I.Fanny was younger once than she is now,And prettier of course: I do not meanTo say that there are wrinkles on her brow;Yet, to be candid, she is past eighteen—Perhaps past twenty—but the girl is shyAbout her age, and Heaven forbid that III.Should get myself in trouble by revealingA secret of this sort; I have too longLoved 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 onFor half an hour, without the slightest harm;E'en when she wore her smiling summer face onThere was but little danger, and the charmThat 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 meetThe gaze of the great world, he breathed the airOf 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 meAre 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 feltThat 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 headWas not of brains particularly full;It was not known that he had ever saidAny thing worth repeating—'twas a dull,Good, honest man—what Paulding's muse would callA "cabbage head"—but he excelled them allIX.In that most noble of the sciences,The art of making money; and he foundThe zeal for quizzing him grew less and less,As he grew richer; till upon the groundOf Pearl-street, treading proudly in the mightAnd majesty of wealth, a sudden lightX.Flash'd like the midnight lightning on the eyesOf all who knew him; brilliant traits of mind,And genius, clear and countless as the diesUpon 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 trueThat cash had no small share; but there were stillSome other causes, which then gave a newImpulse to head and heart, and join'd to fillHis brain with knowledge; for there first he metThe editor of the New-York Gazette,XII.The sapient Mr.L**g. The world of himKnows much, yet not one half so much as heKnows of the world. Up to its very brimThe goblet of his mind is sparkling freeWith lore and learning. Had proud Sheba's queen,In all her bloom and beauty, but have seenXIII.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 honourOf some neat "paragraphs"—worth all the laysThat Judah's minstrel warbled in her praise.XIV.Her star arose too soon; but that which sway'dTh' ascendant at our merchant's natal hourWas bright with better destiny—its aidLed him to pluck within the classic bowerOf bulletins, the blossoms of true knowledge;AndL**gsupplied the loss of school and college.XV.For there he learn'd the news some minutes soonerThan others could; and to distinguish wellThe different signals, whether ship or schooner,Hoisted at Staten Island; and to tellThe 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 derivedFrom 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 flameKindled within his breast the love of fame,XVII.And politics, and country; the pure glowOf patriot ardour, and the consciousnessThat talents such as his might well bestowA lustre on the city; she would blessHis 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 hearthFanny and he were seated—he would dareTo whisper fondly, that the time might comeWhen 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 givenWhen she, in turn, should be abelle, and theyHad lived their little hour, and pass'd away.XX.There are some happy moments in this loneAnd desolate world of ours, that well repayThe toil of struggling through it, and atoneFor many a long, sad night and weary day.They come upon the mind like some wild airOf 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 becomeChanged 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 vainTo bid them linger longer, or to askOn 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 thinkingOf cares or creditors—the best wine in townYou'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 freeAnd happy spirit, that, unseen, reposesOn 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 starIs 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 minuteSpent 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-morrowXXVII.And these are innocent thoughts—a man may sitUpon a bright throne of his own creation;Untortured by the ghastly sprites that flitAround the many, whose exalted stationHas 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 breathesThe mountain air at last; but there are othersWho strove, like him, to win the glittering wreathsOf 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 balloonOf 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 Guillé'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 thoseI've dwelt so long upon—they were more stable;Hers were not "castles in the air" that roseBased upon nothing; for her sire was able,As well she knew, to "buy out" the one halfOf Fashion's glittering train, that nightly quaffXXXI.Wine, wit, and wisdom, at a midnight rout,From dandy coachmen, whose "exquisite" grinAnd "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 metIn 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 rankAmong the worthies of that street was fix'd;He had become director of a bank,And six insurance offices, and mix'dFamiliarly, as one among his peers,With grocers, dry-good merchants, auctioneers,XXXIV.Brokers of all grades—stock and pawn—and JewsOf all religions, who at noonday form,On 'Change, that brotherhood the moral museDelights in, where the heart is pure and warm,And each exerts his intellectual forceTo cheat his neighbour—legally, of course.XXXV.And there he shone a planetary star,Circled around by lesser orbs, whose beamsFrom his were borrow'd. The simile is not farFrom truth—for many bosom friends, it seems,Did borrow of him, and sometimes forgetTo pay—indeed, they have not paid him yet.XXXVI.But these he deem'd as trifles, when each mouthWas open in his praise, and plaudits roseUpon his willing ear, "like the sweet southUpon a bank of violets," from thoseWho knew his talents, virtues, and so forth;That is—knew how much money he was worth.XXXVII.Alas! poor human nature; had he beenBut satisfied with this, his golden daysTheir 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 inclinesOf all, from Clinton down to the bill-stickerOf a ward-meeting. She came slyly creepingTo 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 beneathHer arm, and in her hand on high she boreA National Advocate—Pell's polite ReviewLay at her feet—'twas pommell'd black and blue.XL.She was in fashion's elegant undress,Muffled from throat to ankle; and her hairWas all "en papillotes," each auburn tressPrettily pinn'd apart. You well might swearShe was no beauty; yet, when "made up," readyFor visiters, 'twas quite another lady.XLI.Since that wise pedant, Johnson, was in fashion,Manners have changed as well as moons; and heWould 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, anundressat present meansThe wearing a pelisse, a shawl, or so;Or any thing you please, in short, that screensThe 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 aërial manner dress'd in,Look Eve-like, angel-like, and interesting.XLIV.But Miss Ambition was, as I was saying,"Dèshabillée"—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'ringverbum sap.XLV.The last words were beyond his comprehension,For he had left off schooling, ere the GreekOr Latin classics claim'd his mind's attention:Besides, he often had been heard to speakContemptuously of all that sort of knowledge,Taught so profoundly in Columbia College.XLVI.We owe the ancients something. You have readTheir 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 soonBy 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 strollThrough this enlighten'd city would refine themMore than ten years hard study of the wholeTheir 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 roofOf 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 handsA 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 proudchef d'œuvre,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 skillCullen's magnesian shop has loudly spokenTo an admiring world; and better stillIs 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 heavenWere 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 QuintilliansHad 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 treasureFor any man of patience and of leisure.LVI.Oxonian Bristed! many a foolscap pageHe, in his time, hath written, and moreover(What few will do in this degenerate age)Hath read his own works, as you may discoverBy counting his quotations from himself—You'll find the books on any auction shelf.LVII.I beg Great Britain's pardon; 'tis not meantTo claim this Oxford scholar as our own:That he was shipp'd off here to representHer literature among us, is well known;And none could better fill the lofty stationOf Learning's envoy from the British nation.LVIII.We fondly hope that he will be respectedAt 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 abuseOur country, and find food for the reviews.LIX.But to return.—The Heliconian watersAre sparkling in their native fount no more,And after years of wandering, the nine daughtersOf poetry have found upon our shoreA happier home, and on their sacred shrinesGlow in immortal ink, the polish'd linesLX.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 everHave written, think ye, the Backwoodsman? never.LXI.Alas! for Paulding—I regret to seeIn such a stanza one whose giant powers,Seen in their native element, will beKnown to a future age, the pride of ours.There is none breathing who can better wieldThe battle-axe of satire. On its fieldLXII.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 funAnd 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 museLXIII.But to return once more: the ancients foughtSome tolerable battles. MarathonIs still a theme for high and holy thought,And many a poet's lay. We linger onThe page that tells us of the brave and free,And reverence thy name, unmatch'd Thermopylæ.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 brigadeLXV.Of veterans? nursed in that Free School of glory,The New-York State Militia. From Bellevue,E'en to the Battery flagstaff, the proud storyOf their manœuvres at the last reviewHas rang; and Clinton's "order" told afarHe never led a better corps to war.LXVI.What, Egypt, was thy magic, to the tricksOf 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 readWhen he can get "Wall-street," by Mr. Mead.LXVII.I might say much about our letter'd men,Those "grave and reverend seigniors," who composeOur learn'd societies—but here my penStops 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 remainsTo bless the hour the Corporation took itInto 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 esteemI bear "this fair city of the heart,"To me a dear enthusiastic theme,Has forced me, all unconsciously, to partToo 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 usedTo 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 allWho 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 whileThe waves of party were at rest. UponEach 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 sangSongs, patriotic, as in duty bound.He had a little of the "nasal twangHeard at conventicle;" but yet you foundIn 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 friendOf England's prettiest bard, Anacreon Moore.They met when he, the bard, came here to lendHis mirth and music to this favourite shore;For, as the proverb saith, "birds of a featherInstinctively 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 wreathingAround "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 payIts homage, now, and in all coming time,Up springs a doubtful question whether weOwe it to Tara's minstrel or Targee.LXXVII.Together oft they wander'd—many a spotNow consecrated, as the minstrel's theme,By words of beauty ne'er to be forgot,Their mutual feet have trod; and when the streamOf 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 appearThat he of Erin from the sachem tookThe 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 callFor 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 dreamTo 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 gaveAll 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 neglectedTo 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 GovernorSomehow by chance, when we were all asleep;That he had neither sense, nor talent, norAny good quality, and would not keepHis place an hour after the next election—So powerful was the voice of disaffection.LXXXI.That he was a mere puppet made to playA 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 scienceWere 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 betterThan 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, heStill wanted spirit, energy, and fire;And was disliked by—Mr. M'Intyre.LXXXV.In short, each one with whom in conversationHe join'd, contrived to give him different viewsOf men and measures; and the informationWhich he obtain'd, but aided to confuseHis 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'dBy all, till he sincerely thought that natureHad 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 sworeThat such a speech was never heard till then,And never would be—till he spoke again.LXXXIX.Though 'twas presumptuous in this friend of oursTo think of rivalling these, I must allowThat still the man had talents; and the powersOf his capacious intellect were nowImproved 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 bookOf travels—valued for its rich invention;And Day and Turner's Price Current; and tookThe Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews;And also Colonel Pell's; and, to amuseXCI.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 Harlæm 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 wildAnd frolic hour of infancy, is met;And never has a summer's morning smiledUpon a lovelier scene, than the full eyeOf the enthusiast revels on—when highXCV.Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbsO'er crags, that proudly tower above the deep,And knows that sense of danger which sublimesThe breathless moment—when his daring stepIs on the verge of the cliff, and he can hearThe 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 resumeThe currents in his veins their wonted course,There lingers a deep feeling—like the moanOf 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 blueOf 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 thereIn wild reality. When life is old,And many a scene forgot, the heart will holdXCIX.Its memory of this; nor lives there oneWhose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood's daysOf happiness were pass'd beneath that sun,That in his manhood's prime can calmly gazeUpon 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 leaningOver my shoulder as I wrote, "althoughI can't exactly comprehend its meaning.For my part, I have long been a petitionerTo Mr. John M'Comb, the street-commissioner,CI."That he would think of Weehawk, and would lay itHandsomely 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 returningFrom 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 wroteThe following flaming lines
I.Fanny was younger once than she is now,And prettier of course: I do not meanTo say that there are wrinkles on her brow;Yet, to be candid, she is past eighteen—Perhaps past twenty—but the girl is shyAbout her age, and Heaven forbid that III.Should get myself in trouble by revealingA secret of this sort; I have too longLoved 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 onFor half an hour, without the slightest harm;E'en when she wore her smiling summer face onThere was but little danger, and the charmThat 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 meetThe gaze of the great world, he breathed the airOf 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 meAre 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 feltThat 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 headWas not of brains particularly full;It was not known that he had ever saidAny thing worth repeating—'twas a dull,Good, honest man—what Paulding's muse would callA "cabbage head"—but he excelled them allIX.In that most noble of the sciences,The art of making money; and he foundThe zeal for quizzing him grew less and less,As he grew richer; till upon the groundOf Pearl-street, treading proudly in the mightAnd majesty of wealth, a sudden lightX.Flash'd like the midnight lightning on the eyesOf all who knew him; brilliant traits of mind,And genius, clear and countless as the diesUpon 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 trueThat cash had no small share; but there were stillSome other causes, which then gave a newImpulse to head and heart, and join'd to fillHis brain with knowledge; for there first he metThe editor of the New-York Gazette,XII.The sapient Mr.L**g. The world of himKnows much, yet not one half so much as heKnows of the world. Up to its very brimThe goblet of his mind is sparkling freeWith lore and learning. Had proud Sheba's queen,In all her bloom and beauty, but have seenXIII.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 honourOf some neat "paragraphs"—worth all the laysThat Judah's minstrel warbled in her praise.XIV.Her star arose too soon; but that which sway'dTh' ascendant at our merchant's natal hourWas bright with better destiny—its aidLed him to pluck within the classic bowerOf bulletins, the blossoms of true knowledge;AndL**gsupplied the loss of school and college.XV.For there he learn'd the news some minutes soonerThan others could; and to distinguish wellThe different signals, whether ship or schooner,Hoisted at Staten Island; and to tellThe 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 derivedFrom 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 flameKindled within his breast the love of fame,XVII.And politics, and country; the pure glowOf patriot ardour, and the consciousnessThat talents such as his might well bestowA lustre on the city; she would blessHis 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 hearthFanny and he were seated—he would dareTo whisper fondly, that the time might comeWhen 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 givenWhen she, in turn, should be abelle, and theyHad lived their little hour, and pass'd away.XX.There are some happy moments in this loneAnd desolate world of ours, that well repayThe toil of struggling through it, and atoneFor many a long, sad night and weary day.They come upon the mind like some wild airOf 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 becomeChanged 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 vainTo bid them linger longer, or to askOn 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 thinkingOf cares or creditors—the best wine in townYou'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 freeAnd happy spirit, that, unseen, reposesOn 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 starIs 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 minuteSpent 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-morrowXXVII.And these are innocent thoughts—a man may sitUpon a bright throne of his own creation;Untortured by the ghastly sprites that flitAround the many, whose exalted stationHas 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 breathesThe mountain air at last; but there are othersWho strove, like him, to win the glittering wreathsOf 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 balloonOf 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 Guillé'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 thoseI've dwelt so long upon—they were more stable;Hers were not "castles in the air" that roseBased upon nothing; for her sire was able,As well she knew, to "buy out" the one halfOf Fashion's glittering train, that nightly quaffXXXI.Wine, wit, and wisdom, at a midnight rout,From dandy coachmen, whose "exquisite" grinAnd "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 metIn 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 rankAmong the worthies of that street was fix'd;He had become director of a bank,And six insurance offices, and mix'dFamiliarly, as one among his peers,With grocers, dry-good merchants, auctioneers,XXXIV.Brokers of all grades—stock and pawn—and JewsOf all religions, who at noonday form,On 'Change, that brotherhood the moral museDelights in, where the heart is pure and warm,And each exerts his intellectual forceTo cheat his neighbour—legally, of course.XXXV.And there he shone a planetary star,Circled around by lesser orbs, whose beamsFrom his were borrow'd. The simile is not farFrom truth—for many bosom friends, it seems,Did borrow of him, and sometimes forgetTo pay—indeed, they have not paid him yet.XXXVI.But these he deem'd as trifles, when each mouthWas open in his praise, and plaudits roseUpon his willing ear, "like the sweet southUpon a bank of violets," from thoseWho knew his talents, virtues, and so forth;That is—knew how much money he was worth.XXXVII.Alas! poor human nature; had he beenBut satisfied with this, his golden daysTheir 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 inclinesOf all, from Clinton down to the bill-stickerOf a ward-meeting. She came slyly creepingTo 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 beneathHer arm, and in her hand on high she boreA National Advocate—Pell's polite ReviewLay at her feet—'twas pommell'd black and blue.XL.She was in fashion's elegant undress,Muffled from throat to ankle; and her hairWas all "en papillotes," each auburn tressPrettily pinn'd apart. You well might swearShe was no beauty; yet, when "made up," readyFor visiters, 'twas quite another lady.XLI.Since that wise pedant, Johnson, was in fashion,Manners have changed as well as moons; and heWould 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, anundressat present meansThe wearing a pelisse, a shawl, or so;Or any thing you please, in short, that screensThe 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 aërial manner dress'd in,Look Eve-like, angel-like, and interesting.XLIV.But Miss Ambition was, as I was saying,"Dèshabillée"—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'ringverbum sap.XLV.The last words were beyond his comprehension,For he had left off schooling, ere the GreekOr Latin classics claim'd his mind's attention:Besides, he often had been heard to speakContemptuously of all that sort of knowledge,Taught so profoundly in Columbia College.XLVI.We owe the ancients something. You have readTheir 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 soonBy 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 strollThrough this enlighten'd city would refine themMore than ten years hard study of the wholeTheir 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 roofOf 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 handsA 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 proudchef d'œuvre,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 skillCullen's magnesian shop has loudly spokenTo an admiring world; and better stillIs 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 heavenWere 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 QuintilliansHad 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 treasureFor any man of patience and of leisure.LVI.Oxonian Bristed! many a foolscap pageHe, in his time, hath written, and moreover(What few will do in this degenerate age)Hath read his own works, as you may discoverBy counting his quotations from himself—You'll find the books on any auction shelf.LVII.I beg Great Britain's pardon; 'tis not meantTo claim this Oxford scholar as our own:That he was shipp'd off here to representHer literature among us, is well known;And none could better fill the lofty stationOf Learning's envoy from the British nation.LVIII.We fondly hope that he will be respectedAt 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 abuseOur country, and find food for the reviews.LIX.But to return.—The Heliconian watersAre sparkling in their native fount no more,And after years of wandering, the nine daughtersOf poetry have found upon our shoreA happier home, and on their sacred shrinesGlow in immortal ink, the polish'd linesLX.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 everHave written, think ye, the Backwoodsman? never.LXI.Alas! for Paulding—I regret to seeIn such a stanza one whose giant powers,Seen in their native element, will beKnown to a future age, the pride of ours.There is none breathing who can better wieldThe battle-axe of satire. On its fieldLXII.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 funAnd 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 museLXIII.But to return once more: the ancients foughtSome tolerable battles. MarathonIs still a theme for high and holy thought,And many a poet's lay. We linger onThe page that tells us of the brave and free,And reverence thy name, unmatch'd Thermopylæ.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 brigadeLXV.Of veterans? nursed in that Free School of glory,The New-York State Militia. From Bellevue,E'en to the Battery flagstaff, the proud storyOf their manœuvres at the last reviewHas rang; and Clinton's "order" told afarHe never led a better corps to war.LXVI.What, Egypt, was thy magic, to the tricksOf 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 readWhen he can get "Wall-street," by Mr. Mead.LXVII.I might say much about our letter'd men,Those "grave and reverend seigniors," who composeOur learn'd societies—but here my penStops 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 remainsTo bless the hour the Corporation took itInto 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 esteemI bear "this fair city of the heart,"To me a dear enthusiastic theme,Has forced me, all unconsciously, to partToo 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 usedTo 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 allWho 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 whileThe waves of party were at rest. UponEach 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 sangSongs, patriotic, as in duty bound.He had a little of the "nasal twangHeard at conventicle;" but yet you foundIn 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 friendOf England's prettiest bard, Anacreon Moore.They met when he, the bard, came here to lendHis mirth and music to this favourite shore;For, as the proverb saith, "birds of a featherInstinctively 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 wreathingAround "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 payIts homage, now, and in all coming time,Up springs a doubtful question whether weOwe it to Tara's minstrel or Targee.LXXVII.Together oft they wander'd—many a spotNow consecrated, as the minstrel's theme,By words of beauty ne'er to be forgot,Their mutual feet have trod; and when the streamOf 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 appearThat he of Erin from the sachem tookThe 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 callFor 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 dreamTo 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 gaveAll 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.
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 callFor 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 dreamTo 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 gaveAll 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 neglectedTo 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 GovernorSomehow by chance, when we were all asleep;That he had neither sense, nor talent, norAny good quality, and would not keepHis place an hour after the next election—So powerful was the voice of disaffection.LXXXI.That he was a mere puppet made to playA 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 scienceWere 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 betterThan 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, heStill wanted spirit, energy, and fire;And was disliked by—Mr. M'Intyre.LXXXV.In short, each one with whom in conversationHe join'd, contrived to give him different viewsOf men and measures; and the informationWhich he obtain'd, but aided to confuseHis 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'dBy all, till he sincerely thought that natureHad 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 sworeThat such a speech was never heard till then,And never would be—till he spoke again.LXXXIX.Though 'twas presumptuous in this friend of oursTo think of rivalling these, I must allowThat still the man had talents; and the powersOf his capacious intellect were nowImproved 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 bookOf travels—valued for its rich invention;And Day and Turner's Price Current; and tookThe Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews;And also Colonel Pell's; and, to amuseXCI.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 Harlæm 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 wildAnd frolic hour of infancy, is met;And never has a summer's morning smiledUpon a lovelier scene, than the full eyeOf the enthusiast revels on—when highXCV.Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbsO'er crags, that proudly tower above the deep,And knows that sense of danger which sublimesThe breathless moment—when his daring stepIs on the verge of the cliff, and he can hearThe 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 resumeThe currents in his veins their wonted course,There lingers a deep feeling—like the moanOf 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 blueOf 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 thereIn wild reality. When life is old,And many a scene forgot, the heart will holdXCIX.Its memory of this; nor lives there oneWhose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood's daysOf happiness were pass'd beneath that sun,That in his manhood's prime can calmly gazeUpon 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 leaningOver my shoulder as I wrote, "althoughI can't exactly comprehend its meaning.For my part, I have long been a petitionerTo Mr. John M'Comb, the street-commissioner,CI."That he would think of Weehawk, and would lay itHandsomely 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 returningFrom 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 wroteThe following flaming lines