of Wales.
+
+
+    CXLII.
+
+    He mingled now with those within whose veins
+      The blood ran pure--the magnates of the land--
+    Hail'd 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,
+    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 play'd "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 pick'd 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,
+    "Testaceous coverings of bivalve moluscas."
+
+
+    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.
+
+
+    CXLVII.
+
+    But as he trod to grandeur's pinnacle,
+      With eagle eye and step that never falter'd,
+    The busy tongue of scandal dared to tell
+      That cash was scarce with him, and credit alter'd;
+    And while he stood the envy of beholders,
+    The Bank Directors grinn'd, and shrugg'd their shoulders.
+
+
+    CXLVIII.
+
+    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 thank'd 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;
+    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!
+
+
+    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 journey'd "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 ask'd 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.
+
+
+    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, demean'd him like a prince,
+    And all was joy--it look'd 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 walk'd in Paradise more pure
+      Than on that morn when Satan play'd the devil
+    With her and all her race. A love-sick wooer
+      Ne'er ask'd 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
+    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 wo. 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 usher'd in--hard times.
+
+
+    CLX.
+
+    St. Paul's toll'd one--and fifteen minutes after
+      Down came, by accident, a chandelier;
+    The mansion totter'd 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.
+
+
+    CLXI.
+
+    The company departed, and neglected
+      To say good-by--the father storm'd and swore--
+    The fiddlers grinn'd--the daughter look'd dejected--
+      The flowers had vanish'd from the polish'd 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, take 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 "stopp'd payment."
+
+
+    CLXIV.
+
+    I hate your tragedies, both long and short ones
+      (Except Tom Thumb, and Juan's Pantomime);
+    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.
+
+    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 pass'd 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."
+
+
+    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 rumour 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.
+
+
+    CLXX.
+
+    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 wrong'd 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
+    The Treasurer's Report in the Gazette,
+      M'Intyre's speech, and Campbell's "Love lies bleeding;"
+    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 pass'd him, gay in youth and hope,
+    He took at Jupiter a shilling's worth
+      Of gazing, through the showman's telescope;
+    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 play'd by Scudder's band;
+    He mutter'd, as he linger'd listening,
+      Something of freedom and our happy land;
+    Then sketch'd, as to his home he hurried fast,
+    This sentimental song--his saddest, and his last.
+
+
+        I.
+
+        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.
+
+        II.
+
+        There's music in the forest leaves
+          When summer winds are there,
+        And in the laugh of forest girls
+          That braid their sunny hair.
+        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.
+
+        III.
+
+        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.
+
+        IV.
+
+        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.
+
+        V.
+
+        To-day, the forest leaves are green,
+          They'll wither on the morrow,
+        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.
+
+        VI.
+
+        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 RECORDER.
+
+
+
+
+THE RECORDER.
+
+A PETITION.
+
+BY THOMAS CASTALY.
+
+Dec. 20, 1828.
+
+                            "On they move
+        In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood
+        Of flutes and soft RECORDERS."
+                                                _Milton._
+
+        "Live in Settles numbers one day more!"
+                                                _Pope._
+
+
+    My dear RECORDER, you and I
+      Have floated down life's stream together,
+    And kept unharm'd 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,
+    Whose laurel harvests long have shown
+    As green and glorious as his own;
+    And proudly would the CAESAR claim
+    Companionship with R*K*R'S name,
+    His peer in forehead and in fame.
+
+    Both eloquent and learn'd and brave,
+      Born to command and skill'd 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 R*k*r 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 R*k*r, like Bob Acres, stood
+    Edgeways upon a field of blood,
+      The where and wherefore Swartwout knows,
+    Pull'd trigger, as a brave man should,
+      And shot, God bless them--his own toes.
+    The Caesar pass'd the Rubicon
+    With helm, and shield, and breastplate on,
+      Dashing his war-horse through the waters;
+    The R*k*r would have built a barge
+    Or steamboat at the city's charge,
+      And pass'd 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 shower'd the snow-flakes thickly there;
+    And though our lives have ever been,
+    As different as their different scene;
+    Mine more renown'd for rhymes than riches
+    Yours less for scholarship than speeches;
+    Mine pass'd in low-roof'd leafy bower,
+    Yours in high halls of pomp and power,
+    Yet are we, be the moral told,
+    Alike in one thing--growing old,
+    Ripen'd 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-bank'd and gentle river
+      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,
+    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 jurors' Bible,
+    Has clipp'd the venom'd tongue of slander,
+    That dared to call you "Party's gander,
+    The leader of the geese who make
+      Our cities' parks and ponds their home,
+    And keep her liberties awake
+      By cackling, as their sires saved Rome.
+    Grander of Party's pond, wherein
+    Lizard, and toad, and terrapin,
+    Your alehouse 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 master piece of Art's great master,
+      Mr. Praxiteles Browere,
+    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, group'd in air,
+    With wild pictorial dance and song;
+    The song of happy bees in bowers,
+    The dance of Guido's graceful hours,
+    All scattering Flushing's garden flowers
+      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 allow'd,
+      Your only failing--Diffidence!
+    An amiable weakness--given
+      To justify the sad reflection,
+    That in this vale of tears not even
+      A R*k*r is complete perfection,
+    A most romantic detestation
+    Of power and place, of pay and ration;
+    A strange unwillingness to carry
+      The weight of honour 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 growing 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 clipp'd your eagle-wings--
+    Talents like yours are not forgot
+      And buried with earth's common things.
+    No! my dear R*k*r, I would give
+    My laurels, living and to live,
+    Or as much cash as you could raise on
+    Their value, by hypothecation,
+    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,
+    Scepter'd your jewell'd hand, and crown'd you
+      Her chief, her guardian, and her guide.
+    Honours which weaker minds had wrought
+      In vain for years, and knelt and pray'd 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.
+    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 Dummys 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 colours 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 feather'd 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 loud, applauding echoes peal,
+    Of his "_ou peut on etre mieux
+    Qu'au sein de sa famille_?"[A]
+
+    Oh for a herald's skill to rank
+      Your titles in their due degrees!
+    At Singsing--at the Tradesmen'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 meet,
+    On others, at the heart's delight,
+      The Pewter Mug in Frankfort-street;
+    From Harlaem bridge to Whitehall dock,
+      From Bloomingdale to Blackwell's 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
+    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 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 bow'd
+    The learn'd, the lovely, and the proud,
+      Ere their life's morning hours are gone--
+    Light hearts be theirs, the muse's boon,
+    And may their suns blaze bright at noon,
+      And set without a cloud.
+
+    HILLHOUSE, 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 blossom'd 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,
+    Charm'd by his song from mortal doom,
+      Bloom on, and will bloom on for ever.
+    And HALLECK--who has made thy roof,
+    St. Tammany! oblivion-proof--
+    Thy beer illustrious, and thee
+    A belted knight of chivalry;
+    And changed thy dome of painted bricks
+    And porter casks and politics,
+      Into a green Arcadian vale,
+    With St*ph*n All*n for its lark,
+    B*n B*il*y's voice its watch-dog's bark,
+      And J*hn T*rg*e 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,
+      While I'm alive to wear it;
+    And if, in whispering my name,
+    There's music in the voice of fame
+      Like Garcia's, let me hear it!
+
+    The Christmas holydays are nigh,
+    Therefore, till Newyear's Eve, good-by,
+      Then _revenons a 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.
+
+    [A] A favourite French air. In English, "where can one be more
+        happy than in the bosom of one's family?"
+
+
+
+
+EPISTLES, ETC.
+
+
+
+
+TO
+
+W*LT*R B*WNE, ESQ.,
+
+MEMBER OF THE COUNCIL OF APPOINTMENT OF THE STATE OF NEW-YORK, AT
+ALBANY, 1821.
+
+        "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._
+
+
+    We do not blame you, W*lt*r B*wne,
+      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."
+    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 for ever,
+    Our tears, thanks to the snow and rain,
+    Have swell'd 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 M*ll*r 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.
+    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;
+    M*rr*ll, a justice and a wise one,
+    And Ned M'Laughlin 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 harbour-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 W*lt*r B*wne,
+    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;
+    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 round 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 wing'd 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.
+
+
+
+
+TO * * * * *.
+
+
+    Dear ***, I 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 dipp'd at Long Branch, in the real salt sea,
+      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 honour,
+    A lady with fashion's own impress upon her;
+    Or a gentleman bless'd 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 accomplish'd Miss B. as he pass'd Contoit's Garden,
+    Both in town in July!--he cross'd over the street,
+      And she enter'd the rouge-shop of Mrs. St. Martin.
+    Resolved not to look at another known face,
+    Through Leonard and Church streets she walked to Park Place,
+    And he turn'd 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-st.
+
+    Yet, as most of "The Fashion" are journeying now,
+    With the brown hues of summer on cheek and on brow,
+    The few "_gens comme il faut_" 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, undimm'd 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 Francais_,
+    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 dress'd
+      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 Acropolis,
+    And we, in Swamp Place, have discover'd, in boring,
+      A mineral spring to refine the metropolis.
+    The day we discover'd 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 city visited Swamp Spring _en masse_,
+      From attorney to sweep, from physician to paviour,
+    To drink of cold water at sixpence a glass,
+      And learn true politeness and genteel behaviour.
+    Though the crowd was immense till the hour of departure,
+      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, robb'd of his scraper and brush.
+    They linger'd till sunset and twilight had come,
+      Then, wearied in limb, but much polish'd in manners,
+    The sovereign people moved gracefully home,
+      In the beauty and pride of "an army with banners."
+
+    As to politics--Adams and Clinton yet live,
+      And reign, we presume, as we never have miss'd '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 ruin'd 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, year 'twenty-seven.
+
+
+
+
+A FRAGMENT.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+    His 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 ask'd 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 darken'd a sky so serene,
+      Nor disorder'd his beauship's Elysium,
+    Till this season among our _elite_ there has been
+      What is call'd by the clergy "a schism."
+
+    'Tis all about eating and drinking--one set
+      Gives sponge-cake, a few "kisses" or so,
+    And is cool'd after dancing with classic sherbet,
+      "Sublimed" (see Lord Byron) "with snow."
+
+    Another insists upon punch and _perdrix_,
+      Lobster-salad, Champagne, and, by way
+    Of a novelty only, those pearls of our sea,
+      Stew'd oysters from Lynn-Haven bay.
+
+    Miss Flounce, the young milliner, blue-eyed and bright,
+      In the front parlour 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.
+
+BY MISS * * * *.
+
+        _Air_, "To ladies eyes a round, boy."
+                                              MOORE.
+
+
+    The winds of March are humming
+      Their parting song, their parting song,
+    And summer's 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.
+          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 ball 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."
+
+
+    The 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 wail'd 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.
+                                        1822.
+
+
+
+
+ADDRESS,
+
+AT THE OPENING OF A NEW THEATRE.
+
+November, 1831.
+
+
+    Where 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 laurel'd 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 summon'd 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 hallow'd 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,
+    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 humour speaks;
+    While Shakspeare'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 listen'd to the Drama's voice of truth,
+    Mark'd in her scenes the manners of their age,
+    And gather'd knowledge for a wider stage,
+    Come here to speed with smiles life's summer years,
+    And melt its winter snow with pleasant tears;
+    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 Shakspeare 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 fann'd,
+    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, 1821._
+
+        "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."
+                                                       SHAKSPEARE.
+
+
+    Her 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,
+    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,
+        And 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.
+
+    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 lean'd upon his arm,
+    Nor heard the far-off thunder toll
+        The tocsin of alarm.
+
+    Not so the youth--he listen'd
+        To the cloud-wing flapping by;
+    And low he whisper'd 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.
+
+    "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 Shakspeare)
+    "Thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid,
+        And not have strew'd 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.
+
+    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 call'd 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 thrill'd the lips that kiss'd
+        The wave, rock-cool'd, 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 pass'd away;
+    Their name is on the churchyard page--
+        Their story in my lay.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+    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 segars are lingering yet
+        Of the thousand of yestermorn.
+
+    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,[B]
+      Where the wreck first met mine eye,
+    And now where twin-forts[C] in the olden time rose,
+    Thro' 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.
+
+    [B] Stony Point.
+
+    [C] Forts Clinton and Montgomery.
+
+
+FINIS.
+
+
+
+***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FANNY***
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