Fanny, with Other Poems

by Fitz-Greene Halleck

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FANNY.

I.
Fanny was younger once than she is now,
And prettier of course: I do not mean
To say that there are wrinkles on her brow;
Yet, to be candid, she is past eighteen—
Perhaps past twenty—but the girl is shy
About her age, and Heaven forbid that I
II.
Should get myself in trouble by revealing
A secret of this sort; I have too long
Loved pretty women with a poet's feeling,
And when a boy, in day dream and in song,
Have knelt me down and worshipp'd them: alas!
They never thank'd me for't—but let that pass.
III.
I've felt full many a heart-ache in my day,
At the mere rustling of a muslin gown,
And caught some dreadful colds, I blush to say,
While shivering in the shade of beauty's frown.
They say her smiles are sunbeams—it may be—
But never a sunbeam would she throw on me.
IV.
But Fanny's is an eye that you may gaze on
For half an hour, without the slightest harm;
E'en when she wore her smiling summer face on
There was but little danger, and the charm
That youth and wealth once gave, has bade farewell.
Hers is a sad, sad tale—'tis mine its woes to tell.
V.
Her father kept, some fifteen years ago,
A retail dry-good shop in Chatham-street,
And nursed his little earnings, sure though slow,
Till, having muster'd wherewithal to meet
The gaze of the great world, he breathed the air
Of Pearl-street—and "set up" in Hanover-square.
VI.
Money is power, 'tis said—I never tried;
I'm but a poet—and bank-notes to me
Are curiosities, as closely eyed,
Whene'er I get them, as a stone would be,
Toss'd from the moon on Doctor Mitchill's table,
Or classic brickbat from the tower of Babel.
VII.
But he I sing of well has known and felt
That money hath a power and a dominion;
For when in Chatham-street the good man dwelt,
No one would give a sous for his opinion.
And though his neighbours were extremely civil,
Yet, on the whole, they thought him—a poor devil,
VIII.
A decent kind of person; one whose head
Was not of brains particularly full;
It was not known that he had ever said
Any thing worth repeating—'twas a dull,
Good, honest man—what Paulding's muse would call
A "cabbage head"—but he excelled them all
IX.
In that most noble of the sciences,
The art of making money; and he found
The zeal for quizzing him grew less and less,
As he grew richer; till upon the ground
Of Pearl-street, treading proudly in the might
And majesty of wealth, a sudden light
X.
Flash'd like the midnight lightning on the eyes
Of all who knew him; brilliant traits of mind,
And genius, clear and countless as the dies
Upon the peacock's plumage; taste refined,
Wisdom and wit, were his—perhaps much more.
'Twas strange they had not found it out before.
XI.
In this quick transformation, it is true
That cash had no small share; but there were still
Some other causes, which then gave a new
Impulse to head and heart, and join'd to fill
His brain with knowledge; for there first he met
The editor of the New-York Gazette,
XII.
The sapient Mr. L**g. The world of him
Knows much, yet not one half so much as he
Knows of the world. Up to its very brim
The goblet of his mind is sparkling free
With lore and learning. Had proud Sheba's queen,
In all her bloom and beauty, but have seen
XIII.
This modern Solomon, the Israelite,
Earth's monarch as he was, had never won her.
He would have hang'd himself for very spite,
And she, bless'd woman, might have had the honour
Of some neat "paragraphs"—worth all the lays
That Judah's minstrel warbled in her praise.
XIV.
Her star arose too soon; but that which sway'd
Th' ascendant at our merchant's natal hour
Was bright with better destiny—its aid
Led him to pluck within the classic bower
Of bulletins, the blossoms of true knowledge;
And L**g supplied the loss of school and college.
XV.
For there he learn'd the news some minutes sooner
Than others could; and to distinguish well
The different signals, whether ship or schooner,
Hoisted at Staten Island; and to tell
The change of wind, and of his neighbour's fortunes,
And, best of all—he there learn'd self-importance.
XVI.
Nor were these all the advantages derived
From change of scene; for near his domicil,
He of the pair of polish'd lamps then lived,
And in my hero's promenades, at will,
Could he behold them burning—and their flame
Kindled within his breast the love of fame,
XVII.
And politics, and country; the pure glow
Of patriot ardour, and the consciousness
That talents such as his might well bestow
A lustre on the city; she would bless
His name; and that some service should be done her,
He pledged "life, fortune, and his sacred honour."
XVIII.
And when the sounds of music and of mirth,
Bursting from Fashion's groups assembled there,
Were heard, as round their lone plebeian hearth
Fanny and he were seated—he would dare
To whisper fondly, that the time might come
When he and his could give as brilliant routs at home.
XIX.
And oft would Fanny near that mansion linger,
When the cold winter moon was high in heaven,
And trace out, by the aid of Fancy's finger,
Cards for some future party, to be given
When she, in turn, should be a belle, and they
Had lived their little hour, and pass'd away.
XX.
There are some happy moments in this lone
And desolate world of ours, that well repay
The toil of struggling through it, and atone
For many a long, sad night and weary day.
They come upon the mind like some wild air
Of distant music, when we know not where,
XXI.
Or whence, the sounds are brought from, and their power,
Though brief, is boundless. That far, future home,
Oft dream'd of, beckons near—it's rose-wreathed bower,
And cloudless skies before us: we become
Changed on the instant—all gold leaf and gilding:
This is, in vulgar phrase, call'd "castle building."
XXII.
But these, like sunset clouds, fade soon; 'tis vain
To bid them linger longer, or to ask
On what day they intend to call again;
And, surely, 'twere a philosophic task,
Worthy a Mitchill, in his hours of leisure,
To find some means to summon them at pleasure.
XXIII.
There certainly are powers of doing this,
In some degree at least—for instance, drinking.
Champagne will bathe the heart a while in bliss,
And keep the head a little time from thinking
Of cares or creditors—the best wine in town
You'll get from Lynch—the cash must be paid down.
XXIV.
But if you are a bachelor, like me,
And spurn all chains, even though made of roses,
I'd recommend segars—there is a free
And happy spirit, that, unseen, reposes
On the dim shadowy clouds that hover o'er you,
When smoking quietly with a warm fire before you.
XXV.
Dear to the exile is his native land,
In memory's twilight beauty seen afar:
Dear to the broker is a note of hand,
Collaterally secured—the polar star
Is dear at midnight to the sailor's eyes,
And dear are Bristed's volumes at "half price;"
XXVI.
But dearer far to me each fairy minute
Spent in that fond forgetfulness of grief;
There is an airy web of magic in it,
As in Othello's pocket-handkerchief,
Veiling the wrinkles on the brow of sorrow,
The gathering gloom to-day, the thunder cloud to-morrow
XXVII.
And these are innocent thoughts—a man may sit
Upon a bright throne of his own creation;
Untortured by the ghastly sprites that flit
Around the many, whose exalted station
Has been attained by means 'twere pain to hint on,
Just for the rhyme's sake—instance Mr. Cl*n*on.
XXVIII.
He struggled hard, but not in vain, and breathes
The mountain air at last; but there are others
Who strove, like him, to win the glittering wreaths
Of power, his early partisans and brothers,
That linger yet in dust from whence they sprung,
Unhonour'd and unpaid, though, luckily, unhung.
XXIX.
'Twas theirs to fill with gas the huge balloon
Of party; and they hoped, when it arose,
To soar like eagles in the blaze of noon,
Above the gaping crowd of friends and foes.
Alas! like 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 those
I've dwelt so long upon—they were more stable;
Hers were not "castles in the air" that rose
Based upon nothing; for her sire was able,
As well she knew, to "buy out" the one half
Of Fashion's glittering train, that nightly quaff
XXXI.
Wine, wit, and wisdom, at a midnight rout,
From dandy coachmen, whose "exquisite" grin
And "ruffian" lounge flash brilliantly without,
Down to their brother dandies ranged within,
Gay as the Brussels carpeting they tread on,
And sapient as the oysters they are fed on.
XXXII.
And Rumour (she's a famous liar, yet
'Tis wonderful how easy we believe her)
Had whisper'd he was rich, and all he met
In Wall-street, nodded, smiled, and "tipp'd the beaver;"
All, from Mr. Gelston, the collector,
Down to the broker, and the bank director.
XXXIII.
A few brief years pass'd over, and his rank
Among the worthies of that street was fix'd;
He had become director of a bank,
And six insurance offices, and mix'd
Familiarly, as one among his peers,
With grocers, dry-good merchants, auctioneers,
XXXIV.
Brokers of all grades—stock and pawn—and Jews
Of all religions, who at noonday form,
On 'Change, that brotherhood the moral muse
Delights in, where the heart is pure and warm,
And each exerts his intellectual force
To cheat his neighbour—legally, of course.
XXXV.
And there he shone a planetary star,
Circled around by lesser orbs, whose beams
From his were borrow'd. The simile is not far
From truth—for many bosom friends, it seems,
Did borrow of him, and sometimes forget
To pay—indeed, they have not paid him yet.
XXXVI.
But these he deem'd as trifles, when each mouth
Was open in his praise, and plaudits rose
Upon his willing ear, "like the sweet south
Upon a bank of violets," from those
Who knew his talents, virtues, and so forth;
That is—knew how much money he was worth.
XXXVII.
Alas! poor human nature; had he been
But satisfied with this, his golden days
Their setting hour of darkness had not seen,
And he might still (in the mercantile phrase)
Be living "in good order and condition;"
But he was ruined by that jade Ambition,
XXXVIII.
"That last infirmity of noble minds,"
Whose spell, like whiskey, your true patriot liquor,
To politics the lofty hearts inclines
Of all, from Clinton down to the bill-sticker
Of a ward-meeting. She came slyly creeping
To his bedside, where he lay snug and sleeping.
XXXIX.
Her brow was turban'd with a bucktail wreath,
A broach of terrapin her bosom wore,
Tompkins' letter was just seen beneath
Her arm, and in her hand on high she bore
A National Advocate—Pell's polite Review
Lay at her feet—'twas pommell'd black and blue.
XL.
She was in fashion's elegant undress,
Muffled from throat to ankle; and her hair
Was all "en papillotes," each auburn tress
Prettily pinn'd apart. You well might swear
She was no beauty; yet, when "made up," ready
For visiters, 'twas quite another lady.
XLI.
Since that wise pedant, Johnson, was in fashion,
Manners have changed as well as moons; and he
Would fret himself once more into a passion,
Should he return (which heaven forbid!), and see,
How strangely from his standard dictionary,
The meaning of some words is made to vary.
XLII.
For instance, an undress at present means
The wearing a pelisse, a shawl, or so;
Or any thing you please, in short, that screens
The face, and hides the form from top to toe;
Of power to brave a quizzing-glass, or storm—
'Tis worn in summer, when the weather's warm.
XLIII.
But a full dress is for a winter's night.
The most genteel is made of "woven air;"
That kind of classic cobweb, soft and light,
Which Lady Morgan's Ida used to wear.
And ladies, this 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'ring verbum sap.
XLV.
The last words were beyond his comprehension,
For he had left off schooling, ere the Greek
Or Latin classics claim'd his mind's attention:
Besides, he often had been heard to speak
Contemptuously of all that sort of knowledge,
Taught so profoundly in Columbia College.
XLVI.
We owe the ancients something. You have read
Their works, no doubt—at least in a translation;
Yet there was argument in what he said,
I scorn equivocation or evasion,
And own it must, in candour, be confess'd,
They were an ignorant set of men at best.
XLVII.
'Twas their misfortune to be born too soon
By centuries, and in the wrong place too;
They never saw a steamboat, or balloon,
Velocipede, or Quarterly Review;
Or wore a pair of Baehr's black satin breeches,
Or read an Almanac, or Clinton's Speeches.
XLVIII.
In short, in every thing we far outshine them,—
Art, science, taste, and talent; and a stroll
Through this enlighten'd city would refine them
More than ten years hard study of the whole
Their genius has produced of rich and rare—
God bless the Corporation and the Mayor!
XLIX.
In sculpture, we've a grace the Grecian master,
Blushing, had own'd his purest model lacks;
We've Mr. Bogart in the best of plaster,
The Witch of Endor in the best of wax,
Besides the head of Franklin on the roof
Of Mr. Lang, both jest and weather proof.
L.
And on our City Hall a Justice stands;
A neater form was never made of board,
Holding majestically in her hands
A pair of steelyards and a wooden sword;
And looking down with complaisant civility—
Emblem of dignity and durability.
LI.
In painting, we have Trumbull's proud chef d'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 skill
Cullen's magnesian shop has loudly spoken
To an admiring world; and better still
Is Gautier's fairy palace at Hoboken.
In music, we've the Euterpian Society,
And amateurs, a wonderful variety.
LIII.
In physic, we have Francis and M'Neven,
Famed for long heads, short lectures, and long bills;
And Quackenboss and others, who from heaven
Were rain'd upon us in a shower of pills;
They'd beat the deathless Esculapius hollow,
And make a starveling druggist of Apollo.
LIV.
And who, that ever slumber'd at the Forum,
But owns the first of orators we claim;
Cicero would have bow'd the knee before 'em—
And for law eloquence, we've Doctor Graham.
Compared with him, their Justins and Quintillians
Had dwindled into second-rate civilians.
LV.
For purity and chastity of style,
There's Pell's preface, and puffs by Horne and Waite.
For penetration deep, and learned toil,
And all that stamps an author truly great,
Have we not Bristed's ponderous tomes? a treasure
For any man of patience and of leisure.
LVI.
Oxonian Bristed! many a foolscap page
He, in his time, hath written, and moreover
(What few will do in this degenerate age)
Hath read his own works, as you may discover
By counting his quotations from himself—
You'll find the books on any auction shelf.
LVII.
I beg Great Britain's pardon; 'tis not meant
To claim this Oxford scholar as our own:
That he was shipp'd off here to represent
Her literature among us, is well known;
And none could better fill the lofty station
Of Learning's envoy from the British nation.
LVIII.
We fondly hope that he will be respected
At home, and soon obtain a place or pension.
We should regret to see him live neglected,
Like Fearon, Ashe, and others we could mention;
Who paid us friendly visits to abuse
Our country, and find food for the reviews.
LIX.
But to return.—The Heliconian waters
Are sparkling in their native fount no more,
And after years of wandering, the nine daughters
Of poetry have found upon our shore
A happier home, and on their sacred shrines
Glow in immortal ink, the polish'd lines
LX.
Of Woodworth, Doctor Farmer, Moses Scott—
Names hallow'd by their reader's sweetest smile;
And who that reads at all has read them not?
"That blind old man of Scio's rocky isle,"
Homer, was well enough; but would he ever
Have written, think ye, the Backwoodsman? never.
LXI.
Alas! for Paulding—I regret to see
In such a stanza one whose giant powers,
Seen in their native element, will be
Known to a future age, the pride of ours.
There is none breathing who can better wield
The battle-axe of satire. On its field
LXII.
The wreath he fought for he has bravely won,
Long be its laurel green around his brow!
It is too true, I'm somewhat fond of fun
And jesting; but for once I'm serious now.
Why is he sipping weak Castalian dews?
The muse has damn'd him—let him damn the muse
LXIII.
But to return once more: the ancients fought
Some tolerable battles. Marathon
Is still a theme for high and holy thought,
And many a poet's lay. We linger on
The page that tells us of the brave and free,
And reverence thy name, unmatch'd 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 brigade
LXV.
Of veterans? nursed in that Free School of glory,
The New-York State Militia. From Bellevue,
E'en to the Battery flagstaff, the proud story
Of their manœuvres at the last review
Has rang; and Clinton's "order" told afar
He never led a better corps to war.
LXVI.
What, Egypt, was thy magic, to the tricks
Of Mr. Charles, Judge Spencer, or Van Buren?
The first with cards, the last in politics,
A conjuror's fame for years have been securing.
And who would now the Athenian dramas read
When he can get "Wall-street," by Mr. Mead.
LXVII.
I might say much about our letter'd men,
Those "grave and reverend seigniors," who compose
Our learn'd societies—but here my pen
Stops short; for they themselves, the rumour goes,
The exclusive privilege by patent claim,
Of trumpeting (as the phrase is) their own fame.
LXVIII.
And, therefore, I am silent. It remains
To bless the hour the Corporation took it
Into their heads to give the rich in brains,
The worn-out mansion of the poor in pocket,
Once "the old almshouse," now a school of wisdom,
Sacred to Scudder's shells and Dr. Griscom.
LXIX.
But whither am I wandering? The esteem
I bear "this fair city of the heart,"
To me a dear enthusiastic theme,
Has forced me, all unconsciously, to part
Too long from him, the hero of my story.
Where was he?—waking from his dream of glory.
LXX.
And she, the lady of his dream, had fled,
And left him somewhat puzzled and confused.
He understood, however, half she said;
And that is quite as much as we are used
To comprehend, or fancy worth repeating,
In speeches heard at any public meeting.
LXXI.
And the next evening found him at the Hall;
There he was welcomed by the cordial hand,
And met the warm and friendly grasp of all
Who take, like watchmen, there, their nightly stand,
A ring, as in a boxing match, procuring,
To bet on Clinton, Tompkins, or Van Buren.
LXXII.
'Twas a propitious moment; for a while
The waves of party were at rest. Upon
Each complacent brow was gay good humour's smile;
And there was much of wit, and jest, and pun,
And high amid the circle, in great glee,
Sat Croaker's old acquaintance, John Targee.
LXXIII.
His jokes excell'd the rest, and oft he sang
Songs, patriotic, as in duty bound.
He had a little of the "nasal twang
Heard at conventicle;" but yet you found
In him a dash of purity and brightness,
That spoke the man of taste and of politeness.
LXXIV.
For he had been, it seems, the bosom friend
Of England's prettiest bard, Anacreon Moore.
They met when he, the bard, came here to lend
His mirth and music to this favourite shore;
For, as the proverb saith, "birds of a feather
Instinctively will flock and fly together."
LXXV.
The winds that wave thy cedar boughs are breathing,
"Lake of the Dismal Swamp!" that poet's name;
And the spray-showers their noonday halos wreathing
Around "Cohoes," are brighten'd by his fame.
And bright its sunbeam o'er St. Lawrence smiles,
Her million lilies, and her thousand isles.
LXXVI.
We hear his music in her oarsmen's lay,
And where her church-bells "toll the evening chime;"
Yet when to him the grateful heart would pay
Its homage, now, and in all coming time,
Up springs a doubtful question whether we
Owe it to Tara's minstrel or Targee.
LXXVII.
Together oft they wander'd—many a spot
Now consecrated, as the minstrel's theme,
By words of beauty ne'er to be forgot,
Their mutual feet have trod; and when the stream
Of thought and feeling flow'd in mutual speech,
'Twere vain to tell how much each taught to each.
LXXVIII.
But, from the following song, it would appear
That he of Erin from the sachem took
The model of his "Bower of Bendemeer,"
One of the sweetest airs in Lalla Rookh;
'Tis to be hoped that in his next edition,
This, the original, will find admission.

SONG.

There's a barrel of porter at Tammany Hall,
And the bucktails are swigging it all the night long;
In the time of my boyhood 'twas pleasant to call
For a seat and segar, mid the jovial throng.
That beer and those bucktails I never forget;
But oft, when alone, and unnoticed by all,
I think, is the porter cask foaming there yet?
Are the bucktails still swigging at Tammany Hall?
No! the porter was out long before it was stale,
But some blossoms on many a nose brightly shone;
And the speeches inspired by the fumes of the ale,
Had the fragrance of porter when porter was gone.
How much Cozzens will draw of such beer ere he dies,
Is a question of moment to me and to all;
For still dear to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes,
Is that barrel of porter at Tammany Hall.

SONG.

There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream,
And the nightingale sings round it all the night long,
In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream
To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song.
That bower and its music I never forget;
But oft, when alone, in the bloom of the year,
I think, is the nightingale singing there yet?
Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?
No! the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave,
But some blossoms were gather'd while freshly they shone;
And a dew was distill'd from their flowers, that gave
All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.
Thus memory draws from delight ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it many a year;
Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes,
Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer.

LXXIX.
For many months my hero ne'er neglected
To take his ramble there, and soon found out,
In much less time than one could have expected,
What 'twas they all were quarrelling about.
He learn'd the party countersigns by rote,
And when to clap his hands, and how to vote.
LXXX.
He learn'd that Clinton became Governor
Somehow by chance, when we were all asleep;
That he had neither sense, nor talent, nor
Any good quality, and would not keep
His place an hour after the next election—
So powerful was the voice of disaffection.
LXXXI.
That he was a mere puppet made to play
A thousand tricks, while Spencer touch'd the springs—
Spencer, the mighty Warwick of his day,
"That setter up, and puller down of kings,"
Aided by Miller, Pell, and Doctor Graham,
And other men of equal worth and fame.
LXXXII.
And that he'd set the people at defiance,
By placing knaves and fools in public stations;
And that his works in literature and science
Were but a schoolboy's web of misquotations;
And that he'd quoted from the devil even—
"Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven."
LXXXIII.
To these authentic facts each bucktail swore;
But Clinton's friends averr'd, in contradiction,
They were but fables, told by Mr. Noah,
Who had a privilege to deal in fiction,
Because he'd written travels, and a melo-
Drama; and was, withal, a pleasant fellow.
LXXXIV.
And they declared that Tompkins was no better
Than he should be; that he had borrow'd money,
And paid it—not in cash—but with a letter;
And though some trifling service he had done, he
Still wanted spirit, energy, and fire;
And was disliked by—Mr. M'Intyre.
LXXXV.
In short, each one with whom in conversation
He join'd, contrived to give him different views
Of men and measures; and the information
Which he obtain'd, but aided to confuse
His brain. At best, 'twas never very clear;
And now 'twas turn'd with politics and beer.
LXXXVI.
And he was puff'd, and flatter'd, and caress'd
By all, till he sincerely thought that nature
Had form'd him for an alderman at least—
Perhaps, a member of the legislature;
And that he had the talents, ten times over,
Of H*n*y M**gs, or P*t*r H. W*nd*ver.
LXXXVII.
The man was mad, 'tis plain, and merits pity,
Or he had never dared, in such a tone,
To speak of two great persons, whom the city,
With pride and pleasure, points to as her own.
Men, wise in council, brilliant in debate,
"The expectancy and rose of the fair state."
LXXXVIII.
The one—for a pure style and classic manner,
Is—Mr. Sachem Mooney far before.
The other, in his speech about the banner,
Spell-bound his audience until they swore
That such a speech was never heard till then,
And never would be—till he spoke again.
LXXXIX.
Though 'twas presumptuous in this friend of ours
To think of rivalling these, I must allow
That still the man had talents; and the powers
Of his capacious intellect were now
Improved by foreign travel, and by reading,
And at the Hall he'd learn'd, of course, good breeding.
XC.
He had read the newspapers with great attention,
Advertisements and all; and Riley's book
Of travels—valued for its rich invention;
And Day and Turner's Price Current; and took
The Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews;
And also Colonel Pell's; and, to amuse
XCI.
His leisure hours with classic tale and story,
Longworth's Directory, and Mead's Wall-street,
And Mr. Delaplaine's Repository;
And Mitchill's scientific works complete,
With other standard books of modern days,
Lay on his table, cover'd with green baize.
XCII.
His travels had extended to Bath races;
And Bloomingdale and Bergen he had seen,
And 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 wild
And frolic hour of infancy, is met;
And never has a summer's morning smiled
Upon a lovelier scene, than the full eye
Of the enthusiast revels on—when high
XCV.
Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbs
O'er crags, that proudly tower above the deep,
And knows that sense of danger which sublimes
The breathless moment—when his daring step
Is on the verge of the cliff, and he can hear
The low dash of the wave with startled ear,
XCVI.
Like the death-music of his coming doom,
And clings to the green turf with desperate force,
As the heart clings to life; and when resume
The currents in his veins their wonted course,
There lingers a deep feeling—like the moan
Of wearied ocean, when the storm is gone.
XCVII.
In such an hour he turns, and on his view,
Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before him;
Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue
Of summer's sky in beauty bending o'er him—
The city bright below; and far away,
Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay.
XCVIII.
Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement,
And banners floating in the sunny air;
And white sails o'er the calm blue waters bent,
Green isle, and circling shore, are blended there
In wild reality. When life is old,
And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold
XCIX.
Its memory of this; nor lives there one
Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood's days
Of happiness were pass'd beneath that sun,
That in his manhood's prime can calmly gaze
Upon that bay, or on that mountain stand,
Nor feel the prouder of his native land.
C.
"This may be poetry, for aught I know,"
Said an old, worthy friend of mine, while leaning
Over my shoulder as I wrote, "although
I can't exactly comprehend its meaning.
For my part, I have long been a petitioner
To Mr. John M'Comb, the street-commissioner,
CI.
"That he would think of Weehawk, and would lay it
Handsomely out in avenue and square;
Then tax the land, and make its owners pay it
(As is the usual plan pursued elsewhere);
Blow up the rocks, and sell the wood for fuel—
'Twould save us many a dollar, and a duel."
CII.
The devil take you and John M'Comb, said I;
Lang, in its praise, has penn'd one paragraph,
And promised me another. I defy,
With such assistance, yours and the world's laugh;
And half believe that Paulding, on this theme,
Might be a poet—strange as it may seem.
CIII.
For even our traveller felt, when home returning
From that day's tour, as on the deck he stood,
The fire of poetry within him burning;
"Albeit unused to the rhyming mood;"
And with a pencil on his knee he wrote
The following flaming lines

TO THE HORSEBOAT.

1
Away—o'er the wave to the home we are seeking,
Bark of my hope! ere the evening be gone;
There's a wild, wild note in the curlew's shrieking;
There's a whisper of death in the wind's low moan.
2
Though blue and bright are the heavens above me,
And the stars are asleep on the quiet sea;
And hearts I love, and hearts that love me,
Are beating beside me merrily,
3
Yet, far in the west, where the day's faded roses,
Touch'd by the moonbeam, are withering fast;
Where the half-seen spirit of twilight reposes,
Hymning the dirge of the hours that are past,
4
There, where the ocean-wave sparkles at meeting
(As sunset dreams tell us) the kiss of the sky,
On his dim, dark cloud is the infant storm sitting,
And beneath the horizon his lightnings are nigh.
5
Another hour—and the death-word is given,
Another hour—and his lightnings are here;
Speed! speed thee, my bark; ere the breeze of even
Is lost in the tempest, our home will be near.
6
Then away o'er the wave, while thy pennant is streaming
In the shadowy light, like a shooting star;
Be swift as the thought of the wanderer, dreaming,
In a stranger land, of his fireside afar.
7
And while memory lingers I'll fondly believe thee
A being with life and its best feelings warm;
And freely the wild song of gratitude weave thee,
Bless'd spirit! that bore me and mine from the storm.