ON THE DEATH OF WASHINGTON.
Why moves to mournful measures slow
Yon sable retinue of wo,
With tearful eye and visage pale?
And why this universal gloom?
Sure Nature trembles o’er her tomb,
And bids her wilder’d children wail!
Do plagues infest, do wars alarm,
Has God in wrath made bare his arm,
To hurl his bolts of vengeance round?
Have towns been sack’d by hostile ire,
Have cities sunk in floods of fire,
While earthquakes shook the shuddering ground?
Ah! no, thy sons, Columbia, mourn
A hero past that fatal “bourn
From whence no traveller returns;”
Before him none more good, more great,
E’er felt the unerring shafts of fate,
Though glory’s lamp illume their urns.
Behold yon pallid war-worn chief,
A marble monument of grief,
Who once our troops to victory led;—
The burst of sorrow now control,
But now the tears of anguish roll,
A tribute to the immortal dead!
Fain would the muse those virtues scan,
Which dignified the godlike man,
And launch in seas without a shore;
But sure his name alone conveys
More than a thousand hymns of praise,
The matchless Washington’s no more!
DIRECTIONS FOR DOING POETRY.[127]
IN THE SIMPLE STYLE OF SOUTHEY, WORDSWORTH, AND OTHER MODERN METRE MONGERS.
Supposing you would sing
About love in the Spring,
Something like this will be just the thing.
Tell the reader to behold
The gay
Tints of the cloud-dappled morn!
Then streak the azure with gems set in gold,
And bring into view
Some Tyrian hue,
Mix’d with indigo blue.
Then the meads must be spangled,
And glittering grove
With OCEANS of dew!
But now you must mind
That rhymes you must find
For lines left behind,
You therefore must rove,
Say
On any day
About the fag end of May,
And bid lilacs adorn
Your beautiful morn;
And the thickets must be tangled
For the sake of your spangled.
Now having found
Yourself on firm ground,
You may roam along the edges
Of hawthorn hedges;
Then bid beds of roses
And pretty pink posies
Ravish our eyes and captivate our noses!!!
Interweave, if you will,
The hyacinth and daffodil,
With now and then a big weed
Of purslain and of pig weed,
And add fragrant crops
Of potato tops,
And scatter, here and thereabout,
As many hops
As you may please to care about;
And, between whiles,
Say
That Nature smiles,
In her new holiday
Dress;—
Nevertheless,
These beauties so rare
Can never compare
With the dear little dove
With whom you’re in love.
Next glance a quick eye
To the flame cinctur’d, multihu’d arch in the sky;—
In our vernacular idiom call’d a rainbow,
Which perhaps the unpoetic reader would fain know.
Then positively declare,
That Amanda the fair,
Who really beats the Dutch,
Exceeds as much
All such
As does a fine lilac silk gown
The dirtiest grogram in town.
Then bid your muse higher fly,
And say your queen of lasses
Each country wench surpasses,
Yea, far more excels
Your Moggies and Nells,
Than doth the noontide blaze the scintillating fire fly.