CIV.
But where is Fanny? She has long been thrown
Where cheeks and roses wither—in the shade.
The age of chivalry, you know, is gone;
And although, as I once before have said,
I love a pretty face to adoration,
Yet, still, I must preserve my reputation,
CV.
As a true dandy of the modern schools.
One hates to be oldfashion'd; it would be
A violation of the latest rules,
To treat the sex with too much courtesy.
'Tis not to worship beauty, as she glows
In all her diamond lustre, that the beaux
CVI.
Of these enlighten'd days at evening crowd,
Where fashion welcomes in her rooms of light,
That "dignified obedience; that proud
Submission," which, in times of yore, the knight
Gave to his "ladye-love," is now a scandal,
And practised only by your Goth or Vandal.
CVII.
To lounge in graceful attitudes—be stared
Upon, the while, by every fair one's eye,
And stare one's self, in turn; to be prepared
To dart upon the trays, as swiftly by
The dexterous Simon bears them, and to take
One's share, at least, of coffee, cream, and cake,
CVIII.
Is now to be "the ton." The pouting lip,
And sad, upbraiding eye of the poor girl,
Who hardly of joy's cup one drop can sip,
Ere in the wild confusion, and the whirl,
And tumult of the hour, its bubbles vanish,
Must now be disregarded. One must banish
CIX.
Those antiquated feelings, that belong
To feudal manners and a barbarous age.
Time was—when woman "pour'd her soul" in song,
That all was hush'd around. 'Tis now "the rage"
To deem a song, like bugle-tones in battle,
A signal note, that bids each tongue's artillery rattle.
CX.
And, therefore, I have made Miss Fanny wait
My leisure. She had changed, as you will see, as
Much as her worthy sire, and made as great
Proficiency in taste and high ideas.
The careless smile of other days was gone,
And every gesture spoke "q'en dira-t' on?"
CXI.
She long had known that in her father's coffers,
And also to his credit in the banks,
There was some cash; and therefore all the offers
Made her, by gentlemen of the middle ranks,
Of heart and hand, had spurn'd, as far beneath
One whose high destiny it was to breathe,
CXII.
Ere long, the air of Broadway or Park Place,
And reign a fairy queen in fairy land;
Display in the gay dance her form of grace,
Or touch with rounded arm and gloveless hand,
Harp or piano.—Madame Catilani
Forgot a while, and every eye on Fanny.
CXIII.
And in anticipation of that hour,
Her star of hope—her paradise of thought,
She'd had as many masters as the power
Of riches could bestow; and had been taught
The thousand nameless graces that adorn
The daughters of the wealthy and high born.
CXIV.
She had been noticed at some public places
(The Battery, and the balls of Mr. Whale),
For hers was one of those attractive faces,
That when you gaze upon them, never fail
To bid you look again; there was a beam,
A lustre in her eye, that oft would seem
CXV.
A little like effrontery; and yet
The lady meant no harm; her only aim
Was but to be admired by all she met,
And the free homage of the heart to claim;
And if she show'd too plainly this intention,
Others have done the same—'twas not of her invention.
CXVI.
She shone at every concert; where are bought
Tickets, by all who wish them, for a dollar;
She patronised the Theatre, and thought
That Wallack look'd extremely well in Rolla;
She fell in love, as all the ladies do,
With Mr. Simpson—talked as loudly, too,
CXVII.
As any beauty of the highest grade,
To the gay circle in the box beside her;
And when the pit—half vex'd and half afraid,
With looks of smother'd indignation eyed her,
She calmly met their gaze, and stood before 'em,
Smiling at vulgar taste and mock decorum.
CXVIII.
And though by no means a bas bleu, she had
For literature a most becoming passion;
Had skimm'd the latest novels, good and bad,
And read the Croakers, when they were in fashion;
And Doctor Chalmers' sermons, of a Sunday;
And Woodworth's Cabinet, and the new Salmagundi.
CXIX.
She was among the first and warmest patrons
Of Griscom's conversaziónes where
In rainbow groups, our bright-eyed maids and matrons,
On science bent, assemble; to prepare
Themselves for acting well, in life, their part
As wives and mothers. There she learn'd by heart
CXX.
Words, to the witches in Macbeth unknown.
Hydraulics, hydrostatics, and pneumatics,
Dioptrics, optics, katoptrics, carbon,
Chlorine, and iodine, and aërostatics;
Also,—why frogs, for want of air, expire;
And how to set the Tappan sea on fire!
CXXI.
In all the modern languages she was
Exceedingly well versed; and had devoted,
To their attainment, far more time than has,
By the best teachers lately, been allotted;
For she had taken lessons, twice a week,
For a full month in each; and she could speak
CXXII.
French and Italian, equally as well
As Chinese, Portuguese, or German; and,
What is still more surprising, she could spell
Most of our longest English words off hand;
Was quite familiar in Low Dutch and Spanish,
And thought of studying modern Greek and Danish.
CXXIII.
She sang divinely: and in "Love's young dream,"
And "Fanny dearest," and "The soldier's bride;"
And every song, whose dear delightful theme,
Is "Love, still love," had oft till midnight tried
Her finest, loftiest "pigeon-wings" of sound,
Waking the very watchmen far around.
CXXIV.
For her pure taste in dress, I can appeal to
Madame Bouquet, and Monsieur Pardessus;
She was, in short, a woman you might kneel to,
If kneeling were in fashion; or if you
Were wearied of your duns and single life,
And wanted a few thousands and a wife.
1819.
CXXV.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * *
CXXVI.
"There was a sound of revelry by night;"
Broadway was throng'd with coaches, and within
A mansion of the best of brick, the bright
And eloquent eyes of beauty bade begin
The dance; and music's tones swell'd wild and high,
And hearts and heels kept tune in tremulous ecstasy.
CXXVII.
For many a week, the note of preparation
Had sounded through all circles far and near;
And some five hundred cards of invitation
Bade beau and belle in full costume appear;
There was a most magnificent variety,
All quite select, and of the first society.
CXXVIII.
That is to say—the rich and the well-bred,
The arbiters of fashion and gentility,
In different grades of splendour, from the head
Down to the very toe of our nobility:
Ladies, remarkable for handsome eyes
Or handsome fortunes—learned men, and wise:
CXXIX.
Statesmen, and officers of the militia—
In short, the "first society"—a phrase,
Which you may understand as best may fit you
Besides the blackest fiddlers of those days,
Placed like their sire, Timotheus, on high,
With horsehair fiddle-bows and teeth of ivory.
CXXX.
The carpets were roll'd up the day before,
And, with a breath, two rooms became but one,
Like man and wife—and, on the polish'd floor,
Chalk in the artists' plastic hand had done
All that chalk could do—in young Eden's bowers
They seemed to tread, and their feet press'd on flowers.
CXXXI.
And when the thousand lights of spermaceti
Stream'd like a shower of sunbeams—and free tresses
Wild as the heads that waved them—and a pretty
Collection of the latest Paris dresses
Wander'd about the rooms like things divine,
It was, as I was told, extremely fine.
CXXXII.
The love of fun, fine faces, and good eating,
Brought many who were tired of self and home;
And some were there in the high hope of meeting
The lady of their bosom's love—and some
To study that deep science, how to please,
And manners in high life, and high-soul'd courtesies.
CXXXIII.
And he, the hero of the night, was there,
In breeches of light drab, and coat of blue.
Taste was conspicuous in his powder'd hair,
And in his frequent jeux de mots, that drew
Peals of applauses from the listeners round,
Who were delighted—as in duty bound.
CXXXIV.
'Twas Fanny's father—Fanny near him stood,
Her power, resistless—and her wish, command;
And Hope's young promises were all made good;
"She reign'd a fairy queen in fairy land;"
Her dream of infancy a dream no more,
And then how beautiful the dress she wore!
CXXXV.
Ambition with the sire had kept her word.
He had the rose, no matter for its thorn,
And he seem'd happy as a summer bird,
Careering on wet wing to meet the morn.
Some said there was a cloud upon his brow;
It might be—but we'll not discuss that now.
CXXXVI.
I left him making rhymes while crossing o'er
The broad and perilous wave of the North River.
He bade adieu, when safely on the shore,
To poetry—and, as he thought, for ever.
That night his dream (if after deeds make known
Our plans in sleep) was an enchanting one.
CXXXVII.
He woke, in strength, like Samson from his slumber,
And walk'd Broadway, enraptured the next day;
Purchased a house there—I've forgot the number—
And sign'd a mortgage and a bond, for pay.
Gave, in the slang phrase, Pearl-street the go-by,
And cut, for several months, St. Tammany.
CXXXVIII.
Bond, mortgage, title-deeds, and all completed,
He bought a coach and half a dozen horses
(The bill's at Lawrence's—not yet receipted—
You'll find the amount upon his list of losses),
Then fill'd his rooms with servants, and whatever
Is necessary for a "genteel liver."
CXXXIX.
This last removal fix'd him: every stain
Was blotted from his "household coat," and he
Now "show'd the world he was a gentleman,"
And, what is better, could afford to be;
His step was loftier than it was of old,
His laugh less frequent, and his manner told
CXL.
What lovers call "unutterable things"—
That sort of dignity was in his mien
Which awes the gazer into ice, and brings
To recollection some great man we've seen,
The Governor, perchance, whose eye and frown,
'Twas shrewdly guess'd, would knock Judge Skinner down.
CXLI.
And for "Resources," both of purse and head,
He was a subject worthy Bristed's pen;
Believed devoutly all his flatterers said,
And deem'd himself a 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 veins
The blood ran pure—the magnates of the land—
Hail'd them as his companions and his friends,
And lent them money and his note of hand.
In every institution, whose proud aim
Is public good alone, he soon became
CXLIII.
A man of consequence and notoriety;
His name, with the addition of esquire,
Stood high upon the list of each society,
Whose zeal and watchfulness the sacred fire
Of science, agriculture, art, and learning,
Keep on our country's altars bright and burning.
CXLIV.
At Eastburn's Rooms he met, at two each day,
With men of taste and judgment like his own,
And play'd "first fiddle" in that orchestra
Of literary worthies—and the tone
Of his mind's music, by the listeners caught,
Is traced among them still in language and in thought.
CXLV.
He once made the Lyceum a choice present
Of muscle shells pick'd up at Rockaway;
And Mitchill gave a classical and pleasant
Discourse about them in the streets that day,
Naming the shells, and hard to put in verse 'twas,
"Testaceous coverings of bivalve moluscas."
CXLVI.
He was a trustee of a Savings Bank,
And lectured soundly every evil doer,
Gave dinners daily to wealth, power, and rank,
And sixpence every Sunday to the poor;
He was a wit, in the pun-making line—
Past fifty years of age, and five feet nine.
CXLVII.
But as he trod to grandeur's pinnacle,
With eagle eye and step that never falter'd,
The busy tongue of scandal dared to tell
That cash was scarce with him, and credit alter'd;
And while he stood the envy of beholders,
The Bank Directors grinn'd, and shrugg'd their shoulders.
CXLVIII.
And when these, the Lord Burleighs of the minute,
Shake their sage heads, and look demure and holy,
Depend upon it there is something in it;
For whether born of wisdom or of folly,
Suspicion is a being whose fell power
Blights every thing it touches, fruit and flower.
CXLIX.
Some friends (they were his creditors) once hinted
About retrenchment and a day of doom;
He thank'd them, as no doubt they kindly meant it,
And made this speech, when they had left the room:
"Of all the curses upon mortals sent,
One's creditors are the most impudent;
CL.
"Now I am one who knows what he is doing,
And suits exactly to his means his ends;
How can a man be in the path to ruin,
When all the brokers are his bosom friends?
Yet, on my hopes, and those of my dear daughter,
These rascals throw a bucket of cold water!
CLI.
"They'd wrinkle with deep cares the prettiest face,
Pour gall and wormwood in the sweetest cup,
Poison the very wells of life—and place
Whitechapel needles, with their sharp points up,
Even in the softest feather bed that e'er
Was manufactured by upholsterer."
CLII.
This said—he journey'd "at his own sweet will,"
Like one of Wordsworth's rivers, calmly on;
But yet, at times, Reflection, "in her still
Small voice," would whisper, something must be done;
He ask'd advice of Fanny, and the maid
Promptly and duteously lent her aid.
CLIII.
She told him, with that readiness of mind
And quickness of perception which belong
Exclusively to gentle womankind,
That to submit to slanderers was wrong,
And the best plan to silence and admonish them,
Would be to give "a party"—and astonish them.
CLIV.
The hint was taken—and the party given;
And Fanny, as I said some pages since,
Was there in power and loveliness that even,
And he, her sire, demean'd him like a prince,
And all was joy—it look'd a festival,
Where pain might smooth his brow, and grief her smiles recall.
CLV.
But Fortune, like some others of her sex,
Delights in tantalizing and tormenting;
One day we feed upon their smiles—the next
Is spent in swearing, sorrowing, and repenting.
(If in the last four lines the author lies,
He's always ready to apologize.)
CLVI.
Eve never walk'd in Paradise more pure
Than on that morn when Satan play'd the devil
With her and all her race. A love-sick wooer
Ne'er ask'd a kinder maiden, or more civil,
Than Cleopatra was to Antony
The day she left him on the Ionian sea.
CLVII.
The serpent—loveliest in his coiled ring,
With eye that charms, and beauty that outvies
The tints of the rainbow—bears upon his sting
The deadliest venom. Ere the dolphin dies
Its hues are brightest. Like an infant's breath
Are tropic winds, before the voice of death
CLVIII.
Is heard upon the waters, summoning
The midnight earthquake from its sleep of years
To do its task of wo. The clouds that fling
The lightning, brighten ere the bolt appears;
The pantings of the warrior's heart are proud
Upon that battle morn whose night-dews wet his shroud;
CLIX.
The sun is loveliest as he sinks to rest;
The leaves of autumn smile when fading fast;
The swan's last song is sweetest—and the best
Of Meigs's speeches, doubtless, was his last.
And thus the happiest scene, in these my rhymes,
Closed with a crash, and usher'd in—hard times.
CLX.
St. Paul's toll'd one—and fifteen minutes after
Down came, by accident, a chandelier;
The mansion totter'd from the floor to rafter!
Up rose the cry of agony and fear!
And there was shrieking, screaming, bustling, fluttering,
Beyond the power of writing or of uttering.
CLXI.
The company departed, and neglected
To say good-by—the father storm'd and swore—
The fiddlers grinn'd—the daughter look'd dejected—
The flowers had vanish'd from the polish'd floor,
And both betook them to their sleepless beds,
With hearts and prospects broken, but no heads.
CLXII.
The desolate relief of free complaining
Came with the morn, and with it came bad weather;
The wind was east-northeast, and it was raining
Throughout that day, which, take it altogether,
Was one whose memory clings to us through life,
Just like a suit in Chancery, or a wife.
CLXIII.
That evening, with a most important face
And dreadful knock, and tidings still more dreadful,
A notary came—sad things had taken place;
My hero had forgot to "do the needful;"
A note (amount not stated), with his name on't,
Was left unpaid—in short, he had "stopp'd payment."
CLXIV.
I hate your tragedies, both long and short ones
(Except Tom Thumb, and Juan's Pantomime);
And stories woven of sorrows and misfortunes
Are bad enough in prose, and worse in rhyme;
Mine, therefore, must be brief. Under protest
His notes remain—the wise can guess the rest.
CLXV.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * *
CLXVI.
For two whole days they were the common talk;
The party, and the failure, and all that,
The theme of loungers in their morning walk,
Porter-house reasoning, and tea-table chat.
The third, some newer wonder came to blot them,
And on the fourth, the "meddling world" forgot them.
CLXVII.
Anxious, however, something to discover,
I pass'd their house—the shutters were all closed;
The song of knocker and of bell was over;
Upon the steps two chimney sweeps reposed;
And on the door my dazzled eyebeam met
These cabalistic words—"this house to let."
CLXVIII.
They live now, like chameleons, upon air
And hope, and such cold, unsubstantial dishes;
That they removed, is clear, but when or where
None knew. The curious reader, if he wishes,
May ask them, but in vain. Where grandeur dwells,
The marble dome—the popular rumour tells;
CLXIX.
But of the dwelling of the proud and poor
From their own lips the world will never know
When better days are gone—it is secure
Beyond all other mysteries here below,
Except, perhaps, a maiden lady's age,
When past the noonday of life's pilgrimage.
CLXX.
Fanny! 'twas with her name my song began;
'Tis proper and polite her name should end it;
If in my story of her woes, or plan
Or moral can be traced, 'twas not intended;
And if I've wrong'd her, I can only tell her
I'm sorry for it—so is my bookseller.
CLXXI.
I met her yesterday—her eyes were wet—
She faintly smiled, and said she had been reading
The Treasurer's Report in the Gazette,
M'Intyre's speech, and Campbell's "Love lies bleeding;"
She had a shawl on, 'twas not a Cashmere one,
And if it cost five dollars, 'twas a dear one.
CLXXII.
Her father sent to Albany a prayer
For office, told how fortune had abused him,
And modestly requested to be Mayor—
The Council very civilly refused him;
Because, however much they might desire it,
The "public good," it seems, did not require it.
CLXXIII.
Some evenings since, he took a lonely stroll
Along Broadway, scene of past joys and evils;
He felt that withering bitterness of soul,
Quaintly denominated the "blue devils;"
And thought of Bonaparte and Belisarius,
Pompey, and Colonel Burr, and Caius Marius,
CLXXIV.
And envying the loud playfulness and mirth
Of those who pass'd him, gay in youth and hope,
He took at Jupiter a shilling's worth
Of gazing, through the showman's telescope;
Sounds as of far-off bells came on his ears,
He fancied 'twas the music of the spheres.
CLXXV.
He was mistaken, it was no such thing,
'Twas Yankee Doodle play'd by Scudder's band;
He mutter'd, as he linger'd listening,
Something of freedom and our happy land;
Then sketch'd, as to his home he hurried fast,
This sentimental song—his saddest, and his last.

I.
Young thoughts have music in them, love
And happiness their theme;
And music wanders in the wind
That lulls a morning dream.
And there are angel voices heard,
In childhood's frolic hours,
When life is but an April day
Of sunshine and of showers.
II.
There's music in the forest leaves
When summer winds are there,
And in the laugh of forest girls
That braid their sunny hair.
The first wild bird that drinks the dew,
From violets of the spring,
Has music in his song, and in
The fluttering of his wing.
III.
There's music in the dash of waves
When the swift bark cleaves their foam;
There's music heard upon her deck,
The mariner's song of home,
When moon and star beams smiling meet
At midnight on the sea—
And there is music—once a week
In Scudder's balcony.
IV.
But the music of young thoughts too soon
Is faint, and dies away,
And from our morning dreams we wake
To curse the coming day.
And childhood's frolic hours are brief,
And oft in after years
Their memory comes to chill the heart,
And dim the eye with tears.
V.
To-day, the forest leaves are green,
They'll wither on the morrow,
And the maiden's laugh be changed ere long
To the widow's wail of sorrow.
Come with the winter snows, and ask
Where are the forest birds?
The answer is a silent one,
More eloquent than words.
VI.
The moonlight music of the waves
In storms is heard no more,
When the living lightning mocks the wreck
At midnight on the shore,
And the mariner's song of home has ceased,
His corse is on the sea—
And music ceases when it rains
In Scudder's balcony.

THE RECORDER.

THE RECORDER.

A PETITION.
BY THOMAS CASTALY.
Dec. 20, 1828.

"On they move
In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood
Of flutes and soft Recorders."
Milton.
"Live in Settles numbers one day more!"
Pope.

My dear Recorder, you and I
Have floated down life's stream together,
And kept unharm'd our friendship's tie
Through every change of Fortune's sky,
Her pleasant and her rainy weather.
Full sixty times since first we met,
Our birthday suns have risen and set,
And time has worn the baldness now
Of Julius Cæsar on your brow;
Your brow, like his, a field of thought,
With broad deep furrows, spirit-wrought,
Whose laurel harvests long have shown
As green and glorious as his own;
And proudly would the Cæsar claim
Companionship with R*k*r's name,
His peer in forehead and in fame.
Both eloquent and learn'd and brave,
Born to command and skill'd to rule,
One made the citizen a slave,
The other makes him more—a fool.
The Cæsar an imperial crown,
His slaves' mad gift, refused to wear,
The R*k*r put his fool's cap on,
And found it fitted to a hair;
The Cæsar, though by birth and breeding,
Travel, the ladies, and light reading,
A gentleman in mien and mind,
And fond of Romans and their mothers,
Was heartless as the Arab's wind,
And slew some millions of mankind,
Including enemies and others.
The R*k*r, like Bob Acres, stood
Edgeways upon a field of blood,
The where and wherefore Swartwout knows,
Pull'd trigger, as a brave man should,
And shot, God bless them—his own toes.
The Cæsar pass'd the Rubicon
With helm, and shield, and breastplate on,
Dashing his war-horse through the waters;
The R*k*r would have built a barge
Or steamboat at the city's charge,
And pass'd it with his wife and daughters.
But let that pass. As I have said,
There's naught, save laurels, on your head,
And time has changed my clustering hair,
And shower'd the snow-flakes thickly there;
And though our lives have ever been,
As different as their different scene;
Mine more renown'd for rhymes than riches
Yours less for scholarship than speeches;
Mine pass'd in low-roof'd leafy bower,
Yours in high halls of pomp and power,
Yet are we, be the moral told,
Alike in one thing—growing old,
Ripen'd like summer's cradled sheaf,
Faded like autumn's falling leaf—
And nearing, sail and signal spread,
The quiet anchorage of the dead.
For such is human life, wherever
The voyage of its bark may be,
On home's green-bank'd and gentle river
Or the world's shoreless, sleepless sea.
Yes, you have floated down the tide
Of time, a swan in grace and pride
And majesty and beauty, till
The law, the Ariel of your will,
Power's best beloved, the law of libel
(A bright link in the legal chain)
Expounded, settled, and made plain,
By your own charge, the jurors' Bible,
Has clipp'd the venom'd tongue of slander,
That dared to call you "Party's gander,
The leader of the geese who make
Our cities' parks and ponds their home,
And keep her liberties awake
By cackling, as their sires saved Rome.
Grander of Party's pond, wherein
Lizard, and toad, and terrapin,
Your alehouse patriots, are seen,
In Faction's feverish sunshine basking;"
And now, to rend this veil of lies,
Word-woven by your enemies,
And keep your sainted memory free
From tarnish with posterity,
I take the liberty of asking
Permission, sir, to write your life,
With all its scenes of calm and strife,
And all its turnings and its windings,
A poem, in a quarto volume—
Verse, like the subject, blank and solemn,
With elegant appropriate bindings,
Of rat and mole skin the one half,
The other a part fox, part calf.
Your portrait, graven line for line,
From that immortal bust in plaster,
The master piece of Art's great master,
Mr. Praxiteles Browere,
Whose trowel is a thing divine,
Shall smile and bow, and promise there,
And twenty-nine fine forms and faces
(The Corporation and the Mayor),
Linked hand in hand, like loves and graces,
Shall hover o'er it, group'd in air,
With wild pictorial dance and song;
The song of happy bees in bowers,
The dance of Guido's graceful hours,
All scattering Flushing's garden flowers
Round the dear head they've loved so long.
I know that you are modest, know
That when you hear your merit's praise,
Your cheeks quick blushes come and go,
Lily and rose-leaf, sun and snow,
Like maidens' on their bridal days.
I know that you would fain decline
To aid me and the sacred nine,
In giving to the asking earth
The story of your wit and worth;
For if there be a fault to cloud
The brightness of your clear good sense,
It is, and be the fact allow'd,
Your only failing—Diffidence!
An amiable weakness—given
To justify the sad reflection,
That in this vale of tears not even
A R*k*r is complete perfection,
A most romantic detestation
Of power and place, of pay and ration;
A strange unwillingness to carry
The weight of honour on your shoulders,
For which you have been named, the very
Sensitive Plant of office-holders,
A shrinking bashfulness, whose grace
Gives beauty to your manly face.
Thus shades the green and growing vine
The rough bark of the mountain pine,
Thus round her freedom's waking steel
Harmodius wreathed his country's myrtle;
And thus the golden lemon's peel
Gives fragrance to a bowl of turtle.
True, "many a flower," the poet sings,
"Is born to blush unseen;"
But you, although you blush, are not
The flower the poets mean.
In vain you wooed a lowlier lot:
In vain you clipp'd your eagle-wings—
Talents like yours are not forgot
And buried with earth's common things.
No! my dear R*k*r, I would give
My laurels, living and to live,
Or as much cash as you could raise on
Their value, by hypothecation,
To be, for one enchanted hour,
In beauty, majesty, and power,
What you for forty years have been,
The Oberon of life's fairy scene.
An anxious city sought and found you
In a blessed day of joy and pride,
Scepter'd your jewell'd hand, and crown'd you
Her chief, her guardian, and her guide.
Honours which weaker minds had wrought
In vain for years, and knelt and pray'd for,
Are all your own, unpriced, unbought,
Or (which is the same thing) unpaid for.
Painfully great! against your will
Her hundred offices to hold,
Each chair with dignity to fill,
And your own pockets with her gold.
A sort of double duty, making
Your task a serious undertaking.
With what delight the eyes of all
Gaze on you, seated in your Hall,
Like Sancho in his island, reigning,
Loved leader of its motley hosts
Of lawyers and their bills of costs,
And all things thereto appertaining,
Such as crimes, constables, and juries,
Male pilferers and female furies,
The police and the polissons,
Illegal right and legal wrong.
Bribes, perjuries, law-craft, and cunning,
Judicial drollery and punning;
And all the et ceteras that grace
That genteel, gentlemanly place!
Or in the Council Chamber standing
With eloquence of eye and brow,
Your voice the music of commanding,
And fascination in your bow,
Arranging for the civic shows
Your "men in buckram," as per list,
Your John Does and your Richard Roes,
Those Dummys of your games of whist.
The Council Chamber—where authority
Consists in two words—a majority.
For whose contractors' jobs we pay
Our last dear sixpences for taxes,
As freely as in Sylla's day,
Rome bled beneath his lictors' axes.
Where—on each magisterial nose
In colours of the rainbow linger,
Like sunset hues on Alpine snows,
The printmarks of your thumb and finger.
Where he, the wisest of wild fowl,
Bird of Jove's blue-eyed maid—the owl,
That feather'd alderman, is heard
Nightly, by poet's ear alone,
To other eyes and ears unknown,
Cheering your every look and word,
And making, room and gallery through,
The loud, applauding echoes peal,
Of his "où peut on etre mieux
Qu'au sein de sa famille?"[A]
Oh for a herald's skill to rank
Your titles in their due degrees!
At Singsing—at the Tradesmen's Bank,
In Courts, Committees, Caucuses:
At Albany, where those who knew
The last year's secrets of the great,
Call you the golden handle to
The earthen Pitcher of the State.
(Poor Pitcher! that Van Buren ceases
To want its service gives me pain,
'Twill break into as many pieces
As Kitty's of Coleraine.)
At Bellevue, on her banquet night,
Where Burgundy and business meet,
On others, at the heart's delight,
The Pewter Mug in Frankfort-street;
From Harlæm bridge to Whitehall dock,
From Bloomingdale to Blackwell's Isles,
Forming, including road and rock,
A city of some twelve square miles,
O'er street and alley, square and block,
Towers, temples, telegraphs, and tiles,
O'er wharves whose stone and timbers mock
The ocean's and its navies' shock,
O'er all the fleets that float before her
O'er all their banners waving o'er her,
Her sky and waters, earth and air—
You are lord, for who is her lord mayor?
Where is he? Echo answers, where
And voices, like the sound of seas,
Breathe in sad chorus, on the breeze,
The Highland mourner's melody—
Oh Hone a rie! Oh Hone a rie!
The hymn o'er happy days departed,
The hope that such again may be,
When power was large and liberal-hearted,
And wealth was hospitality.
One more request, and I am lost,
If you its earnest prayer deny;
It is, that you preserve the most
Inviolable secrecy
As to my plan. Our fourteen wards
Contain some thirty-seven bards,
Who, if my glorious theme were known,
Would make it, thought and word, their own,
My hopes and happiness destroy,
And trample with a rival's joy
Upon the grave of my renown.
My younger brothers in the art,
Whose study is the human heart—
Minstrels, before whose spells have bow'd
The learn'd, the lovely, and the proud,
Ere their life's morning hours are gone—
Light hearts be theirs, the muse's boon,
And may their suns blaze bright at noon,
And set without a cloud.
Hillhouse, whose music, like his themes,
Lifts earth to heaven—whose poet dreams
Are pure and holy as the hymn
Echoed from harps of seraphim,
By bards that drank at Zion's fountains
When glory, peace, and hope were hers,
And beautiful upon her mountains
The feet of angel messengers.
Bryant, whose songs are thoughts that bless
The heart, its teachers, and its joy,
As mothers blend with their caress
Lessons of truth and gentleness
And virtue for the listening boy.
Spring's lovelier flowers for many a day
Have blossom'd on his wandering way,
Beings of beauty and decay,
They slumber in their autumn tomb;
But those that graced his own Green River,
And wreathed the lattice of his home,
Charm'd by his song from mortal doom,
Bloom on, and will bloom on for ever.
And Halleck—who has made thy roof,
St. Tammany! oblivion-proof—
Thy beer illustrious, and thee
A belted knight of chivalry;
And changed thy dome of painted bricks
And porter casks and politics,
Into a green Arcadian vale,
With St*ph*n All*n for its lark,
B*n B*il*y's voice its watch-dog's bark,
And J*hn T*rg*e its nightingale.
These, and the other THIRTY-FOUR,
Will live a thousand years or more—
If the world lasts so long. For me,
I rhyme not for posterity,
Though pleasant to my heirs might be
The incense of its praise,
When I, their ancestor, have gone,
And paid the debt, the only one
A poet ever pays.
But many are my years, and few
Are left me ere night's holy dew,
And sorrow's holier tears, will keep
The grass green where in death I sleep
And when that grass is green above me,
And those who bless me now and love me
Are sleeping by my side,
Will it avail me aught that men
Tell to the world with lip and pen
That once I lived and died?
No: if a garland for my brow
Is growing, let me have it now,
While I'm alive to wear it;
And if, in whispering my name,
There's music in the voice of fame
Like Garcia's, let me hear it!
The Christmas holydays are nigh,
Therefore, till Newyear's Eve, good-by,
Then revenons a nos moutons,
Yourself and aldermen—meanwhile,
Look o'er this letter with a smile;
And keep the secret of its song
As faithfully, but not as long,
As you have guarded from the eyes
Of editorial Paul Prys,
And other meddling, murmuring claimants,
Those Eleusinian mysteries,
The city's cash receipts and payments.
Yours ever,
T. C.