TO THE HORSEBOAT.1Away—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.2Though 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,3Yet, 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,4There, 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.5Another hour—and the death-word is given,Another hour—and his lightnings are here;Speed! speed thee, my bark; ere the breeze of evenIs lost in the tempest, our home will be near.6Then away o'er the wave, while thy pennant is streamingIn the shadowy light, like a shooting star;Be swift as the thought of the wanderer, dreaming,In a stranger land, of his fireside afar.7And while memory lingers I'll fondly believe theeA 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 thrownWhere 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 beA violation of the latest rules,To treat the sex with too much courtesy.'Tis not to worship beauty, as she glowsIn all her diamond lustre, that the beauxCVI.Of these enlighten'd days at evening crowd,Where fashion welcomes in her rooms of light,That "dignified obedience; that proudSubmission," which, in times of yore, the knightGave to his "ladye-love," is now a scandal,And practised only by your Goth or Vandal.CVII.To lounge in graceful attitudes—be staredUpon, the while, by every fair one's eye,And stare one's self, in turn; to be preparedTo dart upon the trays, as swiftly byThe dexterous Simon bears them, and to takeOne'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 banishCIX.Those antiquated feelings, that belongTo 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 waitMy leisure. She had changed, as you will see, asMuch as her worthy sire, and made as greatProficiency 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 offersMade her, by gentlemen of the middle ranks,Of heart and hand, had spurn'd, as far beneathOne 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 CatilaniForgot 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 powerOf riches could bestow; and had been taughtThe thousand nameless graces that adornThe 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 failTo bid you look again; there was a beam,A lustre in her eye, that oft would seemCXV.A little like effrontery; and yetThe lady meant no harm; her only aimWas 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 boughtTickets, by all who wish them, for a dollar;She patronised the Theatre, and thoughtThat 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 abas bleu, she hadFor 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 patronsOf Griscom'sconversazióneswhereIn rainbow groups, our bright-eyed maids and matrons,On science bent, assemble; to prepareThemselves for acting well, in life, their partAs wives and mothers. There she learn'd by heartCXX.Words, to the witches in Macbeth unknown.Hydraulics,hydrostatics, andpneumatics,Dioptrics,optics,katoptrics,carbon,Chlorine, andiodine, andaërostatics;Also,—why frogs, for want of air, expire;And how to set the Tappan sea on fire!CXXI.In all the modern languages she wasExceedingly 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 speakCXXII.French and Italian, equally as wellAs Chinese, Portuguese, or German; and,What is still more surprising, she could spellMost 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 triedHer finest, loftiest "pigeon-wings" of sound,Waking the very watchmen far around.CXXIV.For her pure taste in dress, I can appeal toMadame Bouquet, and Monsieur Pardessus;She was, in short, a woman you might kneel to,If kneeling were in fashion; or if youWere 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 withinA mansion of the best of brick, the brightAnd eloquent eyes of beauty bade beginThe 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 preparationHad sounded through all circles far and near;And some five hundred cards of invitationBade 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 headDown to the very toe of our nobility:Ladies, remarkable for handsome eyesOr 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 youBesides 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 doneAll that chalk could do—in young Eden's bowersThey seemed to tread, and their feet press'd on flowers.CXXXI.And when the thousand lights of spermacetiStream'd like a shower of sunbeams—and free tressesWild as the heads that waved them—and a prettyCollection of the latest Paris dressesWander'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 meetingThe lady of their bosom's love—and someTo 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 frequentjeux de mots, that drewPeals 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'erThe 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 knownOur 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 whateverIs necessary for a "genteel liver."CXXXIX.This last removal fix'd him: every stainWas blotted from his "household coat," and heNow "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 toldCXL.What lovers call "unutterable things"—That sort of dignity was in his mienWhich awes the gazer into ice, and bringsTo 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 Crœsus 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 veinsThe 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 aimIs public good alone, he soon becameCXLIII.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 fireOf 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 orchestraOf literary worthies—and the toneOf 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 presentOf muscle shells pick'd up at Rockaway;And Mitchill gave a classical and pleasantDiscourse 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 tellThat 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 powerBlights every thing it touches, fruit and flower.CXLIX.Some friends (they were his creditors) once hintedAbout 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 placeWhitechapel needles, with their sharp points up,Even in the softest feather bed that e'erWas 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 stillSmall voice," would whisper, something must be done;He ask'd advice of Fanny, and the maidPromptly and duteously lent her aid.CLIII.She told him, with that readiness of mindAnd quickness of perception which belongExclusively 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 nextIs 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 pureThan on that morn when Satan play'd the devilWith her and all her race. A love-sick wooerNe'er ask'd a kinder maiden, or more civil,Than Cleopatra was to AntonyThe day she left him on the Ionian sea.CLVII.The serpent—loveliest in his coiled ring,With eye that charms, and beauty that outviesThe tints of the rainbow—bears upon his stingThe deadliest venom. Ere the dolphin diesIts hues are brightest. Like an infant's breathAre tropic winds, before the voice of deathCLVIII.Is heard upon the waters, summoningThe midnight earthquake from its sleep of yearsTo do its task of wo. The clouds that flingThe lightning, brighten ere the bolt appears;The pantings of the warrior's heart are proudUpon 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 bestOf 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 afterDown 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 neglectedTo 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 complainingCame with the morn, and with it came bad weather;The wind was east-northeast, and it was rainingThroughout 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 faceAnd 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 misfortunesAre bad enough in prose, and worse in rhyme;Mine, therefore, must be brief. Under protestHis 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 metThese cabalistic words—"this house to let."CLXVIII.They live now, like chameleons, upon airAnd hope, and such cold, unsubstantial dishes;That they removed, is clear, but when or whereNone 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 poorFrom their own lips the world will never knowWhen better days are gone—it is secureBeyond 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 planOr moral can be traced, 'twas not intended;And if I've wrong'd her, I can only tell herI'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 readingThe 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 prayerFor 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 strollAlong 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 mirthOf those who pass'd him, gay in youth and hope,He took at Jupiter a shilling's worthOf 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, loveAnd happiness their theme;And music wanders in the windThat lulls a morning dream.And there are angel voices heard,In childhood's frolic hours,When life is but an April dayOf sunshine and of showers.II.There's music in the forest leavesWhen summer winds are there,And in the laugh of forest girlsThat braid their sunny hair.The first wild bird that drinks the dew,From violets of the spring,Has music in his song, and inThe fluttering of his wing.III.There's music in the dash of wavesWhen 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 meetAt midnight on the sea—And there is music—once a weekIn Scudder's balcony.IV.But the music of young thoughts too soonIs faint, and dies away,And from our morning dreams we wakeTo curse the coming day.And childhood's frolic hours are brief,And oft in after yearsTheir 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 longTo the widow's wail of sorrow.Come with the winter snows, and askWhere are the forest birds?The answer is a silent one,More eloquent than words.VI.The moonlight music of the wavesIn storms is heard no more,When the living lightning mocks the wreckAt midnight on the shore,And the mariner's song of home has ceased,His corse is on the sea—And music ceases when it rainsIn Scudder's balcony.
TO THE HORSEBOAT.1Away—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.2Though 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,3Yet, 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,4There, 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.5Another hour—and the death-word is given,Another hour—and his lightnings are here;Speed! speed thee, my bark; ere the breeze of evenIs lost in the tempest, our home will be near.6Then away o'er the wave, while thy pennant is streamingIn the shadowy light, like a shooting star;Be swift as the thought of the wanderer, dreaming,In a stranger land, of his fireside afar.7And while memory lingers I'll fondly believe theeA 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.
TO THE HORSEBOAT.
1Away—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.2Though 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,3Yet, 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,4There, 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.5Another hour—and the death-word is given,Another hour—and his lightnings are here;Speed! speed thee, my bark; ere the breeze of evenIs lost in the tempest, our home will be near.6Then away o'er the wave, while thy pennant is streamingIn the shadowy light, like a shooting star;Be swift as the thought of the wanderer, dreaming,In a stranger land, of his fireside afar.7And while memory lingers I'll fondly believe theeA 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 thrownWhere 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 beA violation of the latest rules,To treat the sex with too much courtesy.'Tis not to worship beauty, as she glowsIn all her diamond lustre, that the beauxCVI.Of these enlighten'd days at evening crowd,Where fashion welcomes in her rooms of light,That "dignified obedience; that proudSubmission," which, in times of yore, the knightGave to his "ladye-love," is now a scandal,And practised only by your Goth or Vandal.CVII.To lounge in graceful attitudes—be staredUpon, the while, by every fair one's eye,And stare one's self, in turn; to be preparedTo dart upon the trays, as swiftly byThe dexterous Simon bears them, and to takeOne'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 banishCIX.Those antiquated feelings, that belongTo 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 waitMy leisure. She had changed, as you will see, asMuch as her worthy sire, and made as greatProficiency 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 offersMade her, by gentlemen of the middle ranks,Of heart and hand, had spurn'd, as far beneathOne 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 CatilaniForgot 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 powerOf riches could bestow; and had been taughtThe thousand nameless graces that adornThe 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 failTo bid you look again; there was a beam,A lustre in her eye, that oft would seemCXV.A little like effrontery; and yetThe lady meant no harm; her only aimWas 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 boughtTickets, by all who wish them, for a dollar;She patronised the Theatre, and thoughtThat 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 abas bleu, she hadFor 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 patronsOf Griscom'sconversazióneswhereIn rainbow groups, our bright-eyed maids and matrons,On science bent, assemble; to prepareThemselves for acting well, in life, their partAs wives and mothers. There she learn'd by heartCXX.Words, to the witches in Macbeth unknown.Hydraulics,hydrostatics, andpneumatics,Dioptrics,optics,katoptrics,carbon,Chlorine, andiodine, andaërostatics;Also,—why frogs, for want of air, expire;And how to set the Tappan sea on fire!CXXI.In all the modern languages she wasExceedingly 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 speakCXXII.French and Italian, equally as wellAs Chinese, Portuguese, or German; and,What is still more surprising, she could spellMost 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 triedHer finest, loftiest "pigeon-wings" of sound,Waking the very watchmen far around.CXXIV.For her pure taste in dress, I can appeal toMadame Bouquet, and Monsieur Pardessus;She was, in short, a woman you might kneel to,If kneeling were in fashion; or if youWere 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 withinA mansion of the best of brick, the brightAnd eloquent eyes of beauty bade beginThe 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 preparationHad sounded through all circles far and near;And some five hundred cards of invitationBade 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 headDown to the very toe of our nobility:Ladies, remarkable for handsome eyesOr 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 youBesides 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 doneAll that chalk could do—in young Eden's bowersThey seemed to tread, and their feet press'd on flowers.CXXXI.And when the thousand lights of spermacetiStream'd like a shower of sunbeams—and free tressesWild as the heads that waved them—and a prettyCollection of the latest Paris dressesWander'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 meetingThe lady of their bosom's love—and someTo 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 frequentjeux de mots, that drewPeals 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'erThe 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 knownOur 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 whateverIs necessary for a "genteel liver."CXXXIX.This last removal fix'd him: every stainWas blotted from his "household coat," and heNow "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 toldCXL.What lovers call "unutterable things"—That sort of dignity was in his mienWhich awes the gazer into ice, and bringsTo 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 Crœsus 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 veinsThe 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 aimIs public good alone, he soon becameCXLIII.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 fireOf 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 orchestraOf literary worthies—and the toneOf 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 presentOf muscle shells pick'd up at Rockaway;And Mitchill gave a classical and pleasantDiscourse 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 tellThat 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 powerBlights every thing it touches, fruit and flower.CXLIX.Some friends (they were his creditors) once hintedAbout 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 placeWhitechapel needles, with their sharp points up,Even in the softest feather bed that e'erWas 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 stillSmall voice," would whisper, something must be done;He ask'd advice of Fanny, and the maidPromptly and duteously lent her aid.CLIII.She told him, with that readiness of mindAnd quickness of perception which belongExclusively 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 nextIs 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 pureThan on that morn when Satan play'd the devilWith her and all her race. A love-sick wooerNe'er ask'd a kinder maiden, or more civil,Than Cleopatra was to AntonyThe day she left him on the Ionian sea.CLVII.The serpent—loveliest in his coiled ring,With eye that charms, and beauty that outviesThe tints of the rainbow—bears upon his stingThe deadliest venom. Ere the dolphin diesIts hues are brightest. Like an infant's breathAre tropic winds, before the voice of deathCLVIII.Is heard upon the waters, summoningThe midnight earthquake from its sleep of yearsTo do its task of wo. The clouds that flingThe lightning, brighten ere the bolt appears;The pantings of the warrior's heart are proudUpon 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 bestOf 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 afterDown 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 neglectedTo 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 complainingCame with the morn, and with it came bad weather;The wind was east-northeast, and it was rainingThroughout 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 faceAnd 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 misfortunesAre bad enough in prose, and worse in rhyme;Mine, therefore, must be brief. Under protestHis 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 metThese cabalistic words—"this house to let."CLXVIII.They live now, like chameleons, upon airAnd hope, and such cold, unsubstantial dishes;That they removed, is clear, but when or whereNone 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 poorFrom their own lips the world will never knowWhen better days are gone—it is secureBeyond 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 planOr moral can be traced, 'twas not intended;And if I've wrong'd her, I can only tell herI'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 readingThe 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 prayerFor 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 strollAlong 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 mirthOf those who pass'd him, gay in youth and hope,He took at Jupiter a shilling's worthOf 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, loveAnd happiness their theme;And music wanders in the windThat lulls a morning dream.And there are angel voices heard,In childhood's frolic hours,When life is but an April dayOf sunshine and of showers.II.There's music in the forest leavesWhen summer winds are there,And in the laugh of forest girlsThat braid their sunny hair.The first wild bird that drinks the dew,From violets of the spring,Has music in his song, and inThe fluttering of his wing.III.There's music in the dash of wavesWhen 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 meetAt midnight on the sea—And there is music—once a weekIn Scudder's balcony.IV.But the music of young thoughts too soonIs faint, and dies away,And from our morning dreams we wakeTo curse the coming day.And childhood's frolic hours are brief,And oft in after yearsTheir 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 longTo the widow's wail of sorrow.Come with the winter snows, and askWhere are the forest birds?The answer is a silent one,More eloquent than words.VI.The moonlight music of the wavesIn storms is heard no more,When the living lightning mocks the wreckAt midnight on the shore,And the mariner's song of home has ceased,His corse is on the sea—And music ceases when it rainsIn Scudder's balcony.
I.Young thoughts have music in them, loveAnd happiness their theme;And music wanders in the windThat lulls a morning dream.And there are angel voices heard,In childhood's frolic hours,When life is but an April dayOf sunshine and of showers.II.There's music in the forest leavesWhen summer winds are there,And in the laugh of forest girlsThat braid their sunny hair.The first wild bird that drinks the dew,From violets of the spring,Has music in his song, and inThe fluttering of his wing.III.There's music in the dash of wavesWhen 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 meetAt midnight on the sea—And there is music—once a weekIn Scudder's balcony.IV.But the music of young thoughts too soonIs faint, and dies away,And from our morning dreams we wakeTo curse the coming day.And childhood's frolic hours are brief,And oft in after yearsTheir 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 longTo the widow's wail of sorrow.Come with the winter snows, and askWhere are the forest birds?The answer is a silent one,More eloquent than words.VI.The moonlight music of the wavesIn storms is heard no more,When the living lightning mocks the wreckAt midnight on the shore,And the mariner's song of home has ceased,His corse is on the sea—And music ceases when it rainsIn Scudder's balcony.