The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth :: :: University of Virginia Library

Vol. II.

BALLADS AND HUMOROUS PIECES.

THE HUNTERS OF KENTUCKY.

Ye gentlemen and ladies fair,
Who grace this famous city,
Just listen, if ye've time to spare,
While I rehearse a ditty;
And for the opportunity,
Conceive yourselves quite lucky,
For 't is not often that you see,
A hunter from Kentucky.
Oh! Kentucky, the hunters of Kentucky,
The hunters of Kentucky.

We are a hardy free-born race,
Each man to fear a stranger,
Whate'er the game, we join in chase,
Despising toil and danger;

And if a daring foe annoys,
Whate'er his strength and forces,
We'll show him that Kentucky boys
Are “alligator horses.”
Oh! Kentucky, &c.

I s'pose you 've read it in the prints,
How Packenham attempted
To make Old Hickory Jackson wince,
But soon his scheme repented;
For we with rifles ready cocked,
Thought such occasion lucky,
And soon around the general flocked
The hunters of Kentucky.
Oh! Kentucky, &c.

You 've heard, I s'pose, how New Orleans
Is famed for wealth and beauty—
There 's girls of every hue, it seems,
From snowy white to sooty:
So Packenham he made his brags,
If he in fight was lucky,
He 'd have their girls and cotton bags,
In spite of Old Kentucky.
Oh! Kentucky, &c.

But Jackson, he was wide awake,
And was n't scared at trifles;

For well he knew what aim we take,
With our Kentucky rifles;
So he led us down to Cypress swamp,
The ground was low and mucky;
There stood John Bull, in martial pomp,
And here was Old Kentucky.
Oh! Kentucky, &c.

A bank was raised to hide our breast,
Not that we thought of dying,
But then we always like to rest,
Unless the game is flying;
Behind it stood our little force—
None wished it to be greater,
For every man was half a horse,
And half an alligator.
Oh! Kentucky, &c.

They did not let our patience tire,
Before they showed their faces—
We did not choose to waste our fire,
So snugly kept our places;
But when so near we saw them wink,
We thought it time to stop them;
And 't would have done you good, I think.
To see Kentucky pop them.
Oh! Kentucky, &c.

They found at last, 't was vain to fight
Where lead was all their booty,
And so they wisely took to flight,
And left us all the beauty.
And now, if danger e'er annoys,
Remember what our trade is,
Just send for us Kentucky boys,
And we'll protect you, ladies.
Oh! Kentucky, the hunters of Kentucky,
The hunters of Kentucky.

THE WATERMAN.

Let philosophers boast of their learning and skill,
And tell us what sages have thought o' men;
It yet is a fact, sirs, deny it who will,
Human nature's the study for watermen.
For ours is the talent to soon put afloat
All ages, professions, and sizes;
From the sweep's sooty rug to the gaudy laced coat,
As the grade to the general rises.
While we row,
To and fro,
One way look, the other go.

Our boats convey from shore to shore,
The great, the small, the rich, the poor,

The short, the tall, the fat, the lean,
The fair, the brown, the brave, the mean;
The maid, the widow, wife, and mother,
And some who 're neither one nor 't other.
Thus ours is the talent, &c.

There's querists, quibblers, quids, and quakers,
Butchers, brokers, brewers, bakers;
Blacksmiths, boatmen, bailiffs, butlers,
Cartmen, coopers, caulkers, cutlers;
Drummers, drapers, drivellers, drovers,
Riggers, ravers, ranters, rovers;
Farmers, fiddlers, fuddlers, furriers,
Carvers, clothiers, clerks, and curriers;
Gownmen, grocers, gardeners, gilders,
Bullies, bruisers, barbers, builders;
Founders, framers, fools, refiners,
Jurors, judges, jobbers, joiners;
Saddlers, sweepers, singers, sailors,
Tanners, turners, tinkers, tailors;
Tenants, tyrants, truants, teachers,
Poets, printers, painters, preachers.
Thus ours is the talent, &c.

Tobacconists, bookbinders, stonecutters, sawyers,
With carpenters, constables, lovers, and lawyers;
Musicians, confectioners, vintners, and glaziers,
With innkeepers, inkmakers, hatters and braziers;

Auctioneers, and attorneys, with priests and physicians,
Engravers, designers, and scribbling magicians.
Thus ours is the talent, &c.

Shoemakers, watchmakers, coachmakers, sailmakers,
Ropemakers, chairmakers, pinmakers, pailmakers;
With weighers, surveyors,
Street inspectors,
Bank directors;
The seller of jewels
And the fighter of duels.
Thus ours is the talent to soon put afloat,
All ages, professions, and sizes,
From the sweep's sooty rug to the gaudy laced coat,
As the grade to the general rises.
While we row,
To and fro,
One way look, the other go.

RIGHTS OF WOMAN.

While each freeman's son
Boasts of rights in plenty,
Daughters have but one,
E'en at one-and-twenty:
'T is the right to choose
Whom we mean to marry,
And, at once, refuse
Tom, or Dick, or Harry;
'T is our chartered right,
Nature's hand has penned it,
Let us then unite
Bravely to defend it.

While our fathers fought
For our independence,
Patriot mothers taught
This to their descendants:—
Daughters guard and save
Rights too dear to barter,
Spurn the name of slave,
Freedom is your charter.
You 've the right to choose
Whom you mean to marry,

Whom you will refuse,
Tom, or Dick, or Harry.

Men may boast the bliss
Of a free election,
Women ask but this,
Uncontrolled affection;
Then we cheerly say,
Tutored by the pastor,
“Honor, love, obey,”
To our lord and master.
Daughters, guard and save
Rights too dear to barter,
Spurn the name of slave,
Freedom is our charter.

There 's a claim more strong
Than a sire's or brother's;
If they think us wrong,
Let them ask our mothers:
When they played their parts,
Urged by love and beauty,
With their hands and hearts
They transferred their duty.
'T is our chartered right,
Nature's hand has penned it,
Let us then unite
Bravely to defend it.

WILLIAM'S PROMOTION.

The drum had ceased, the bugle slept,
The sentry marched with footsteps wary,
When ditch and picket William leapt,
Eager to see his wedded Mary.
But ah! his colonel, just before,
On her defenceless state presuming,
Had entered Mary's cottage door,
The husband's voice and dress assuming.
Soft and sly, Mary fled; William's eye soothed her dread.
“Ills infernal seize the colonel!”
Cried he, unwary.
But Mary suggested, that he be arrested,
And as a deserter to camp returned;
And William, who with resentment burn'd,
Commends the thought, and soon is brought
A brisk sergeant's guard; the colonel pleads hard,
But his disguise deceives all eyes;
He swears and cries, while none replies;
Safely guarded, not retarded,
William sees him borne from Mary;

Faithful Mary, beautiful Mary,
Dear little, sweet little, constant Mary.

The morning came, the reveille beat,
The troops paraded bright and airy,
And there, in regimentals neat,
William had brought his lovely Mary.
The colonel, now restored to rank,
Around on milk-white charger prances,
Until his eye, upon the flank,
Is caught by blushing Mary's glances.
Soon he asks, who was mad, to enlist such a lad;
William ready, answered steady,
Bright, brisk, and airy:
“The youth I recruited, I hope you are suited,
For though he is young, and tender, and light,
He took a deserter, sir, last night;
Though dark and damp, some way from camp
The villian was caught, and hither brought,
In deep disguise.” The colonel's eyes
Betray surprise—at length he cries,
“Be it noted—you 're promoted
Ensign—ever guard your Mary;
Faithful Mary, beautiful Mary,
Dear little, sweet little, constant Mary.”

DOCTOR STRAMONIUM.

A last and a lapstone, were once my delight,
And I sung while I hammered, from morning till night;
But all the day's earnings, at eve, I would spend,
Till the thread of my credit was brought to an end.

SPOKEN.

For I was up to a thing or two, and loved fun; passed the night in reciting Shakespeare at the alehouse, and kept myself awake the next day, by beating time with the hammer, while I sung—

Make a death, cut a stick, high time I tramped,
Rise again, tick again, credit new vamped.

I next taught the gamut, the sharps, and the flats,
To a nasal-twanged bass, and a treble of cats;
Till my private duett with a miss, got abroad,
Which changed the key note, and produced a discord.

SPOKEN.

A little love affair, that ran counter to my wishes, and induced some slanderous tongues to pronounce the whole tenor of my conduct to be thorough bass. So, without venturing a da capo, I pocketed the slur, leapt the bar with a quick movement, and left the flats to harmonize as they could; for all the gossips had decreed that their daughters should have nothing more to do with my

Fa, sol, la; fa, sol, la; fa, sol, la, me;
Hop a twig, such a rig ought not to be.

A travelling merchant I quickly became,
With a new stock in trade, a new dress, and new name;
And I bartered my goods with such exquisite grace,
That I left a fair mourner in every place.

SPOKEN.

“O Tabitha, what will become of me! The dear, sweet Mr. Rover (for that was my travelling name), my dear, sweet Mr. Rover, the pedler, is gone, and perhaps I shall never see him again. Oh, dear?”—“Your dear, sweet Mr. Rover, indeed? I'd have you to know, Cousin Keziah, that he is my dear, sweet Mr. Rover, and he has left me something to remember him by.”—“Oh, the base wicked deceiver! He has left me something too.” Thus would they sympathize with each other, or tear caps for poor Rover, while I was unconsciously preparing a similar mine to spring in the next village; or jogging quietly along the road inviting every one to buy my

Dutch ovens, cullenders, dippers and pans,
Broaches and buckles, with ear-rings and fans.

A schoolmaster, next, with a visage severe,
Board, lodging, and washing, and twelve pounds a year,
For teaching the rustics to spell, and to read
The New England Primer, the Psalter, and Creed.

SPOKEN.

You must know, that I undertook to hammer a little learning through the calfskined pates of seventy or eighty square-toed, leather-headed numskulls. But after vainly trying the experiment at both ends of the patients, I lost my own patience, and my school into the bargain, and was glad to make a precipitate retreat with a whole skin; and this so forcibly reminded me of my musical scrape, that I struck up the old chorus of

Fa, sol, la; fa, sol, la; fa, sol, la, me;
Hop a twig, such a rig ought not to be.

I then became preacher without any call,
When a sweet village lass came to hear brother Paul;
And told her experience o'er with such grace,
That I gave the dear creature an ardent embrace.

SPOKEN.

There was the devil to pay, and poor I once more in the vocative. But I made my escape to the backwoods, singing my old Crispin ditty—

Make a death, cut a stick, high time I tramped,
Rise again, tick again, credit new vamped.

And now a physician, with cocked hat and wig,
I can feel ladies' pulses, look wise, and talk big;
With a fine ruffled shirt, and good coat to my back,
I pluck the poor geese, while the ducks exclaim quack!

SPOKEN.

“Oh, doctor, I am so glad you are come. I have such a consarned beating of the heart, that I can hardly draw my breath. Oh!”—“Let me see your tongue, miss.”—“My tongue! Law souls, doctor, what in the world has the tongue to do with the heart?”—“In general, miss, not much; but your case is an exception.”—“An exception! Oh, goody gracious! now you don't say so; is an exception a dangerous disorder, doctor?”—“Not at all dangerous, miss. An application of stramonium externally, and copious draughts of catnip tea internally, will soon restore you.” The lady's heart becomes composed, I pocket my fee, and make my exit, singing—

Feel the pulse, smell the cane, look at the tongue,
Touch the gold, praise the old, flatter the young.

TO BELINDA.

Oh, those eyes! but that right eye in particular!
Billy Lackaday.

Those auburn tresses sweetly play,
Around that pearly neck so fair,
And sweetly does that brow display
The clustering ringlets slumbering there.
Not sea-born Venus, famed of old,
With streaming locks, like threads of gold,
Sparkling with ocean's liquid brightness,
Could boast of graces so divine,
As those bewitching locks of thine,
Which shade thy forehead's sunny whiteness.

The softest shade of Tyrian dye,
Could never with that cheek compare;
Nor will the bright carnation vie
In color, with thy lip, my fair.
What though Cashmere's delightful vale,
With balmy odor freights the gale
At every fragrant feast of roses,
Its charms are here—why farther seek?
Its tints are blooming on thy cheek,
Its fragrance on thy lip reposes.

That lip, so like the bow of love,
In graceful curvature and hue,
And there 's a dimple just above,
A quiver for his arrows, too,
That sacred shrine of nameless charms,
That faultless shape, those graceful arms,
That peerless elegance of motion;
With richer beauties of the mind,
All—all, in one dear form combined,
May well inspire this heart's devotion.

But oh, that eye, that beaming eye,
Mild as the softest star of even,
Clear as the azure of the sky,
Bright as the vesper lamp of heaven!
Whence was that orb of beauty stole,
Whose matchless lustre, in my soul
Has lit a flame no power can smother!
“Which?” asked the fair—“I'm clear of theft—
These sixteen years I 've owned the left,
And pa paid Scudder for the other.”

THE FEMALE INVINCIBLES.

When Love's reveille summons matron and maid,
Julia Ann is the first to appear on parade;
Ever ready at roll-call, with weapon in hand,
To advance, wheel, and halt, at the word of command.
With a passing salute, and we march in review,
To the rub-a-dub-dub and the rat-tat-too!

SPOKEN.

Attention, company!—Right, dress!—Support, arms!—By platoons, right wheel—Forward, guide left, march!

With a passing salute as we march in review,
To the rub-a-dub-dub and the rat-tat-too!

For conquest prepared, yet determined to yield,
Fair Therese and Sophia are the next in the field;
Where they gayly manœuvre their bright polished charms,
Waiting Hymen's command for presenting their arms.
With a passing salute as we march in review,
To the rub-a-dub-dub and the rat-tat-too!

SPOKEN.

Halt!—Ready!—Aim!—As you were!—By the right flank, file left!—march!

With a passing salute as we march in review,
To the rub-a-dub-dub and the rat-tat-too!

Well armed and equipped for a trial of skill,
Fair Eliza and Jane next appear at the drill;
Though reckless of danger, they'll face any man,
Yet their fire often proves but a flash in the pan.
With a passing salute as we march in review,
To the rub-a-dub-dub and the rat-tat-too!

SPOKEN.

On right, file into line!—Rear rank, open order, march!— Present, arms!—Carry, arms!—Close order!—Right face, march! —Recover, arms!

With a passing salute as we march in review,
With the rub-a-dub-dub and the rat-tat-too!

LIFE IN LONDON.

Oh, in London there's fun done, so gayly and daily,
There 's no one to blow one, you know, with a grace;
For treating, and eating, and smoking, and joking,
And drinking, and pinking, O London 's the place.

Such dancing and prancing, and milling and billing,
They scare away care away, are they not blest?
Such rambling and gambling, of sinners and winners,
Beginners make skinners as sharp as the best.
Oh, in London there 's fun done, &c.

In London, if undone, by fun done, and run down,
By bailiffs and califfs, with pitiless rage;
A debtor can better (by shunning their dunning,
With cunning or running) escape from the cage.
Oh, in London there 's fun done, &c.

Such jarring and sparring, with Charlies no parleys,
But mill away, kill away, as you 've been taught;
While squaring and swearing, the fancy we can see,
Delighting in fighting, for that is your sort.
Oh, in London, there 's fun done, &c.

LIFE IN CLOVER.

When cupid's dart first pierced my heart,
Jane Spinster was my darling,
Who kept for pets, two paroquettes,
A monkey, and a starling.
I asked the miss to grant a kiss,
But met a scoff, that drove me off,
And left the fair one snarling.

I next beset a young coquette,
For thirteen months or nearly,
Who played her part, with so much art,
I thought she loved me dearly.

But when, at last, her hand I asked,
She bade me know that such a beau,
Was what she wanted yearly.

A widow next my mind perplexed,
For half a year or over,
And like an ass, I hoped to pass
My days with her in clover;
I did, indeed, the fair agreed,
And named the day, then ran away
With Harry Blunt, the drover.

But hang the past, I'm fixed at last,
No more to be a ranger,
The knot is tied, and I 've a bride,
United past all danger.
Now who but I in clover lie,
The banquet 's mine, oh, how I'll dine,
No mastiff in the manger.

OH, WOMEN ARE ANGELS.

Oh, women are angels, in limbs,
In person, and manners, and features,
But what shall we say of the whims,
That govern these comical creatures?

By turns they will fondle and tease—
With what would you have me compare them?
Though buzzing and stinging like bees,
For the sake of the honey we bear them.
Yet women are angels, you see,
There's something so charming about them,
Whatever their oddities be,
Oh, we never could manage without them.

There are some that resemble ice-cream,
Which coldly forbids you to sip, sir;
But however frosty it seem,
It will melt with the warmth of your lip, sir.
While others, like counterfeit grapes,
The best imitations are hollow,
With beautiful colors and shapes,
But oh, they 're the devil to swallow.
Yet women are angels, &c.

What strange contradictions they show,
In matters of conjugal bliss, sir,
While frowning and crying “no, no!”
They wish you to take it for “yes, sir.”
Pursue, and how swift they will fly,
All panting with fears and alarms, sir,
Retreat—and I'll bet you my eye,
They'll pant, by-and-by, in your arms, sir.
Yet women are angels, &c.

HUNGER AND AN EMPTY PURSE;

OR, THE RUINED GAMBLER.

Needs must, when the devil's driver,
I must diddle, beg, or worse,
For I 've not a single stiver
To expel him from my purse.

Once in the infernal regions,
Ere I met with luck's reverse,
I could cleanly do the pigeons,
Till I neatly filled my purse.

Then among the swells and pippins,
Who could “play the devil” worse,
Till point “Non Plus” saw me tripping,
Not a penny in my purse.

Poverty, they say 's an evil,
Hunger, damme! that is worse,
Both together are the devil,
Hunger and an empty purse.

When I dream of feasting, raking,
Playing, winning—oh! the curse
Of still finding here on waking,
Hunger and an empty purse.

Though I run when bailiffs rout me,
Flying wont remove the curse,
Still I bear my hell about me,
Hunger and an empty purse.

Jane, of late—I 'd better staid off—
Treats me with neglect, or worse;
But, perhaps, the girls afraid of
Hunger and an empty purse.

When the parson prays for sinners,
He omits the deadliest curse—
“Save us from the want of dinners,
Hunger, and an empty purse.”

Doctors feel the pulse, we know, too,
Often when they should feel thus,
For we half our sickness owe to
Hunger and an empty purse.

While their patients make a die on 't,
Lawyers oft are doing worse,
Leaving many a hapless client
Hunger and an empty purse.

What but this infernal gnawing,
When our lotteries make a fuss,
Draws such crowds to see the drawing?
Hunger and an empty purse.

What 's the boasted inspiration,
That creates the poet's verse,
But the hope of compensation,
Hunger and an empty purse.

A gaming-house.

A FOURTH OF JULY CELEBRATION.

Where's Roberts, that red-headed fellow?
I wanted to give him a call, sir;
They told me down there in the cellar,
I 'd find him up here in the hall, sir.
I 've come from the country, you know,
For farming is my occupation;
To see what you city folks show
On a fourth of July celebration.
Umpti-uddity, &c.

To Hobok I rode in a wagon,
And sailed over the river in style, sir;

For the boat had a pole with a flag on,
And a big pot of water to boil, sir.
The stovepipe was smoking like fury,
An iron thing bobbed up and down, sir,
And all, just to make, I assure you,
A wheel in the water go round, sir.

We landed, at length, in your city,
Without the least morsel of dread, sir,
For I thought it a wonderful pity,
If I could n't find the Bull's Head, sir.
So I travelled right up to Broadway,
Where gridirons are laid out in the street, sir,
For wood is so scarce here, they say,
The sun has to boil all the meat, sir.

The people were thicker than mustard,
Each girl with her beautiful lips, sir,
Looked sweeter than honey or custard,
And smiled like a basket of chips, sir;
The windows were chuck full of gay things,
And boys in every shop, sir,
Were buying those little red playthings,
That cracked away pop-ity pop! sir.

The crowd it grew thicker and thicker,
Along by the Park iron fence, sir,
Where gingerbread, cherries, and liquor,
Were spread upon tables in tents, sir.

There was lobsters, and oysters, and clams,
Green pease, new potatoes, and gravy,
With pigs ready roasted, and hams,
Enough to provision the navy.

The Park was all crowded with people,
And so was the big City-Hall, sir,
Chuck full, from the steps to the steeple,
The gallery, windows, and all, sir.
They were waiting to see the procession,
And sure enough, after a while, sir
Mechanics of every profession,
Formed a line that extended a mile, sir.

And there was the veteran corps,
Each member an old seventy-sixer,
In the very same dress that he wore,
When he peppered John Bull for his tricks, sir.
Each man who had courage and pluck,
And boasted political stamina,
In his hat had the tail of a buck,
In honor of Mister St. Tammany.

And then came a beautiful ship,
I'm sorry I could n't get near her;
All handsomely rigged and equipped,
With a neat little fellow to steer her.

And there was a seven-foot Venus,
As big as the wife of a giant,
They said it was one Mrs. Genius,
I mean to ask Halleck or Bryant.

But don't let 's forget the brave fellows,
Whose things at a fire never fail, sir,
They work 'em all one like a bellows,
And every one spouts like a whale, sir.
All these, with a thousand more people,
Marched off, for their edification,
To a building without any steeple,
To hear Hooper Cumming's oration.

Then I heard such a fifing and drumming,
I axed the folks what was to pay, sir,
They told me the soldiers were coming,
All marching along in Broadway, sir.
And soon in the Park was paraded,
The strength of our city, I'll bet, sir,
With no other view, I'm persuaded,
But to honor the brave Lafayette, sir.

Then there was the famous balloon,
That travels ten miles in a minute,
Set out on a voyage to the moon,
With a parley vous Francois man in it;

Besides a boat-race on the water,
Where one of them travelled so fast, sir,
I wonder how t'other one caught her,
Without e'er a sail or a mast, sir.

So, having seen everything new,
I thought I would finish the day, sir,
By coming with Sally and Sue,
And Ichabod, here to the play, sir.
But if you should relish my song,
I'll make you another and bring it;
Much better, because not so long,
And red-headed Roberts shall sing it.

Sung by Mr. Roberts at the Chatham Theatre, in 1825, in the character of a country boy.

BARNEY BROOKE AND BETSEY BAKER.

“If ye have tears prepare to shed them now.”

Mr. Barney Brooke courted Betsey Baker,
She a pastry cook, he an undertaker;
Those who ate her tarts, pies, and sillabubs, sir,
Called her queen of hearts, at their festal clubs, sir.

Barney thus began, “Betsey, I adore you,
Before another man, take the man before you;
I 've a thriving trade, doctors are so plenty;
Graves must still be made—maids are grave at twenty.”

With a saucy look, quick she answered Barney:
“Mr. Barney Brooke, I will not brook your blarney;
I make pies and tarts; you 've a different trade, sir;
Shall the queen of hearts, take the jack of spades sir.”

He in silence sighed, while she stirred her batter,
“Speak!” at length she cried, “never mince the matter.”
Barney answered grave, while his brow was clouded,
“Grant the boon I crave, else my hopes are shrouded.”

Barney wooed in vain, Betsey mocked his passion,
Ridiculed his pain—jilting was the fashion;
The undertaker died, by sorrow overtaken;
Dr. Smoken tried, but could n't save his bacon.

Soon the pastry cook found her roses wilting,
Because she jilted Brooke, who could not brook her jilting;
Fast her health did waste, pies no more she heeded,
Nor could she knead her paste, although her paste was needed.

Twelve o'clock at night found the maid a weeping,
When an awful sight set her blood a creeping;

Hid beneath the rug, soon she heard this sentence:
“Bet, your grave is dug, spite of your repentance!”

Betty's spirit fled where it ought to go, sir,
Apes, they say, are led somewhere down below, sir.
Then, pastry cooks beware! Ne'er jilt an undertaker,
Or you may chance to share the fate of Betsey Baker.

THE RECONCILATION.

And did I leave her then in anger!
Resentment never touch her heart—
'T was agitation, sorrow, languor,
And I a wretch could thus depart!

Now, she 's in tears—her heart is broken!
And she will sigh, “He loves me not!
He left me with a frown! sad token
That misery will be my lot!”

Have I such merciless pangs inflicted,
On a fond heart that loves me so!
Have I on that sweet face depicted
The palid portraiture of wo!

I can not brook the thought! 't is horror!
No—I will fly and give her peace—
Kiss from her cheek the tear of sorrow,
And cause its agonies to cease.

“Emma, I come! your own Fitzharden—
Emma, look up, I love you still!
Nay, on my knees I beg your pardon;
Say you forgive me, or you kill!”

She hears! she smiles—that lip of ruby,
Will gently, tenderly reprove—
“Go to your work you silly booby!
Alas! what fools are men in love!”

THE LOVER AND THE ECHO.

LOVER.
Why am I doomed the pangs to prove
Of absence, from my Anna far?
What bars me from those lips of love,
Whose color rivals cinnabar?

ECHO.
A rival's sin, a bar.

LOVER.
Is she still faithful to the vow
She made at parting, breathed in sighs?
Loves she with equal fervor now?
Would I her heart could analyze!

ECHO.
Anna lies.

LOVER.
I 'd breathe my thoughts in amorous lay,
But, ah! I know not what to write;
For how can words those charms portray
Which might inflame an anchorite?

ECHO.
In flame and anger write.

LOVER.
I 've praised her oft, in tuneful feet,
Iambic, dactyl, and the rest,
But she, with smile and accent sweet,
Approved the lively anapest.

ECHO.
You proved the lively Ann a pest.

LOVER.
Oh, will she soon be joined to me,
Whom she has fixed affections eye on,

And I, like an engrafted tree,
Nourish the young and tender scion?

ECHO.
Young and tender, sigh on.

LOVER.
Oh, did she watch the rising moon,
Like me, with love and hope elated,
While listening to the cricket's tune,
Last Sunday evening, animated?

ECHO.
Last Sunday evening Anna mated.

LOVER.
I 've bought a ring with sparkling gem,
Emblem of love that ne'er can falter,
To grace her slender finger, when
Her vows are plighted by the altar.

ECHO.
Her vows are plighted—buy the halter!

THE REPULSE.

When first I sought my Lydia's love,
I talked of flames and rapture;
And with unceasing ardor strove
Her gentle heart to capture.
“I'll quit the world if I'm denied!”
I said without reflection;
“If you think best,” the fair replied,
“I 've not the least objection.”

“Hard-hearted girl! for your embrace,
To dastard fear a stranger,
Arabia's desert sands I'll trace,
And laugh at every danger;
Or scale the Andes' steepest side,
To merit your affection!”
“As you think best,” she still replied,
“I 've not the least objection.”

“Can nothing move you? is he doomed
To years of gloom and sorrow,
Who fondly thought you would have bloomed
His lovely bride to-morrow?

My family, with joy and pride,
Expect the blest connection.”
“As you think best,” she smiling cried,
I 've not the least objection.”

TIT FOR TAT;

OR, THE COQUETTE PUNISHED.

Ellen was fair, and knew it too,
As other village beauties do,
Whose mirrors never lie;
Secure of any swain she chose,
She smiles on half a dozen beaux,
And, reckless of a lover's woes,
She cheated these, and taunted those;
“For how could any one suppose;
A clown could take her eye?”

But whispers through the village ran,
That Edgar was the happy man
The maid designed to bless;
For wheresoever moved the fair,
The youth was, like her shadow, there,
And rumor boldly matched the pair,
For village folks will guess.

Edgar did love, but still delayed
To make confession to the maid,
So bashful was the youth;
But let the flame in secret burn,
Certain of meeting a return,
When, from his lips, the fair should learn,
Officially, the truth.

At length, one morn, to taste the air,
The youth and maid, in one-horse chair,
A long excursion took.
Edgar had nerved his bashful heart
The sweet confession to impart,
For ah! suspense had caused a smart
He could no longer brook.

He drove, nor slackened once his reins,
Till Hempstead's wide extended plains
Seemed joined to skies above;
Nor house, nor tree, nor shrub was near,
The rude and dreary scene to cheer,
Nor soul within ten miles to hear—
And still poor Edgar's silly fear
Forbade to speak of love.

At last, one desperate effort broke
The bashful spell, and Edgar spoke
With most persuasive tone;

Recounted past attendance o'er,
And then, by all that 's lovely, swore
That he would love for evermore,
If she 'd become his own.

The maid in silence heard his prayer,
Then, with a most provoking air,
She tittered in his face;
And said, “'T is time for you to know
A lively girl must have a beau,
Just like a reticule—for show;
And at her nod to come and go—
But he should know his place.
Your penetration must be dull,
To let a hope within your skull
Of matrimony spring.
Your wife! ha, ha! upon my word,
The thought is laughably absurd
As anything I ever heard—
I never dreamed of such a thing.”

The lover sudden dropped his rein,
Now on the centre of the plain—
“The linchpin's out!” he cried;
“Be pleased, one moment to alight,
Till I can set the matter right,
That we may safely ride.”

He said, and hand out the fair—
Then laughing, cracked his whip in air,
And wheeling round his horse and chair
Exclaimed, “Adieu, I leave you there
In solitude to roam.”
“What mean you, sir!” the maiden cried,
“Did you invite me out to ride
To leave me here without a guide?
Nay, stop, and take me home.”

“What! take you home?” exclaimed the beau,
“Indeed, my dear, I 'd like to know
How such a hopeless wish could grow,
Or in your bosom spring?
Take Ellen home! upon my word,
The thought 's as laughably absurd
As anything I ever heard—
I never dreamed of such a thing.”

PRINTER, FOOL ENOUGH.

Printer—fool enough,
Puffs the folks so funny;
He does all the puff,
They get all the money!

THE WHISKERS.

The kings, who rule mankind with haughty sway,
The prouder pope, whom even kings obey—
Love, at whose shrine both popes and monarchs fall,
And e'en self-interest, that controls them all—
Possess a petty power, when all combined,
Compared with fashion's influence on mankind;
For love itself will oft to fashion bow,
The following story will convince you how:—

A petit maitre wooed a fair,
Of virtue, wealth, and graces rare;
But vainly had preferred his claim,
The maiden owned no answering flame;
At length, by doubt and anguish torn,
Suspense, too painful to be borne,
Low at her feet he humbly kneeled,
And thus his ardent flame revealed:—

“Pity my grief, angelic fair,
Behold my anguish and despair;
For you this heart must ever burn—
Oh, bless me with a kind return;

My love no language can express,
Reward it then with happiness;
Nothing on earth but you I prize,
All else is trifling in my eyes;
And cheerfully would I resign
The wealth of worlds, to call you mine.
But, if another gain your hand,
Far distant from my native land,
Far hence, from you and hope, I'll fly,
And in some foreign region die.”

The virgin heard, and thus replied:—
“If my consent to be your bride
Will make you happy, then be blest,
But grant me first one small request;
A sacrifice I must demand,
And in return will give my hand.”

“A sacrifice! Oh, speak its name,
For you I 'd forfeit wealth and fame;
Take my whole fortune—every cent—”
“'Twas something more than wealth I meant.”
“Must I the realms of Neptune trace?
Oh, speak the word—where'er the place,
For you the idol of my soul,
I 'd e'en explore the frozen pole;
Arabia's sandy desert tread,
Or trace the Tigris to its head.”

“Oh no, dear sir, I do not ask
So long a voyage, so great a task;
You must—but ah! the boon I want,
I have no hope that you will grant.”

“Shall I, like Bonaparte, aspire
To be the world's imperial sire?
Express the wish, and here I vow,
To place a crown upon your brow.”

“Sir, these are trifles,” she replied;
“But if you wish me for your bride,
You must—but still I fear to speak—
You'll never grant the boon I seek.”

“Oh say!” he cried, “dear angel say—
What I must do, and I obey;
No longer rack me with suspense,
Speak your commands, and send me hence.”

“Well, then, dear, generous youth!” she cries,
“If thus my heart you really prize,
And wish to link your fate with mine,
On one condition I am thine;
'T will then become my pleasing duty,
To contemplate a husband's beauty;

And gazing on his manly face,
His feelings and his wishes trace;
To banish thence each mark of care,
And light a smile of pleasure there.
Oh, let me then, 't is all I ask,
Commence at once the pleasing task;
Oh, let me, as becomes my place,
Cut those huge whiskers from your face.”

She said—but oh, what strange surprise
Was pictured in her lover's eyes!
Like lightning from the ground he sprung,
While wild amazement tied his tongue;
A statue, motionless, he gazed,
Astonished, horror-struck, amazed!
So looked the gallant Perseus, when
Medusa 's visage met his ken;
So looked Macbeth, whose guilty eye
Discerned an “air-drawn dagger” nigh;
And so the prince of Denmark stared,
When first his father's ghost appeared.

At length our hero silence broke,
And thus in wildest accents spoke:
“Cut off my whiskers! oh, ye gods
I 'd sooner lose my ears, by odds;
Madam, I 'd not be so disgraced,
So lost to fashion and to taste,

To win an empress to my arms,
Though blest with more than mortal charms.
My whiskers! Zounds!” He said no more,
But quick retreated through the door
And sought a less obdurate fair,
Who took the beau with all his hair.

THE EXPERT FRISEUR.

The other day, a certain beau,
Before he could a courting go,
Must needs be dressed; so off he flew
To the first shop that met his view.
“Come, barber,” he exclaims in haste,
“Display for once a little taste;
Exert your powers, and do n't be stupid,
But make me pretty as a Cupid.
Consult my visage now with care,
And to my looks adapt my hair.”
The man, a master of his trade,
His best abilities displayed;
And Cupid from his chair arose,
A finished beauty—we suppose;
Approached the glass, his visage spied,
Then turning to the barber, cried—
“Is this your boasted taste?—for shame!
Such dressing do n't deserve the name;

My head, with all these curls and plaster,
Looks like the very devil, master.”
The barber, in a humble tone,
Replied, “Dear sir, the fault 's your own,
You bade me view your face with care,
And to your looks adapt your hair.”

RAISING THE WIND.

It's ever been the study of mankind,
In every station, how to raise the wind;
And who attempts it with the least address,
Is oft rewarded with the most success;
As many a novice, by a lucky throw,
Has foiled the science of a veteran foe.

Raising the wind, however, I'll engage,
Is not confined to climate, sex, or age;
But is, in fact, the universal trade,
Of infant, parent, widow, wife, and maid.

Young master Fretful, spoiled by fond mamma,
Espies a treasure in the sweetmeat jar;
And, if refused to taste the luscious store,
Tunes up his pipes to a melodious roar.

“Give him a rod!” the angry father cries;
“Nay, nay! my dear!” the tender spouse replies,
“You'll break poor Jacky's heart, or spoil his eyes;
'T is hard to cross so innocent a wish—
Here, Jacky, take some, on this china dish;
Here, deary, wipe your eyes—papa 's unkind”—
Jack smiles again—for he has raised the wind.

Tom Rustic throws the hoe indignant down,
Assumes his Sunday suit, and comes to town,
Obtains employment in a dry-goods store,
And soon forgets whate'er he know before:
Commences dandy in his dress and air,
And learns to smoke and gamble, drink and swear;
Transformed in manners, dialect, and feature,
Till his own parents scarcely know the creature.

“I say—Ned—demme—where was you last night?
We 'd fun enough at Cato's—blame me tight!
I bilked the driver, too—ha, ha! keep dark,
Poor yellow Billy, down there by the Park:
You know that Hudson note—well, do n't you think,
The fellow took it—gave the change in chink;
The rascal certainly was drunk or blind,
But, ha! ha! ha! egad, I raised the wind.”

Sir Richard Rake, once lord of boundless wealth,
A bankrupt now, in fortune, fame, and health,
Becomes enamored of the widow Dash,
Possessed of many thousand charms—in cash;
His passion knows no bounds—he kneels and sighs,
While his whole soul is beaming from his eyes.

“Divine, angelic creature! Here I vow,
This bosom never glowed with love till now;
Oh, then, be kind, and grant my ardent prayer,
Nor doom a faithful lover to despair!
Your matchless charms”—
“Oh, fie! Sir Richard, hush!
Such high-flown praises really make me blush;
Fled are the trifling charms which once were mine,
Though, to be sure, I'm only thirty—nine.”

“Nay, hear me, dearest madame—though I prize,
Above all earthly good, those beauteous eyes!
It is your mental charms that touch my heart,
That cultivated mind, that heavenly part,
So high above the reach of flattery's art.”

“And do you really think so?” “Shall I swear?”
“Oh, no, I would not drive you to despair—
There—there 's my hand—I can not be unkind.”
'T is thus our fortune-hunters raise the wind.

But time would fail me, and your patience too,
Should I this boundless subject thus pursue,
And show the various arts by which mankind,
Of every grade, contrive to raise the wind.
The quack effects it, when and where he pleases,
By advertising cures for all diseases;
The politician gives his friends a lift,
Then takes the fattest office in their gift.
The Wall-street broker shaves you in a note,
The humble showman, with a learned goat.
A more adventurous soul will raise a breeze
By seal-clad natives brought from over seas;
While lottery-venders, thinking fortune blind,
Assume her functions, and so raise the wind.

Not so your humble servant, whose sole wish
Was to prepare an intellectual dish
To treat his friends—and if he can not raise
A gale of approbation in his praise,
Yet still he hopes his well-intended toils,
Will meet the gentler sunshine of your smiles.

THE FIRST OF MAY;

OR, THE CITY OF NEW YORK IN AN UPROAR.

The curtain rises, and the play begins—
Here at the corner, screened by oaken post,
The muse shall take her stand, and view the scene.
At every door, behold the ready cart
Receive its cumbrous load; the horse throws round
A glance of meek compassion, which to me
Speaks in a language, plain as brutes can speak,
“What a poor fool is man!” His driver swears,
Wives scold, dogs bark, cats mew, and children cry,
Pots break, chairs crack, pans ring, and jarring notes,
Of harshest discord, rise on every side.

There goes a matron with her looking-glass,
A legacy from mother to her child
For several generations, and she'll trust
None to remove it but her careful self.
But better had she stowed it on the cart
Where all her baggage rides; for fate has doomed,
(By sudden contact with a porter's load)
To dash the sacred treasure from her hand

On the unchristian pavements, where she views
Here scattered hopes in rude disorder spread,
Reflecting houses, passengers, and skies.
Here a full barrow, piled with feather-beds,
Pushed by a sturdy porter, runs you down,
Ere you can shun the danger; yonder goes
The sweating bearer of a precious load,
Baskets of chinaware, and sweetmeat jars,
And the cold relics of some late repast.
And here a lumbering cart moves slowly on,
Piled high with bureaus, bedsteads, tables, desks,
Chairs, cradle, rubbish, washtubs, kittles, pots,
Old empty barrels, benches, trammels, pans,
The fire-utensils, carpet-rags, old books,
And musty pamphlets, oil jugs, bottles, frames,
Mats, brooms, Dutch-oven, gridirons, griddles, jacks,
Trunks, piggins, toasters, pickle-pots, and all.

EPIGRAM,

ON THE MARRIAGE OF MR. GOLDFINCH TO MISS WEED.

A Goldfinch late in search of seeds,
Explored a rural bower,
And found, amongst luxuriant weeds,
A little, modest flower.

POETICAL EPISTLE.

FROM A YOUNG LADY IN NEW YORK TO HER COUSIN IN DETROIT.

Sweet Coz! as brother calls you—oh
I wish we had you in the city.
When he was here, some time ago,
He told me, puss, that you were pretty!
And I have never seen you yet!
No matter—for the winter 's flying,
And pa has promised—I'm his pet—
We'll come when summer gales are sighing.

But still, I wish we had you here,
I 've such delightful news to tell you!
My heart is gone, dear coz! oh, dear!
Has ever such a thing befell you?
I hope your box came safe to hand,
With pelerine, lace veil, and corsets,
Cornelian ear-rings, breastpin—and
A chain and seal like Emma D---t's.

Your ma's new cap—I hope it suits—
Tell her it was by me selected,

As was the pair of gaiter-boots—
Heigh-ho! my spirits feel dejected!
I told you that my heart was lost—
Perhaps 't is but the blues oppress me;
For though I'm pleased with Major F---t,
He wants the courage to address me.

I saw him first, at Grand-Val's ball,
I met him afterward at Parker's;
But, oh! at Conway's concert hall—
He waited on the Misses B---rs!
The one a pug-nosed, short old maid,
The other, tall, slim, lean, and yellow!
They stumbled through the gallopade—
I felt so vexed!—the stupid fellow!

Though introduced, we had not yet
Exchanged a dozen words together,
Excepting something, I forget,
About the opera and weather.
As partners in the gallopade,
You know, of course, we often parted:
Nor cared we how the music played,
But always met just where we started.

His voice is manly, sweet, and clear,
With tones most musically tender:
His shape—Apollo Belvidere
Is not so exquisitely slender.

And then he 's brave as Cæsar, too,
Or Alexander, or Hephestion;
Oh, coz! what could I say or do,
If he should only pop the question?

His manners are so mild and bland,
Though once, 't is said, he fought a duel;
He whispered something—pressed my hand—
Would you advise me to be cruel?
Of course, you know I answered not,
For ma says I'm too young to marry;
I blushed—looked down—I do n't know what
I might have said—His name is Harry.

He makes up parties when he can,
Of course 't is when I know the misses;
They 're on the old New England plan—
But pa denounces pawns and kisses;
Though we suspect he liked them once—
But mum! mamma has no suspicion;
Aunt says he was not thought a dunce,
When beaux were once in requisition.

But let that pass—he 's older now;
In June next I am one-and-twenty!
You never saw so sweet a bow
As Harry's—though you 've seen a plenty.

His hair is brown, his whiskers dark,
His ringlets round his temples cluster;
His eyes you could not fail to mark,
They shine with such a dazzling lustre.

And then he writes such poetry!
You must have read it in the Mirror—
“To Miss H. M.”—and that means me,
For think you there is any dearer?
And such conundrums!—he 's the life
Of all our social evening revels;
Oh! when I once become his wife,
Adieu to vapors and blue-devils!

I saw him in the grand parade,
Curbing a milk-white, prancing charger,
With sash and epaulets displayed—
I wished his chapeau-bras was larger.
He marched his troops down East Broadway,
I saw them from the doctor's window,
And caught his eye—that single ray
Had almost made my heart a cinder!

Adieu, sweet coz—I'll let you know,
When we have fixed the day to marry;
And may you get as sweet a beau
As Major F---t, my charming Harry.

When Cupid aims his feathered dart,
I hope no obstacle will parry it;
Such wounds are grateful to the heart—
So I remain your cousin—Harriet.

P. S.

Alas! dear coz, my hopes are crossed!
My late bright prospects now are darker,
For pa just told me Major F---t
Last evening married Ellen B---er;
And that they 've been for years attached,
The tall, slim, gawky! lean and yellow!—
But never mind—they 're quite well matched—
I never could endure the fellow!—H. M.

ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING EPISTLE.

Dear Harriet—Yours of twentieth Jan.
Has been received and read with pleasure;
And rest assured, your cousin Ann
Is highly grateful for the treasure.
But we were not prepared to hear
That you could be so deeply smitten;
But in a New York atmosphere,
We trust you have not been Frost-bitten!

My prospects have not yet been crossed
In such a way as late befell you;
Though we have here one General Frost,
Who sometimes is too rude, I tell you.
He'll pinch your fingers till they smart,
And even pull your ears a little;
But then he can not touch the heart;
His promises are all so brittle.

But lovers, coz, alas! I 've none!
And I should like to pay a visit
To your great city, I must own,
And that is not surprising—is it!
For, oh! your colonels, majors, and
Subalterns of a rank inferior,
Enlist recruits, I understand,
Which they do n't do in the interior.

I 'd like to be a colonel's aid,
Provided he 's a man of spirit,
Without the shadow of a shade
To cloud his virtues, worth, and merit.
At playhouse, opera, or ball,
He 'd be a suitable protector;
But there 's a street of yours named Wall—
How would you like a bank director?

But let that pass—I 've heard so much
About your prima-donna, Fanti,

And Mrs. Wood, whose tones can touch
The soul, in presto or andante;
Of Fanny Kemble—routs and balls,
Soiries, and jams, and private parties;
Of new-imported hats and shawls—
'T is easy telling where my heart is.

I long to see your Forrest act,
Your Irish Power, and native Hackett,
And old friend Barnes, who is, in fact,
The greatest wag that wears a jacket.
Your authors, too, I wish to see—
At least, a few of the deserving,
Who shine in prose and poetry,
Like Paulding, Bryant, Cooper, Irving.

The fashions for the coming spring—
Please send some drawings that will show them;
And write me word by Mr. K---g,
That I may be the first to know them.
Black stocks, I hope the beaux will cast,
And put on white cravats this season;
For ma says stocks decline so fast,
They're under par!—now what's the reason?

With you, next May, 'mid dust and smoke,
'T will be the fashion to be moving!
But we are free from such a yoke—
How fast the Mirror is improving!

The last plate-number, which contained
Your private letter (what a pity!)
Has everywhere applause obtained,
In hamlet, village, town, and city.

The plate presents a peerless view,
And is most exquisitely finished;
Verplanck's descriptive sketch is new,
And Paulding's fire is not diminished.
I hugely like the sketch by Power,
The tale of Leggett is alarming;
The Serenade's a lovely flower,
And sweet Ninetta's air is charming.

Has tuneful Wetmore cease to write?
Is Morris still the muses moving?
Who 's Peregrine, that crying wight?
And what are Fay and Willis doing?
And what the deuse is Cox about?
Is Broadway getting gay so early?
You saw Miss Cooper play, no doubt—
Pa knew her grandsire, Major Fairley.

What is the latest novel called,
Just stereotyped by Cooke and Conner?
Is Major Frost a little bald?
Now tell me, truly, coz, 'pon honor!
Is Noah successful with his Star?
Is Halleck married, to your knowledge?

Have you rode in the railway car?
Or seen the new-established college?

And so, no more at present, coz,
But do n't let Morris print this letter,
I beg of you—for if he does,
I'll punish you as an abetter.
Besides, there are some secrets in't,
As you perceive—so, be admonish;
For if it should appear in print,
The folks up here would be astonished.—

Ann H.

POSTSCRIPT.

Desipere est dulce! cries
The philosophic, tuneful Horace—
So, though the act may not be wise,
You may just drop a hint to Morris,
That, if he'll leave out place and name,
And make the verses jingle better,
I should not think him much to blame,
Were he to publish such a letter.—

A. H.

A CHARADE AND SOLUTION.

My first is a vehicle, such as oft bore
To battle the chivalrous heroes of yore;
'Tis the wicker-wove gondola, too, that will bear,
The fearless Durant yet again in the air.
My second is often by beauty caressed,
Its cradle her lap, and its pillow her breast;
With the choicest of food by her hand it is fed,
And it even presumes to repose on her bed.
My whole is the pride both of matron and maid,
Who guard me with care, lest my beauties should fade;
But though they affect such affection to feel,
They grude me the crumbs that may fall from their meal;
The servants are suffered with rudeness to treat me,
To trample upon me, to shake me, and beat me;
Then pray, gentle ladies, in country or city,
If you know what I am, let me hope for your pity.

SOLUTION.

The swift war-chariot, was, of yore,
Yclept a car, and often bore
Some god, or chief, or princely knight,
To meet the foe in desperate fight.

And 't is a car that soon will bear,
Durant again through fields of air!
No fair but on some pet has smiled,
A lapdog, kitten, lamb, or child;
No fair but clasps one to her breast,
Or takes it to her couch of rest.
A happy union of these two,
A car and pet presents to view,
The meaning of a late charade,
Guard well its beauties, lest they fade.

A SONNET ON SONNETS.

When memory takes a retrospective gaze
Upon the bright effusions of my brain,
She can not find—I note the fact with pain—
'Mid all that heterogeneous mass of lays,
A single Sonnet! This might blight a fame
Greater—if greater can be—than the one
Which now reward the muses' favorite son—
I mean myself—and gilds his deathless name.
This must not be, and so I'll write one now.
Let's see; it must comprise just fourteen lines,
Dull, flat, and heavy; this at least combines
The requisites alluded to, I trow!
Two more complete it; now the bard entwines
The ne plus ultra garland round his laurelled brow!

ELEGIAC LINES.

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A YOUNG LADY, ON THE DEATH OF HER FAVORITE KITTEN.

[A JUVENILE PRODUCTION.]

Shall sculptured blocks and columns rise,
In memory of the worthless great,
And nought but tears, regrets, and sighs,
Declare the humbler victim's fate?

Forbid it, Justice! while my muse
Will not deny her friendly aid;
To Sylvia's though abstruse,
Shall due respect and praise be paid.

How pure her life! without a blot
To stain her bright, untarnished fame!
Though low, obscure, and mean her lot,
Yet long shall live her humble name.

How oft her sportive tricks and plays
Have pleased, amused, and banished care!
How oft her little winning ways
Have gained caresses from the fair!

How rich and envied the reward,
For all her little arts to please!
Here lovely mistress' kind regard,
Tenfold repaid such toils as these.

Who would not envy her, so blest—
Accept her fate her bliss to gain?
Kissed by those lips—pressed to that breast,
Which thousands sigh to touch in vain.

But, ah! her sports and plays are done!
Those harmless pastimes all are fled!
The tricks which those caresses won,
Amuse no more!—poor Sylvia's dead!

EPIGRAM.

ON THE MARRIAGE OF MR. H. LOCKE TO MISS STORMS.

What daring feats the ardent youth performs,
Who bares his bosoms to resistless Storms;
And, like the fabled heathen god, who chained
And in a cave the warring winds restrained,
So Henry bids the very name to cease;
Secured by Locke the Storms now smile in peace.

TIME'S AUCTION.

A NEW-YEAR'S POEM, ADDRESSED TO A LADY.

'T was near that “witching time of night,”
When spectres walk, and poets write;
The play was out, the shops were closed,
And all the laboring world reposed;
The waning moon was yet asleep,
Or had not risen from the deep;
When, in my elbow-chair reclined,
Thy form, fair lady, crossed my mind,
And I resolved to frame a lay,
Addressed to you, on New-Year's day:
But strove in vain—for every Muse
Appeared determined to refuse
The smallest favor I could ask—
And I resigned the hopeless task;
Sank backward in my crazy chair,
The haggard picture of despair!

When, suddenly, my vision failed!
And such a sound my ears assailed,
As filled my trembling heart with dread,
And shook the rafters o'er my head!

('T is true, just then, I can't deny,
Four hackney-coaches thundered by;)
Grimalkin gave a dreadful scream!
(She might have had a frightful dream;)
And Pug emitted such a groan,
As if some cur had stole his bone!
I felt my creeping blood recoil!
The lamp burnt blue!—(it wanted oil;)
My bristling hair now stood erect!
(For lack of combing, I suspect;)
My eye-balls, in their sockets, glared!
A certain sign that I was scared!
I listened, still, in breathless dread,
To hear the slow and heavy tread
Of some ascending footstep near,
Which fell like lead upon my ear!
Nor listened long—my garret door,
Which has been safely latched before,
Without a touch, wide open flew!
And what a spectre met my view!

An old, decrepid sage appeared,
With hollow cheek, and snowy beard;
A wrinkled forehead, soaring high
Above a deeply-sunken eye;
With head quite bald, except before,
Where one long silver lock he wore;
One arm a ponderous scythe sustained,

One hand an hour-glass, almost drained,
In which the sand was wasting fast—
(The recent year was almost past;)
'T was father Time—I knew him well,
And hailed him welcome to my cell;
Intreating him awhile to stop,
To warm his hands, and take a drop.

“Time never stops!” he hoarsely cried,
“For no one tarries time nor tide!
Though all abuse me as I pass,
And strive to break my scythe and glass;
Though all misuse and treat me ill,
Yet I keep jogging forward still.
But having ever met from you
That courtesy, to old age due,
Which you are exercising NOW,
(I smiled, and made my prettiest bow,)
I felt inclined, in passing by,
To let you know the reason why
The Muses came not at your call—
They're going to the New-Year's ball!
And as, at such an hour, you know,
'T is requisite to have a beau;
Of course, it naturally will follow,
That their gallant is gay Apollo.
No wonder, then, that you, in vain,
Have summoned this Parnassian train;

For let the fair but scent a ball,
And all, but Death, may vainly call.

“But fare you well! I can not stay,
For ere these sands have run away,
The custom-house of Heaven will clear
An out-bound ship—the good Old-Year.
And there 's another one, I learn,
Belonging to the same concern,
Full freighted, just come in from sea,
Arrived below, consigned to me;
And ere the hour of twelve be tolled,
Her precious cargo must be sold;
Comprising minutes, hours, and days,
And other goods above all praise;
Put up in lots, as each prefers,
To suit all sorts of purchasers,
A day, a week, a month, or year,
And I must play the Auctioneer.
Come with me, and attend the sale,
'T will serve you for a New-Year's tale.

No sooner had the spectre spoke,
Than quick I seized my hat and cloak,
And sallied forth, with hope inspired.
The citizens had all retired,
One “guardian of the night” except,
Who on a stoop securely slept.

My sage companion tottered on,
Exclaiming—“Going!—going!—gone!
A Year, in months, or weeks, for sale!
Who bids for part, or all the bale!
What for an hour?—or twenty-four?
With privilege of taking more!
Who bids!—the sale 's without reserve,
And none must from the contract swerve.”

“Put up,” exclaimed a bright-winged elf,
“Each moonlight evening by itself;
The summer ones so much I prize,
I'll bid a thousand tender sighs.”
“Once! twice! a-going!—who bids more?”
Grief added to the sum a score,
With twenty thousand tears beside.
Philosophy stepped up with pride,
And offered for each cloudless night
Twelve problems, which he—meant to write!

Poor Poetry approached the scene,
With threadbare coat, and pensive mein,
A brimful heart, and empty purse,
And bid two thousand feet of—verse!
Old Time, who took the wink from me,
Knocked down the lot to Poetry,
Who would no article remove,
Till he had shared the whole with Love!

Another lot, of darker hue,
The salesman next held up to view,
Exclaiming, as he shook his glass—
“Here 's goods of quite a different class;
A lot of nights, in cloudy weather,
Who bids?—the whole must go together;
For fireworks and illuminations,
And various other ‘demonstrations,’
This kinds of goods is just the thing;
Who bids!—they'll go for what they'll bring.”

A host of fiends approached the spot,
Each eager to secure the lot:
Sly crafty Fraud, mean Breach-of-trust,
Intemperance, Murder, Theft, and Lust,
And every imp of Heaven accursed.
Such rapid bids from crime and vice,
Secured the goods a heavy price;
And ere the buyers left the spot,
They all agreed to share the lot.

The crowd increased; the sage, perplext,
Put up a lot of week-days next;
Industry bid, but Speculation
Outbid him without hesitation,
Until they run the lot so high,
That all the rest refused to buy;
The auctioneer to dwell was loth,
So knocked the package down to both.

The Sundays only now remained,
For which fair bids were soon obtained;
Pleasure and Indolence expected
To have the pleasant ones selected
For them alone—to take the best,
And leave Religion all the rest.
But Time to this would not agree,
So knocked them down to Piety;
Exclaiming, “Going!—going!!—gone!!!”
The clock struck twelve!—'twas New-Year's morn!
Aroused by poor grimalkin's scream,
I woke, and found 't was all a—dream!

But, lady, should my dream prove true,
And Time have sold such goods to you,
May every bale, and lot, and piece,
Your capital of bliss increase,
While you deposite the avails
In heaven, a bank that never fails.
And when the great account, at last,
Is posted, and correctly cast,
The balance-sheet will clearly prove
That you 've eternal funds above.
Till then, may pleasure crown you here,
For many a New and Happy Year.

CONVIVIAL SONGS AND GLEES.

THY RUBY LIPS MUST KISS THE BRIM.

Thy ruby lips must kiss the brim
Before I drain the cup,
Its lustre else will be too dim
To light my spirits up.
Nay, taste, my love—its purple hue
Will brighter paint thy lip;
Thine eye will gain new lustre too,
Thy soul new ardor—sip!

If rosy wine have power to cheer
The regents of the sky,
It sure will chase away the tear
That dims an angel's eye.

Then taste, my love—its purple hue
Will brighter dye thy lip;
Thine eye will gain new lustre too,
Thy soul new ardor—sip!

This idea smacks of Paganism; but I dare not avail myself of higher authority in a convivial song, or I would refer to him who said, that “wine cheereth God and man.”

TARGET-SHOOTING.

Now ruthless Mars, while his war-dogs are dozing,
May curry his coursers and burnish his car,
While in the sunshine of peace we 're reposing,
Gayly we practice the duties of war.
Bright are our arms as the eyes of the lasses,
True to their object as Love's feathered dart,
Swift through the target the charmed bullet passes,
Swift as the arrows of love through the heart.
Charge, then, your bumpers high,
Drain every goblet dry,
Sparkles of wit like its red drops shall glow;
Thus spend this festal day,
Till we in full repay
The duty and booty to Beauty we owe.

Life is a game full of hazard and chances,
Each tries his luck for a hit or a miss,
Trusting to fortune, each youth thus advances
Oft gets a kick where he shoots for a kiss.

Whether he wins by a bribe, like Polyctor,
Or fortune, or fate has directed the shaft,
Pleasure still mingles a bowl for the victor,
Eager he drains its contents at a draught.
Seize, then, the present hour,
While joy is in our power,
Mirth unrestrained like our red wine shall flow;
Thus spend this festal day,
Till we in full repay
The duty and booty to Beauty we owe.

Fame is the prize which ambition contends for,
Rank is the mark to which Folly aspires,
Gold is the object which Avarice bends for,
Peace and content are what Virtue acquires.
Glory's the prize which we soldiers would try for,
Fired with the plaudits which beauty will give,
Freedom and country we 'd willingly die for,
Wine, wit, and women—for them we would live.
Charge, then, your bumpers high,
Drain every goblet dry,
Sparkles of wit like its red drops shall glow;
Thus spend the festal day,
Till we in full repay
The duty and booty to Beauty we owe.

THE KROUT FEAST.—NO. 1.

Krouts, who have so often fed
Here, on cabbage white and red,
Welcome now—the board is spread
For our revelry!
Now 's the day, and now 's the hour,
See! our royal chief devour,
Sausage, goose, and cabbage sour,
Scorning rivalry!

Who would be to care a slave?
Who, at such a feast, be grave?
Who refuse to chant a stave?
Let him quickly flee!
Who for cabbage, king, and law,
Knife and fork will freely draw,
'Till there 's naught but bones to gnaw,
Let him do like me!

By an empty stomach's pain,
By blue devils in the brain,
We will eat, and quaff champagne,
'Till the demons flee!

Lay the krout and smoked-goose low,
Let the wine in torrents flow
'Till the cheeks with rapture glow,
'T is our king's decree!

Load your plates above the rim,
Fill your glasses to the brim,
Think what honors wait on him,
Who the prize receives!
'T is a race of bright renown,
'T is to win a princely crown,
'T is to wear a royal gown,
Made of cabbage leaves!

Krouts, then play your manly parts,
With the puddings, pies, and tarts;
Cabbage-heads have generous hearts,
Let them bound with glee
'T is a custom we revere,
'T is a feast to Dutchmen dear,
Knickerbockers every year
Keep the jubilee!

THE KROUT FEAST.—NO. 2.

Again, brother krouts, are we gayly united,
In stuffing and swigging to honor our chief,
Each feeling his services richly requited,
In laughing and quaffing, a stranger to grief.
Then hail to the banquet of reason and pleasure!
The envy of heroes and monarchs no doubt,
For this is a bliss they would prize above measure,
To feast upon cabbage converted to krout;
The round-headed cabbage, the soft pulpy cabbage,
The sweet, wholesome cabbage, converted to krout.

Oh, think of the prize that is now set before us,
A throne and a sceptre, a crown, and a robe;
Then eat 'till you burst—in a contest so glorious,
No true-hearted krout but would swallow the globe.
The wine sparkles brightly, then quaff as you mingle it,
Replenish your plates, too, as soon as they are out,

With smoke-seasoned goose, and the savory ringlet,
With soft, pulpy cabbage converted to krout;
The round-headed cabbage, the soft pulpy cabbage,
The sweet, wholesome cabbage, converted to krout.

Long life to our monarch, whose station exempts him,
From each vulgar drudgery, even to think,
Except to devour sour-krout when it temps him,
Or when the wine sparkles before him, to drink.
Such a king can, of course, do no wrong to the nation,
His ministers answer when radicals flout;
Then brave Knickerbockers, lets strive for the station,
By feasting on cabbage converted to krout;
The round-headed cabbage, the soft pulpy cabbage,
The sweet, wholesome cabbage, converted to krout.

WHEN EYES ARE BRIGHT.

When eyes are bright with pleasure,
And brows with wreaths are crowned,
To music's sweetest measure
The heart shall gayly bound.

While pallid care forgets to call,
And smiling beauty lights the hall,
Devote to bliss the present hour,
Perhaps the next may darkly lower.
When eyes are bright with pleasure,
And brows with wreaths are crowned,
To music's sweetest measure
The heart shall gayly bound.

This life were but a dreary scene,
Without such little spots of green;
But every joy like this to taste,
Imparts new strength to tread the waste.
When eyes are bright with pleasure,
And brows with wreaths are crowned,
To music's sweetest measure
The heart shall gayly bound.

Such pleasures leave no sting behind,
But sweetly elevate the mind,
'Till every heart, with generous glow,
Is blest to see its neighbor so.
When eyes are bright with pleasure,
And brows with wreaths are crowned,
To music's sweetest measure
The heart shall gayly bound.

AMITY, HOPE, AND PLEASURE.

AN ADAPTATIOM TO AN ITALIAN AIR.

Night's ebony car descending,
Rolls rapidly down the sky,
While numerous sylphs attending,
Show revel y's hour is nigh.
Now amity, hope, and pleasure,
Smile placidly, kiss, and toy,
While trippingly dance in measure,
Love, liberty, peace, and joy.

Late dismally pining daily,
Hearts languidly sunk in wo,
Now merrily bounding gayly,
All playfully throb and glow
Now amity, hope, and pleasure,
Smile placidly, kiss, and toy,
While trippingly dance in measure,
Love, liberty, peace, and joy.

YE CARELESS, SMILING SONS OF MIRTH.

Ye careless smiling sons of mirth,
Of warm and generous soul,
Who share, with hearts of kindred worth,
The pleasures of the bowl;
When round the festive board convened,
Where wit and mirth combine,
Jests abound,
Songs go round,
Hearts are warm, care is drowned,
If on earth bliss be found,
'T is in friendship, love, and wine.

Then fill the mantling goblet high,
'Till brilliants deck its brim,
And drink to her whose sparkling eye,
Would make their lustre dim.
The toast shall pass, the glee go round,
Such smiling fair is mine,
May she miss
No true bliss,
Dance and song, love's warm kiss,
Days and nights, bright as this,
Blest with friendship, love, and wine.

LET POLITICIANS RAIL AND FIGHT.

Let politicians rail and fight,
For president or king,
We care not which is wrong or right,
But gayly drink and sing.
The only party we would join,
Is that of woman, wit, and wine.
Then we'll push about the bowl, my boys,
Then we'll push about the bowl,
To exhilarate the soul,
And heighten our convivial joys.

FILL A BUMPER, LET IT PASS.

Fill a bumper, let it pass,
This shall be our parting glass;
When again we thus convene,
Equal joy shall crown the scene,
Wine and music, mirth and wit,
Every eye with pleasure lit;
Parting is not painful, when
We but part to meet again.

MARTIAL AND PATRIOTIC PIECES.

FREEDOM'S STAR.

Hail, Star of Freedom, hail!
Whose splendor ne'er shall fail,
In peace or war;
Long shall thy golden ray
O'er these blessed regions play,
While millions own the sway
Of Freedom's Star.

Our sires, a pilgrim band,
Who sought this promised land,
From realms afar,
Spurned fell oppression's sway,
And dared the pathless way,
Led by the golden ray
Of Freedom's Star.

Their sons, with kindred flame,
Have earned an equal fame,
In peace and war!
Determined to be free,
Have fought by land and sea,
Led on to victory,
By Freedom's Star!

Beneath her temple's dome,
Here wanderers find a home
From realms afar!
Blest in their happy choice,
Here will they long rejoice,
And with united voice,
Hail Freedom's Star!

FREEDOM'S CONSTELLATION.

Glory gilds the western skies
With bright irradiation,
Where brilliant stars so oft arise
In Freedom's constellation.
See the glittering orbs revolve
Around the sun of Union!
And never shall the tie dissolve
Which holds them in communion.

This exalts Columbia's cause,
And gilds her reputation;
This secures her earth's applause,
And Heaven's approbation.

Long shall live Columbia's name,
In patriotic story,
And long around her brow shall flame
A bright, unsullied glory.
Virtue's panoply she wears,
Her weapons truth and justice;
The olive-branch her standard bears,
In Heaven alone her trust is.
This exalts Columbia's cause, &c.

Mild religion's lucid ray
Her glowing prospect brightens,
And superstition shuns the day
Which literature enlightens.
Charity's celestial flame
Here sheds its mild effulgence,
For every party, sect, and name,
Enjoys the same indulgence.
This exalts Columbia's cause, &c.

Freemen reap the fertile soil
Their valor has defended,
And smiling plenty crowns the toil
Which health and hope attended.

Exiles here a refuge find,
Secure from persecution,
And bless the wisdom that designed
Our glorious constitution.
This exalts Columbia's cause, &c.

See our mighty realm increase,
Since independence crowned it,
And its growth shall never cease,
Till oceans only bound it.
Still Columbia never fights
For conquest or for plunder;
Nothing but insulted right
Can wake her martial thunder.
This exalts Columbia's cause, &c.

See Neptune with the lakes allied—
No legendary story—
The god of ocean gains a bride
Where Perry wedded glory.
See potent steam's resistless charm
Uniting distant places,
Till Mississippi's giant arm
The Hudson's form embraces.
This exalts Columbia's cause &c.

Hail, thou mistress of the West!
Where freemen hold dominion,

Where the dove may safely rest
Beneath the eagle's pinion.
Long as Cynthia wheels her car,
Or Phœbus holds his station,
Be virtue still the brightest star
In Freedom's Constellation.
This exalts Columbia's cause,
And gilds her reputation;
This secures her earth's applause,
And Heaven's approbation.

FREEDOM'S JUBILEE.

Freedom's jubilee again
Calls for music's richest strain,
Hail her bright auspicious reign,
Hail the jubilee!
Louder let the anthem swell,
And to listening seraphs tell,
That the land in which we dwell,
Ever will be free!

On this day Columbians broke
Stern oppression's galling yoke,
And, by one decisive stroke,
Made their children free!

'T was the birth of freedom here,
'T is a day to freemen dear,
Let us, then, each rolling year,
Keep the jubilee!

Long and bloody was the fray,
Ere Columbia gained the day,
Lowly many a hero lay,
Dying to be free!
But immortal Washington
Led Columbia's patriots on,
Till the glorious prize was won,
Peace and Liberty!

THE VICTOR COMES, HUZZA!

Flee, busy care! the god of war
Will guard him in the fray,
And where the rudest dangers are,
His plume is seen to play.
Where martial banners proudly wave,
And flashing blades appear,
There moves the leader of the brave,
His heart unknown to fear
The routed foe, retreating,
To freemen yield the day;

The roll of joy is beating,
The field is ours, huzza!

My hero claims the brightest wreath,
The loudest note of fame,
Let Music's voice his praises breath,
And bards repeat his name.
He comes to bless my longing arms,
And cheer his lonely bride;
Safe from the battle's rude alarms,
He comes in martial pride.
He comes with smiles returning,
In triumph's glittering car;
The torch of joy is burning,
The victor comes, huzza!

DEATH ON THE BATTLE-FIELD.

The tempest of battle was loud,
And proudly the banners were streaming,
While bright as the flash in the cloud,
The blade of the hero was gleaming.

And Fame shall exultingly tell,
How firmly in fight he contended,
'Till covered with glory, he fell
On the field he so bravely defended.

YES, YES, I GO.

“Yes, yes, I go”—he whispered soft,
“In freedom's cause my sword to wield,
Columbia's banner waves aloft,
And glory calls me to the field.”
Then foremost on the foe he prest,
While war's rude tempest wildly roared,
Till gushing from the hero's breast
The purple tide in torrents poured.

He fell, and oh! what fancies stole
Through memory vista, bright and warm,
Till one loved image o'er his soul
Came like an angel in the storm.
But loudly swelled the bugle's blast,
His hand instinctive grasped the steel;
Again it swelled—but all was past,
The warrior's breast had ceased to fell.

WAR.

Gentle Peace, on ruffled pinion,
Flies from Freedom's injured realm;
War extends his rough dominion,
Vengeance nodding on his helm.

Harshly sounds the trumpet's clamor,
While our warriors leap to arms;
Beauty shrinks in fearful tremor,
Snatching graces from alarms.

Harsh to us the martial clarion,
Who with peace and freedom blest,
Bade the desert, drear and barren,
Smile a garden in the west.

Harsh to us, whose fair pretensions
Ne'er infringed a nation's right,
Who have tamely borne aggressions,
Rather than engage in fight.

THE ONSET.

See! at length, indignant Justice
Bares her sabre's spotless blade!
Swears by him in whom her trust is,
Every wrong shall be repaid!

Hark! the horrid fray commences!
Mars has slipped the dogs of war,
Death on every side dispenses
Spreading ruin round his car.

'T WAS WAR.

'T was war!—and the plough in the furrow was stayed,
Each art was relinquished for musket and blade;
The pipe of the swain in the valley was still,
While the bugle rung loud from each fortified hill.

The cause of humanity, freedom, and truth,
Enkindled a flame in the breast of each youth,
Which, fanned by the air that our freemen respire,
Soon burst on the foe in a deluge of fire.

THE BATTLE.

RECITATIVE.

Oh, who, reclined in dastard ease,
Could hear his country call in vain,
Or view her banner court the breeze,
Nor sigh to seek the hostile plain?

AIR.

Oh, perish such wretches! while, eager for glory,
The youth of our country are rushing to arms;
The deeds of our sires, if we list to the story,
Excite in our bosoms a spirit that charms.

RECITATIVE.

But hark! the cannon's awful roar
Proclaims the deadly fray begun!
The hostile ranks have met once more,
And clouds of smoke obscure the sun.

AIR.

The soul-stirring bugle now sounds to the charge,
And our cavalry rush like a tempest along;
The wing of the foe, on the cataract's verge,
Is broken and turned by a current so strong.

The havoc increases, the squadrons unite,
The clashing of sabres is heard in the din,
All rushing with ardor to share in the fight,
While bayonets bristle terrific between.

The shouts of the victors, the groans of the dying,
The shrill-sounding fife, and the drum's noisy rattle,
The prancing of coursers, in charging or flying,
Unite in augmenting the din of the battle.

RECITATIVE.

But, hark! the distant bugle's strain
Proclaims the vanquished foe is flying;
He leaves behind the ensanguined plain,
Where half his host are dead or dying.

AIR.

The tumult subsides, and the carnage is done,
The field is our own, for the battle is won;
Our bugle proclaims us the lords of the day,
With victory, liberty, glory, huzza!

THE BUGLE.

Deep murmuring down the lonely dell,
The dull tattoo, with drowsy swell,
Had bid the march-worn soldier rest,
With armor buckled on his breast.
But, hark! what cry alarms?
The foe at hand!—to arms!
And, darting from the ground,
The slumbering veterans bound,
While the bugle sounds the charge, rousing echo with the sound.

And now the cannon's sullen roar,
Deep rolls along Ontario's shore,
While Freedom's sons surprised remain,
Their watchword stole—their pickets slain.
In vain their trump alarms,
In vain they cry, to arms!
The foe from ambush springs,
Their yells the welkin rings,
While the bugle sounds retreat, adding speed to terror's wings.

100

Shall Freedom's veterans fly the field,
Her heroes shrink—her chieftains yield?
Say, where 's the spirit of the brave
Who bled Columbia's rights to save?
It lives! it breathes! it warms!
Roused by the clash of arms,
Vengeance, with eye of flame,
Fires with a love of fame,
While the bugle sounds the rally, until victory we claim.

INDEPENDENCE.

Come, crowd around the festive board,
And join the song with one accord,
Be every breast with pleasure stored,
And care and envy send hence.
Our dear-bought freedom we will praise,
Dear-bought freedom—dear-bought freedom—
Our dear-bought freedom we will praise,
The right of our descendants;
Our dear-bought freedom we will praise,
And every glowing heart shall raise
The chorus of our joyful lays,
Columbia's Independence.

101

Be party rancor banished hence,
For peace is virtue's recompense;
Friendship and love on no pretence
Should ever meet with hinderance.
Let sons of freedom e'er agree—
Sons of freedom—sons of freedom—
Let sons of freedom e'er agree,
In amity's attendance;
Let sons of freedom e'er agree,
For why should men, existing free,
Deform with discord's stormy sea—
Columbia's Independence!

We here assemble to rejoice
That patriots, with united voice,
Once rose and made this manly choice,
For them and their descendants.
They freedom's eagle raised on high—
Freedom's eagle—freedom's eagle—
They freedom's eagle raised on high,
Amid the stars' resplendence;
They freedom's eagle raised on high,
And swore to fight or bravely die,
If foreign despots dare deny
Columbia's Independence.

Bellona goads her foaming steeds,
Beneath her car Oppression bleeds,

102

And Tyranny with haste recedes,
With all his cursed attendants;
Our patriot fathers gained the day—
Patriot fathers—patriot fathers—
Our patriot fathers gained the day,
For them and their descendants;
Our patriot fathers gained the day,
For which we raise the joyful lay,
And on our banners still display
Columbia's Independence.

Then Freedom bade her temple rise,
Whose fabric every foe defies,
While joyous seraphs from the skies
Bestow their glad attendance;
And shades of martyrs smiling see—
Shades of martyrs—shades of martyrs—
And shades of martyrs smiling see
The joy of their descendants;
And shades of martyrs smiling see
Their sons united, brave, and free,
And yearly hail, with mirth and glee,
Columbia's Independence.

103

HARK! THE CLAMOROUS BUGLE.

HE.
Hark! the clamorous bugle calls me;
Fare thee well, I must away;

SHE.
How, alas! the sound appals me!
Heaven protect thee in the fray.

HE.
Fame invites me,

SHE.
Danger frights me,

HE.
Danger is the path to fame;

SHE.
Fame shall bless thee,
Love caress thee;

HE.
Love and glory gild my name.

SHE.
Hark! again the bugle loudly

104

BOTH.
Echoes through the leafy dell;
Warrior plumes are nodding proudly;

HE.
Glory calls me, fare thee well.

BOTH.
Fare thee well, love, fare thee well.

THE GOD OF BATTLE.

The God of battle be thy shield,
And guard my love from danger,
When havoc desolates the field,
Whence pity flies a stranger.

Where hearts, determined to be free,
Assume relentless rigor,
And arms which strike for liberty,
Possess immortal vigor.

There guard my gallant soldier's breast,
Till victory light upon his crest;
And when the foeman flies before him,
Oh, then to love and me restore him.

105

THE PATRIOTIC DIGGERS.

Johnny Bull beware,
Keep at proper distance,
Else we'll make you stare
At our firm resistance;
Let alone the lads
Who are freedom tasting,
Recollect our dads
Gave you once a basting.
Pickaxe, shovel, spade,
Crowbar, hoe, and barrow,
Better not invade,
Yankees have the marrow.

To protect our rights
'Gainst your flints and triggers,
See on Brooklyn Heights
Our patriotic diggers;
Men of every age,
Color, rank, profession,
Ardently engage,
Labor in succession.

106

Pickaxe, shovel, spade,
Crowbar, hoe, and barrow,
Better not invade,
Yankees have the marrow.

Grandeur leaves her towers,
Poverty her hovel,
Here to join their powers
With the hoe and shovel.
Here the merchant toils
With the patriot sawyer,
There the laborer smiles,
Near him sweats the lawyer.
Pickaxe, shovel, spade,
Crowbar, hoe, and barow,
Better not invade,
Yankees have the marrow.

Here the mason builds
Freedom's shrine of glory,
While the painter gilds
The immortal story.
Blacksmiths catch the flame,
Grocers feel the spirit,
Printers share the fame,
And record their merit.
Pickaxe, shovel, spade,
Crowbar, hoe, and barrow,

107

Better not invade,
Yankees have the marrow,

Scholars leave their schools
With their patriot teachers;
Farmers seize their tools,
Headed by their preachers.
How they break the soil!
Brewers, butchers, bakers,
Here the doctors toil,
There the undertakers.
Pickaxe, shovel, spade,
Crowbar, hoe, and barrow,
Better not invade,
Yankees have the marrow.

Bright Apollo's sons
Leave their pipe and tabor,
'Mid the roar of guns
Join the martial labor;
Round the embattled plain
In sweet concord rally,
And in freedom's strain
Sing the foe's finale!
Pickaxe, shovel, spade,
Crowbar, hoe, and barrow,
Better not invade,
Yankees have the marrow.

108

Plumbers, founders, dyers,
Tinmen, turners, shavers,
Sweepers, clerks, and criers,
Jewellers, engravers,
Clothiers, drapers, players,
Cartmen, hatters, tailors,
Guagers, sealers, weighers,
Carpenters, and sailors.
Pickaxe, shovel, spade,
Crowbar, hoe, and barrow,
Better not invade,
Yankees have the marrow.

Better not invade;
Recollect the spirit
Which our dads displayed,
And their sons inherit;
If you still advance,
Friendly caution slighting,
You may get, by chance,
A bellyful of fighting.
Pickaxe, shovel, spade,
Crowbar, hoe, and barrow,
Better not invade,
Yankees have the marrow.

109

THE JUBILEE.

While freedom's bright banner is waving unfurled,
And millions are hailing the birth of a nation,
Let the voice of our cannon proclaim to the world
The joy that we feel on this grand celebration.
Independent and free,
We swear still to be,
And bequeath to our children this bright jubilee.
And millions unborn shall exultingly say,
A nation of freemen was born in a day.

But long was the conflict our fathers sustained,
For strong was the iron-nerved arm of oppression,
Till valor and justice the victory gained,
And wrung from the foe a reluctant concession.
In field, and on flood,
Mid torrents of blood,
Undaunted, the bulwark of freedom, they stood,
Till an empire was founded that ne'er shall decay,
When a nation of freemen was born in a day.

Their souls at no prospect of danger e'er quaked,
In securing the right of their grateful descendants;

110

For fortune, existence, and honor, were staked,
To support the bold charter of proud independence.
They swore to be free,
And the godlike decree
Secures us the bliss of this grand jubilee.
For an empire was founded that ne'er shall decay,
And a nation of freemen was born in a day.

The white dove of peace with her olive returned,
By science, and learning, and genius attended;
On liberty's altar new incense was burned,
Where valor and love were in harmony blended.
In union combined,
They expanded the mind,
Till ocean, and rivers, and lakes are combined.
Thus an empire is founded, that ne'er shall decay
Since a nation of freemen was born in a day.

Then wake the loud anthem in liberty's praise,
While millions unite in the grand celebration;
And the symbols of joy which our country displays,
Shall spread through the world a sublime emulation.
Till happy and free,
All nations agree,
To celebrate Liberty's grand jubilee.
And millions unborn shall exultingly say,
A nation of freemen was born in a day.

111

FREEDOM, LOVE, AND FAME.

RECITATIVE.

How bright and joyous nature bloomed
Beneath a vernal sky,
Ere he who won my heart had doomed
That heart alone to sigh.
But love of fame inspired his breast,
And now in fields afar,
With crimsoned blade, and towering crest,
He seeks the din of war.

AIR.

High o'er the field, in martial pride,
His starry banner waves,
Where heroes stem the battle tide,
Or sink in hallowed graves!
There, mid the rude and maddening clash,
Of Havoc's vengeful steel,
His falchion gleams, the lightning flash
That leads the thunder peal.
His deeds shall live in story,
He strikes in Freedom's name,
For country, home, and glory,
Inspired by love and fame!

112

Rude was the shock! the squadrons close!
And freemen win the field!
On! victors, on! pursue your foes!
But spare them when they yield.
Relieved from sterner duty,
The hero now may claim
The sweetest smiles of beauty,
With Freedom, Love, and Fame.

COLUMBIA, THE PRIDE OF THE WORLD.

Oh, there is a region, a realm in the West,
To Tyranny's shackles unknown,
A country with union and liberty blest,
That fairest of lands is our own.
Where commerce has opened her richest of marts,
Where freedom's bright flag is unfurled,
The garden of science, the seat of the arts,
Columbia, the pride of the world.

The rays of her glory have lighted the earth,
While Tyranny's minions, dismayed,
Acknowledged her prowess, admitted her worth,
And shrunk at the flash of her blade.
For conquest or plunder she never contends,
For freedom, her flag is unfurled;

113

And foemen in battle, in peace are thy friends,
Columbia, the pride of the world.

Her clime is a refuge for all the oppressed,
Whom tyranny urges to roam;
And every exile we greet as a guest,
Soon feels like a brother at home.
Then hail to our country, the land of our birth,
Where freedom's bright flag is unfurled;
The rays of whose glory have lighted the earth,
Columbia, the pride of the world.

ODE,

SUNG AT THE CELEBRATION OF INDEPENDENCE BY THE SOCIETY OF JUVENILE PATRIOTS.

[AN EARLY JUVENILE PRODUCTION.]

When from our shores Bellona's car
Recoiled amid dread scenes of war;
The guardian genius of our land
Gave listening freemen this command—
“Revere fair Freedom's chosen son,
Protect with life the prize he won.”

High on her right the hero stood,
Victorious from the fields of blood,

114

And poised to heaven his reeking blade,
As witness to the vow he made:—
“This arm, with Heaven for its shield,
Shall e'er protect the dear-bought field.”

The goddess heard the solemn vow,
And twined the laurel round his brow;
While swelled the anthem to his praise,
And spheres responsive caught the lays—
“Revere the hero, Washington,
For he your independence won.”

Then, while we consecrate the day
Which gave our land its lawful sway,
Let all our bosoms glow with fires
Becoming sons of hero sires;
Swear ne'er to forfeit what they won,
While earth revolves around the sun.

And while our goblets flow with wine,
While rich libations grace the shrine,
In clouds of incense to the skies
Let this inspiring theme arise:—
“The youth of freedom e'er will be
Champions of sacred Liberty.”

While Mars' red banner floats unfurled,
O'er the blood-deluged eastern world,

115

Here, Peace shall bless us with her reign,
While Virtue, Right, and Faith remain;
And let mad Europe blush to see
That Peace can dwell with Liberty.

But if our foes should e'er conspire
To kindle Freedom's funeral pyre,
And slaves of tyrants join the band
To subjugate their native land,
Our youth, indignant, then shall rise,
And save the dearly-purchased prize.

Our fathers fought, and scorned to yield,
But drove Oppression from the field;
Then gave this mandate with the prize,
To unborn patriots yet to rise:—
“Protect the blessing we bestow,
And guard your rights from every foe.”

Then, youthful patrots, rise, and swear
To hold the glorious name you bear;
Your dear-bought freedom to maintain,
While ocean, earth, or sky remain;
And, like your fathers, still to be
Independent, great, and free.

116

THE SONS OF COLUMBIA.

The Genius of Freedom, escaped from the flood
Which had deluged the world, and usurped her dominion,
On the glaciers of Switzerland tremblingly stood,
To heaven she looked and extended her pinion;
When over the main
Was wafted the strain,
Which Echo, in raptures, repeated again—
“The sons of Columbia have sworn to be free,
And their arms shall maintain what their voices decree.”

She heard it, and westward directed her flight,
Till our hills met her view in fair grandeur ascending,
When her temple's effulgence burst full on her sight,
And her sons were the rites of her worship attending.
Her altar was reared,
And while freemen revered,
The anthem was struck, and this chorus she heard—

117

“The sons of Columbia have sworn to be free,
And their arms shall maintain what their voices decree.”

Then here let the temple for ever be found,
Ye priests, who attend, guard the shrine from pollution;
In the midst be the statue of Washington crowned,
With the laurels he won in our grand revolution.
Swell the anthem again
To Liberty's reign,
And this be the chorus to finish the strain—
“The sons of Columbia have sworn to be free,
And their arms shall maintain what their voices decree.”

On high soars our eagle, begemmed with the stars,
A dread to our foe, but a dove to our brother;
One talon still clinching the thunder of Mars,
But the olive of peace is held forth in the other.
The world may unite,
With treble our might;
We proffer them peace, but can meet them in fight—
For the sons of Columbia have sworn to be free,
And their arms shall maintain what their voices decree.

118

Ye heroes who once so impregnable stood
'Gainst Britain's whole prowess, and scorned to bend under,
Once more you are called, by your countryman's blood,
To wreak your revenge and proclaim it in thunder;
Be our banners unfurled,
Our thunderbolts hurled,
And our cannon shall loudly proclaim to the world,
That the sons of Columbia have sworn to be free,
And their arms shall maintain what their voices decree.

Can freemen consent that the day which we hold,
To celebrate Liberty's birth in our nation,
Should find us so torpid, insensible, cold,
As to suffer in silence the least degradation?
Yet be it declared,
That Britain has dared
To strike at the fabric which Washington reared;
But the sons of Columbia have sworn to be free,
And their arms shall maintain what their voices decree.

119

Arise, injured freemen! again grasp the spear,
And hurl on aggressors the vengeance they merit;
The blessing preserve which you value so dear,
The blessing our fathers have bid us inherit.
Indignant arise,
Britain's lion despise,
And swear by the Ruler of earth, sea, and sky,
That the sons of Columbia will ever be free,
And their arms shall maintain what their voices decree!

Alluding to the death of Captain Pierce, who was killed by the British within our own waters, during the period of their aggressions on American commerce, and their impressment of American seamen. The record lives, though our resentments have expired.—

Author.

LIBERTY AND INDEPENDENCE.

When the fiend of fell discord had deluged in gore
The nations of Europe who bowed to the demon,
And Oppression's black sceptre was held o'er the shore
Once chartered by Heaven, the birthright of freemen;
In a chariot of flame
Fair Liberty came,
And the armor of Pallas encircled the dame:
Attend to her call, sons of Freedom, arise,
Independence in thunder proclaim to the skies.

120

Inspired by the genius, our fathers unfurled
Her star-spangled banner, owned her dominion;
Bade their cannon indignant proclaim to the world
Their oath to be freemen in act and opinion.
While her eagle on high,
Flashing fire from his eye,
Saw the olive disdained, and his thunders let fly.
Then the watchword was Freedom—Columbia arise,
Independence in thunder proclaim to the skies.

The foe in confusion recoiled from our shore,
Where Tyranny's upas in vain sought to flourish;
But the soil he relinquished, enriched with his gore,
Shall for ages the fair tree of Liberty nourish.
Mid its branches above,
In a union of love,
The eagle shall nestle and sport with the dove.
While, from myriads of freemen this chorus shall rise—
“Independence is ours, we'll proclaim to the skies.”

But, hark! what hoarse discord our senses assail!
Our bird grasps his thunders, extends his broad pinions,
And perched mid the stars, he hears borne on the gale,
Ambition's proud threat to invade his dominions

121

But our heroes advance,
And alert seize the lance,
To repel the encroachments of England or France.
“Independence!—we'll never relinquish the prize,”
Let your cannon in thunder proclaim to the skies.

Rise, freemen, arise! let this festival day,
Devoted to joy and refined recreation,
See millions stand ready, alert to obey,
Should Liberty call to repel an invasion.
Your weapons retain,
While the goblet you drain,
Your toast, “Death or freedom,” and crowned with this strain:—
“Independence!—we'll never relinquish the prize,”
Let the oath be in thunder proclaimed to the skies.

INAUGURATION ODE.

While the vassals of Tyranny rivet their chains
By birthday effusions, and base adulation,
Let freemen express, in their holyday strains,
The voice of a people, the choice of a nation.
Let laureates sing
For the birth of a king,
'T is ours to rejoice for the first fruits of spring;

122

For still shall the Fourth Day of March ever yield
A harvest of glory in Liberty's field.

Encircled with glory, the chieftain retires,
Who led us in safety through war's dread commotion;
While the spirit that raised him, another inspires,
To watch o'er our rights with equal devotion.
Monroe shall preside,
His countryman's pride,
The soldier, the statesman, the patriot, well tried;
And thus shall the Fourth Day of March ever yield
A harvest of glory in Liberty's field.

To legitimate tyrants no freeman shall bow—
To Virtue alone will we pay veneration:
The chiefs of Columbia are called from the plough,
And retire from the chair to the same occupation.
Thus Tompkins arose,
In the face of his foes,
For the path of a patriot the “Farmer's Boy” chose;
And thus shall the Fourth Day of March ever yield
A harvest of glory in Liberty's field.

Then hail to the day that beholds us once more
Place the chaplet of power on the brow of true merit;

123

'T is the sacred insignia our Washington wore—
A legacy none but the good shall inherit;
To the patriot Monroe
The tribute we owe,
Till the people reclaim it again to bestow;
And the Fourth Day of March be again made to yield
A harvest of glory in Liberty's field.

Let freemen unite on this festival day,
To celebrate Liberty's triumph in chorus;
Awaken the trumpet—our banners display,
And hail the bright prospect that opens before us;
In pæans of joy
Your voices employ,
For the Patriot Monroe, and our own “Farmer's Boy;”
And ne'er may the Fourth Day of March cease to yield
A harvest of glory in Liberty's field,

OUR COUNTRY.

Here freedom shall flourish a star in the West;
The dove and the eagle together shall rest;
While science shall glow with a lustre more bright,
And genius soar upward on pinions of light.

124

The arts shall increase and refinement extend,
New graces to beauty shall piety lend;
The demon of selfishness shrink to his hole,
And the form of each action have use for its soul.

Now Commence revives, and her hundred wheels roll,
Our canvass is spread from equator to pole;
Antipodes gaze on our banner unfurled,
For the course of our eagle shall girdle the world

The genius of Plenty her office resumes,
The treasures of India—Arabia's perfumes,
Each gem and each fruit that the world can produce,
Her horn pours around for our pleasure or use.

The names of our heroes, recorded by Fame,
Shall glow in her tablets in letters of flame;
And patriots, and sages, and bards yet unborn,
With splendor as brilliant the page shall adorn.

125

WASHINGTON'S BIRTH.

Bright were her smiles, when the blushing Aurora,
Greeted the newly-born hope of the West;
Phœbus, advancing in chariot of glory,
Gazed with delight on the infantile guest;
Seraphs, commissioned to watch o'er his slumbers,
Shake from their pinions the odors of bliss;
While, in the softest and sweetest of numbers,
Hark! they are chanting an anthem like this:
Bright heir of endless fame,
Thine be a deathless name,
Thine be a glory to brighten the earth;
Then shall a nation join,
Round Freedom's sacred shrine,
Hailing the day of our Washington's birth.

Fame heard the chorus, and braided the laurel,
Mars caught the tidings, and burnished his shield
Ruthless Bellona prepared for the quarrel,
Justice presented her sword for the field;
Jove, from Olympus, beheld and commended,
Armed his own eagle in Liberty's cause;
Pallas, the goddess of wisdom, descended,
Bearing the new constitution and laws:—

126

While o'er her hills and plains,
Swelled these seraphic strains—
Rise, blest Columbia, the queen of the earth;
Soon shall your tyrants flee,
Soon shall your sons be free,
Hail to the day of your Washington's birth.

Hope smiled ecstatic, while Freedom, delighted,
Fixed on a site for her temple to stand;
There is her altar erected and lighted,
Thence does its splendor illumine the land;
Hail an event of such glory and splendor,
Waken your pæans to Washington's name;
Champion of freedom, our nation's defender,
Hero and statesman, eternal his fame;
Still round our verdant plains,
Swell these seraphic strains—
Rise, blest Columbia, the queen of the earth;
Still shall a nation join,
Round Freedom's sacred shrine,
Hail to the day of our Washington's birth.

127

THE BIRTH OF WASHINGTON.

When Freedom perceives from the regions above,
That fiends would assail the loved empire she planted,
She appealed to the Father of mercy and love,
For a shield of defence—her petition was granted.
Attended by Fame,
In a chariot of flame,
She descended to earth this behest to proclaim,
An infant is born to enlighten the earth,
Then hail to the day of our Washington's birth.

Years rolled—and the infant like Hercules grew,
While as fast grew the Hydra of ruthless oppression;
Till Tyranny's vassals their hands dared embrue,
With his countrymen's blood—he avenged the aggressions.
Long and bloody the fray
Till they yielded the day,
To the hero whose glory will never decay;
But long shall its lustre enlighten the earth,
Then hail to the day of our Washington's birth.

128

'T was then that the victor appeared like a god,
For he thought not of self, but the good of the nation;
Though a crown and a sceptre awaited his nod,
He preferred, like a Roman, to till his plantation.
For the helmet he now
Gladly threw from his brow,
And from Power's dizzy summit retired to the plough.
Such brillant example enlightened the earth,
Then hail to the day of our Washington's birth.

Then join in the anthem with rapturous hearts,
For delight and warm gratitude she must o'erflow them,
Ye lovers of science and friends of the arts,
'T is to Washington's valor and wisdom you owe them.
Then unite in the lay,
'T is to honor the day,
For the light of its glory shall never decay,
But long shall its lustre enlighten the earth,
Then hail to the day of our Washington's birth.

129

WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY.

While festive joys our hearts inspire,
Awake the patriotic lyre
With chords of light and tones of fire,
To sing a hero's worth;
And let our voices swell the lay,
Again to celebrate the day,
Illumed with Glory's brightest ray,
The day that give him birth.

Ennobled by himself alone,
His glory so resplendent shone,
That regal sceptre, crown, and throne,
Would but have dimmed its rays;
Devoted to his country's cause,
The champion of her rights and laws,
His children are heaven's applause
And earth's united praise.

In halls of state, and fields of blood,
He like a firm Colossus stood,
His object still Columbia's good,
His trust in Heaven alone;

130

But when the avenging deed was done,
And Freedom's host the field had won,
Then was immortal Washington
Throned in a nation's love.

When War's dread fiend had stayed his hand,
And dove-eyed Peace had blessed the land,
The hero sheathed the conquering wand,
Which independence won;
His valor made our country free,
Secured our rights and liberty,
Then let us celebrate with glee
The birth of Washington.

HE LEFT THE PLOUGH.

He left the plough and furrowed soil
Till independence crowned his toil,
And then retired with laurelled brow;
Like Rome's dictator to the plough.

Then swell the tributary lay,
To hail the hero's natal day;
His fadeless glory lights the earth,
And millions celebrate his birth.

131

O Thou who didst the hero raise,
Accept a grateful nation's praise;
For while thy mercies we proclaim,
With pride our Washington we name.

CENTENNIAL ODE ON WASHINGTON.

Sublimest strains of praise belong
To our Almighty Lord,
Who led our fathers o'er the flood,
Fired with a holy flame,
To build where heathen idols stood,
An altar to his name,
Who spreads their realms from sea to sea,
Which countless charms adorn,
And raised a chief to make it free
When Washington was born.

Sing to our God in loudest strain,
No other king we own;
No earthly monarch here shall reign,
The King of kings alone.
He to our lot a land assigned,
His favored people's boast,
And blest with gifts of various kind,
The health-encircled coast.

132

Let freemen swell the sounding lay,
On the auspicious morn,
One hundred years ago to-day,
Our Washington was born.

LAFAYETTE'S WELCOME.

The banner of Liberty, proudly unfurled,
Is waving in triumph o'er turret and dome,
For the hero, whose fame has enlightened the world,
Revisits a people who welcome him home.
The hero, who, spurning the pleasures that wait
On fortune and rank in the halls of the great,
The foes of Columbia intrepidly met,
Our national guest, is the brave Lafayette.

He saw infant Liberty struggling for life,
When clouds of despair had her prospect o'ercast,
The tempest was raging, he courted the strife,
His generous bosom was bared to the blast.
Then welcome him, freemen! he succored our cause,
With Washington fought for our rights and our laws;
The foes of Columbia intrepidly met,
Then hail the return of the brave Lafayette.

133

A TRIBUTE TO LAFAYETTE.

What is true greatness? In the Eternal Mind
'T is wisdom, love, and potency combined;
In man, his image, it is truth in thought,
Embraced, beloved, and into action brought;
In one bright spirit all these virtues met,
And blessed the world with glorious Lafayette,
Whose feelings, thoughts, and acts united, ran
To one grand point—the happiness of man.
No blemish stained the escutcheon which he bore;
If he loved glory—he loved virtue more:
Heir to a splendid name, rank, title, power,
And princely fortune—from the elysian bower
Of youthful wedlock, which an Eden bloomed
By breath of angel tenderness perfumed,
He tore himself away—at Freedom's call,
In Freedom's cause resolved at stand or fall.
From a voluptuous court, where all caressed,
He flew to join her votaries in the West;

134

Here, with a stripling's arm, he bared the blade,
The drooping cause of Liberty to aid;
Resolved for glory's dazzling goal to run,
And share the prize with none but Washington.

Was this not greatness?—Triumph or defeat—
The furious onset—masterly retreat—
Skill, courage, patience, conduct, and address—
Yet great in all—till crowned with bright success
He saw our country free; with laurelled brow
Beheld her God-like chief resume the plough;
Then sought his much-loved, native land again,
To beard the fiend Oppression in his den,
Bearing a torch from Freedom's blazing shrine,
Which lights the world, and will for ever shine.

Whether beheld in Victory's brightest hour,
Or as a fugitive from lawless power;
In the dark cells of Olmutz, crushed with chains,
Still not a spot his laurel chaplet stains.
Freed by Napoleon's arms—e'en gratitude
His love of truth and virtue ne'er subdued.
With manly pride he princely honors spurned,
And to his fireside—loved La Grange—returned.
Was greatness his, whom cursed ambition fired
To mount a throne—or Lafayette's, retired?

But time rolled on—the hero came once more,
And millions hailed him “Welcome to our shore!”

135

That was a triumph “meet for gods to view,
And men, like gods”—what monarchs never knew.
But oh! the moral grandeur of that hour,
When introduced beneath our senate's dome,
That solemn conclave hailed him “Welcome home!”
Leaves human language destitute of power
To do it justice. It was more sublime
Than any scene upon the page of time.

And when he saw the sages of the land,
Convened to place in one deserving hand
The reins of power, the car of state to guide,
In peace or war, whatever fate betide;
A chief installed without the vain parade
Which dazzles vassals, when their king are made:
Fired with the moral grandeur of the scene,
With tear-drops gushing from an eye serene,
He saw—he heard—and, with high-throbbing breast,
Pronounced Columbia's sons supremely blest.

But lo! in France oppression reigns again,
And Lafayette, at three-score years and ten,
Plucks from the Bourbon brow the jewelled crown,
While the weak despot, shrinking from his frown,
Yields him the sceptre, flying in disgrace—
The last, the worst of that degenerate race!

136

Millions of hearts, and hands, and voices, now
Had placed upon the patriot's silvery brow
That dazzling diadem—but he was yet
Greater than monarchs—he was Lafayette!
On younger brows he placed the glittering thing,
And swore allegiance to the new-made king:
This was true greatness—for this act surpassed
The loftiest stretch of thought—it was the last—
And it approached so near the heavenly goal,
Earth could no longer hold so pure a soul;
But, filled with virtue, wisdom, truth, and love,
'T was called to wear a diadem above.
We mourn him not on this august occasion—
We celebrate his heavenly coronation!

This tribute to the memory and virtues of Lafayette, was recited by William Wiley, Esq., at the Chatham-street chapel, in the city of New York, on the evening of the eighteenth of December, 1834, preparatory to a eulogy on the life and character of the distinguished patriot.

WHEN THE LILY OF GALLIA.

When the lily of Gallia first bloomed in our valley,
'T was planted by one we shall never forget;
It was spotless and white, like the delicate light
Which beamed from the eye of the young Lafayette.

When the ever-green laurel we won in the quarrel
By Washington's finger beside it was set,
Oh, the beautiful cluster emitted a lustre
Like that which now circles the brave Lafayette.

137

A DIRGE

ON THE DEATHS OF JOHN ADAMS AND THOMAS JEFFERSON, JULY 4, 1826.

The strains of joy no longer float,
Or thrill upon our raptured ears,
But Sorrow wakes her saddest note,
And millions are dissolved in tears.

A nation, clad in sable weeds,
The dark habiliments of grief;
A nation famed for matchless deeds,
Weeps for a father and a chief.

Columbia mourns, though not bereft
Of all which makes existence dear,
For blessings, joys, and hopes, are left,
Which brighten in affliction's tear.

Yet still she mourns—for they are gone,
Whose wisdom raised her fame so high,
Whose God-like acts her name adorn
With honor that can never die;

138

Who framed that bold, that dauntless chart,
Which gave a mighty empire birth,
Aroused to freedom every heart,
And spread its influence through the earth:

Who in her service labored, both,
And asked no recompense but this,
To watch her greatness in its growth,
Promote her fame, and share her bliss.

And Heaven vouchsafed to grant the boon
'Till half a century had passed,
Until her sun had reached its noon,
There to be fixed while time shall last.

Then burst with joy, their mighty hearts,
And set their raptured spirits free,
So Sol, in flood of light, departs,
And sets in glory's dazzling sea.

In peace the reverend sages slept,
Adorned with honors, crowned with years,
And angels smiled, while nature wept,
A silvery shower of sparkling tears.

Then, freemen, mourn—but not as those
Whose hopes are laid beneath the sod,

139

For your lamented chiefs repose
Upon the bosom of their God.

Mourn for the worth which all admired,
Now crowned with heavenly diadem,
And be with emulation fired
To live, to act, to die, like them.

A MONODY,

ON THE DEATHS OF THE EX-PRESIDENTS, JOHN ADAMS, AND THOMAS JEFFERSON, JULY 4, 1826.

The mid-day peal of joy had rung,
When Sol, in his car of glory,
A radiant glance from the zenith flung,
On a spot far-famed in story.

He gazed on the scene, but sought in vain
For that band of patriot sages,
Whose deathless names alone remain,
Emblazoned on History's pages.

All, all were gone, but the Godlike THREE
Revered by a grateful nation,
And they were our Adams, our Carroll, and HE
Who drafted the Declaration.

140

He thought of the time, when in deep despair,
Columbia's troops were receding,
For millions were now rejoicing where
Her heroes then lay bleeding!

“'T is done!” he cried, “and this jubilee
Shall long be remembered in story,
For TWO of the patriot Godlike THREE,
Shall depart in this blaze of glory.”

He said, and amid the joy and mirth,
(For the mandate had been given,)
The spirit of Jefferson rose from earth,
To meet its reward in heaven.

He soared on high, to his place of rest,
With cherubim attendants,
And he smiling soared, for his country was blessed
With freedom and independence.

One glance of love was downward cast,
Like a beam of celestial glory,
O'er Quincy's reverend sage it passed,
Renowned like himself, in story.

He felt the ray, and his mighty heart
Burst with the sweet emotion,

141

'T was the year and the day he had prayed to depart,
In the fervor of pure devotion.

Together they gained the elysium bower,
By angels received with gladness,
While Nature wept in a silvery shower,
But not with tears of sadness.

Together they toiled for their country's good,
In her darkest hour of danger,
Together the arm of oppression withstood,
Each heart to fear a stranger.

Together they soared to realms of bliss,
In a world of fadeless splendor;
Together their names shall live in this
While Liberty has a defender.

142

THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

O'er regal domes, renowned in story,
The trinal banner proudly waves,
And France resumes the march of glory,
Her gallant sons no longer slaves.
With tyrants vainly had they pleaded,
But when the press in thunder spoke,
It burst their chains with lightning stroke,
And peace and liberty succeeded.
Then swell the choral strain
To hail the blessed decree!
Rejoice! rejoice! the press shall reign,
And all the world be free!

All hail! renowned chivalric nation!
Land of the olive and the vine!
Inspired with kindred emulation,
Our bosoms glow with joy like thine!
Columbia's grateful sons can never
Forget, that in her darkest hour,

143

She owed to Gallia's arm, the power
To disenthrall her press for ever.
Then swell the choral strain
To hail the blessed decree!
Rejoice! rejoice! the press shall reign,
And all the world be free!

The day which saw the sceptre shivered,
And hailed Columbia truly free,
From every hireling foe delivered,
We consecrate to joy and thee.
For tyrants tremble now before thee,
And a free press, the beacon light
That burst upon Oppression's night,
Has spread eternal glory o'er thee.
Then swell the choral strain
To hail the blessed decree!
Rejoice! rejoice! the press shall reign,
And all the world be free!

Thy chartered rights, with lawless daring,
Beneath oppressors' feet were trod,
Till startled despots heard, despairing,
The people's voice, the voice of God!
Their sovereign will was loudly spoken;
The press proclaimed it to the world!

144

Till Freedom's ensign waved unfurled,
And Gallia's galling chains were broken!
Then swell the choral strain
To hail the blessed decree!
Rejoice! rejoice! the press shall reign,
And all the world be free!

Thy gallant band of youthful heroes,
Roused by their bleeding country's prayers,
Undaunted hurled on ruthless Neros,
The vengeance due to crimes like theirs!
Too late they see their fatal error,
Their hireling guards by thousands fall,
The press resigns its types for ball,
And despots fly the scene in terror!
Then swell the choral strain
To hail the blessed decree!
Rejoice! rejoice! the press shall reign,
And all the world be free!

Their deeds shall live in deathless story,
And song preserve their chaplets green;
Yet still the brightest rays of glory
Circle one Godlike brow serene.
'T is his whose youthful valor aided
Columbia's cause, when hostile bands
Were laying waste her fairest lands,
And all her blooming hopes had faded!

145

Then swell the choral strain
To hail the blessed decree!
Rejoice! rejoice! the press shall reign,
And all the world be free!

Immortal Lafayette! we hail thee,
The friend of equal rights on earth,
Though servile tools of kings assail thee,
Columbia knows and owns thy worth.
Thou first of heroes, best of sages,
The glorious chaplet thou hast won,
Disciple of our Washington,
Shall bloom, like his, for endless ages.
Then swell the choral strain
To hail the blessed decree!
Rejoice! rejoice! the press shall reign,
And all the world be free!

This event was celebrated, in New York, on the 26th of November, 1830. The following ode (to the air of the Marsellaise Hymn) was printed during the procession, and distributed among the crowd, from a moveable stage.

The day on which the British troops evacuated New York, November 25, 1783.

THE EXILED HARPER.

“Friendless exile! old and hoary,
Banish sorrow and complaint,
Wake thy harp to Erin's glory,
Sing the lay of Erin's saint.”

'T was Saint Patrick's festal morning,
When I met the man of grief;

146

On his cheek the tear was burning,
Withered was the shamrock's leaf.

“No!” exclaimed the aged stranger,
“Erin's glory is no more,
Hordes of bloody tyrants range her—
Freedom flies Hibernia's shore.

“Shackled with the yoke of Britain,
Doomed to vassalage and chains,
Be her name nor sung nor written
Till Oppression fly her plains.

“Bright she shines in ancient legends,
When her sons awoke the lay;
Ere her peaceful, verdant regions
Groaned beneath ambition's sway.

“Ask me not to sing of glory;
For by all the griefs I bear,
By these scattered locks so hoary,
By our holy saint I swear:

“Erin's harp shall ever slumber,
Never whisper through the vale,
Never breathe a tuneful number
Pregnant with dishonor's tale.

147

“Fallen are the chiefs of Erin,
Fallen in their country's cause,
Green their tombs are now appearing,
There her weeping daughters pause.

“When the night-blast scours the mountains,
When it murmurs through the groves,
Mournful, by the dusky fountains,
Emmet's shade in sadness moves.

“See! it points to cursed Oppression!
Hark! its shrieks arrest the gale!
Hurl your thunders on aggression,
Bid our warriors fill the vale!

“Veterans, rouse! and save your nation!
Hark! the trumpet calls to arms!”
“Stranger! calm this perturbation,
Here no martial trump alarms.”

In his eye, where fire was beaming,
Now appeared the tear of grief—
“No,” he sighed, “I was but dreaming,
Erin groans without relief.

“But I'll feed the fond reflection,
Days of other months review,

148

Call again to recollection,
Dear companions whom I knew.

“Now oppressed by power and violence,
Not a harpstring breathes a tone,
Wrapt in sorrow, thought, and silence,
Erin's hapless minstrel mourns.

“Sing of Erin's glory! madness!
Would our saint accept the lay?
No—devote to silent sadness
This our patron's festive day.”

THE IRISH ORPHAN.

CITIZEN.
Irish maiden, whither fly you?
Whence the moisture on your cheek?
Danger here shall not come nigh you—
Tell me what, and whom, you seek.

IRISH GIRL.
Pity, sir, a hapless stranger,
Friendless on a foreign shore!
Much, alas! I fear of danger—
I'm from Erin, just come o'er.

149

CITIZEN.
Where 's your kindred, friend, protector?
Sure you ventured not alone?
Had you not some kind director?
Father, brother—have you none?

IRISH GIRL.
Yes I have—I had a brother,
Once a widowed parent's stay;
Yes, alas! I had a mother
Both by fate were snatched away!

CITIZEN.
Then, an orphan, unprotected,
You have left your native isle,
To Columbia's shore directed,
Where you meet no kindred smile?

IRISH GIRL.

No—a parent, and a brother,
With me from oppression run;
Death deprived me of my mother—
Cruel Britons pressed her son.

Under Freedom's banner sailing,
Just in view of Freedom's shore,
Brightning prospects Hope was hailing,
Whispering future bliss in store:

150

When we spied the flag of Britain,
Where foreboding fancy read
Some impending evil written—
How my bosom beat with dread!

First a shot our course arrested,
Then their slaves disgraced our deck,
Fathers from their children wrested!
Son from parent's—sister's neck!

“Spare!” I cried, “oh, spare my brother!
Spare him for a parent's sake!”
“Save! oh, save him!” cried my mother,
“Or his sister's heart will break!”

Smiling pirates! they but mocked us!
Laughed at fond affection's grief!
And with brutal language shocked us,
While we wept without relief!

But when from us they departed,
Shrieks of anguish pierced the air!
Then my mother, broken-hearted
Fell, the victim of despair!

Pity, then, a hapless stranger,
Friendless on a foreign shore!

151

Oh, protect a maid from danger,
Who for comfort looks no more.

CITIZEN.

Yes, fair daughter of oppression!
Exile from Hibernia's plains,
Victim of that cursed aggression
Which the flag of freedom stains:

Here I swear to be thy brother;
See a sister in my wife;
Find a parent in my mother,
I'll protect thee with my life.

BOLIVAR'S LAST WORDS.

“I pity and forgive.”

Ye powers, from each oppressor,
Preserve my country's wreath,
And if my death can bless her,
Oh, then I welcome death.
Though malice wield her scourge,
E'en when I cease to live,
Here on the grave's terrific verge,
“I pity and forgive.”

152

I planted freedom's banner
Where tyranny had reigned,
And heard the glad hosanna
For rights our arms regained;
But now they trample on my heart,
Yet ere I cease to live,
Though in my soul I feel the smart,
“I pity and forgive.”

153

ODES ON THE NAVAL VICTORIES.

WAR OF 1812.

CONSTITUTION AND GUERRIERE.

Hark! 'twas the trumpet of victory sounded!
Welcome the strain to a freeman so dear;
See, with a halo of glory surrounded,
Hull, our first hero, in triumph appear!
Vainly the foeman his prowess had vaunted,
Proudly deriding our infantile fleet;
Hull met the boaster with courage undaunted,
Dacres as resolute scorned to retreat.
Short was the dreadful fray
On that eventful day,
Freedom's proud eagle still hovered on high;
Bright gleamed the crosslet too,
While fierce the volleys flew,
Shaking the ocean and rending the sky.

154

Short was the contest, but dreadful the slaughter,
Long shall Britannia lament for her tars.
Death held his carnival on the deep water,
Scattered with carnage and fragments of spars,
Still like a tempest the bold Constitution
Deluged the former with ruin and blood;
Whelmed the proud warrior in horrid confusion,
Till she lay, sparless, a log on the flood.
Still she prolonged the fray
On that destructive day,
Still Freedom's banner was waving on high;
Low gleamed the cross in view,
While fierce the volleys flew,
Shaking the ocean and rending the sky.

Short was the contest—the warrior surrendered,
Covered with carnage and streaming with gore;
Tenderest aid to the wounded rendered,
Foemen once vanquished are foemen no more.
Hail, then, the hero, who, covered with glory,
Humbled the pride of our arrogant foe;
Long may his name be emblazoned in story,
Long may his laurels continue to grow.
Then shout aloud his name,
And loud the deed proclaim—
Hull taught Britannia's red cross to descend;
Hull led the glorious way—
Hull fought and won the day,
Victory crowns him, and freemen commend.

155

WASP AND FROLIC.

Awake the bugle's martial voice,
In loud triumphant strain;
Columbia's sons again rejoice
For victory on the main!
Another chieftain of our choice—
The brave intrepid Jones,
Claims our lays,
To his praise
We wake the clarion's tones.

Indignant at the wrongs we bore,
From British pride and hate,
He, fearless, left Columbia's shore,
To try the battle's fate;
And soon the cannon's mingled roar
Announced the foe engaged—
Side by side,
On the tide,
The dreadful fight they waged.

The horrid din of battle swelled,
As o'er the watery field,
An equal course the vessels held,
Resolving ne'er to yield.

156

Attempts at boarding still repulsed,
And still the fire was poured;
Bright it broke,
Through the smoke,
While loud the cannons roared.

The vessels close—and hark! the crash
That rends their groaning planks;
The foeman's fire has ceased to flash,
For death has thinned his ranks;
And naught availed his valor rash,
He yields to gallant Jones—
To whose praise
Wake our lays
In victory's richest tones.

UNITED STATES AND MACEDONIAN.

The banner of Freedom high floated unfurled,
While the silver tipped surges in low homage curled,
Flashing bright round the bow of a ship under sail,
In fight, like the tempest—in speed, like the gale.
She bears our country's name,
She builds our country's fame,
The bold United States disdains to yield or fly;
Her motto is “Glory—we conquer or die.”

157

All canvass expanded the gale to embrace,
The ship cleared for action, still nearing the chase;
The foeman in view—every bosom beats high,
All eager for conquest, or ready to die.
Columbia's gallant tars,
Who sail beneath her stars,
Shall ne'er be known to yield—shall ne'er ignobly fly;
Their motto is “Glory—we conquer or die.”

Still rapidly lessens the distance between,
Till the gay-floating streamers of Britain are seen;
Till our quick-sighted chief could with rapture espy,
The cross, like a meteor, gleaming on high.
To gild our country's name,
To rival Hull in fame,
The brave Decatur now resolves the fight to try—
His motto is “Glory—we conquer or die.”

Now Havoc stands ready with optics of flame,
And battle-hounds strain on the start for the game;
The blood-demons rise on the surge for their prey,
While Pity, dejected, awaits the dread fray.
But Freedom's gallant sons,
Now stationed at their guns,
Remember Freedom's wrongs, and smother Pity's sigh;
Their motto is “Glory—we conquer or die.”

158

Now the lightning of battle gleams horribly red
While a tempest of iron, and a hailstorm of lead,
Like a flood on the foe was so copiously poured,
That his mizzen and topmasts soon went by the board.
Still fight Columbia's tars
Beneath the stripes and stars,
For still their country's flag is proudly floating high,
Their motto is “Glory—we conquer or die.”

The contest continued with horrible roar,
The demons of vengeance still feasting on gore;
'Till more than a hundred of Britain's brave sons,
Lay bleeding on deck by the side of their guns:
When low the cross descends,
And quick the battle ends,
The Macedonian yields, her streamers kiss the wave;
Our motto is “Glory—we conquer to save.”

Let Britain no longer lay claim to the seas,
For the trident of Neptune is ours if we please;
While Hull, and Decatur, and Jones are our boast,
In vain their huge navy may threaten our coast.
They gild Columbia's name,
They build Columbia's fame;
And to revenge our wrongs, to battle eager fly;
Their motto is “Glory—we conquer or die.”

159

CONSTITUTION AND JAVA.

Yankee tars! come, join the chorus,
Shout aloud the patriot strain;
Freedom's flag, again victorious,
Floats triumphant o'er the main.
Hail the gallant Constitution!
Hull immortalized her name;
Bainbridge, round it in profusion
Pours the golden blaze of fame.

Scarce had Fame her Hull rewarded,
Ere intrepid Bainbridge rose,
Eager while the world applauded,
To subdue his country's foes.
Hail the gallant Constitution, &c.

Hull, on board the Constitution,
Sank his foe beneath the flood;
Fired with equal resolution,
Bainbridge sought the scene of blood.
Hail the gallant Constitution, &c.

Lambert met him on the Java,
Fierce the hot contention rose—

160

Like the streams of Etna's lava,
Fell our vengeance on the foes
Hail the gallant Constitution, &c.

Neptune shunned the fierce commotion,
Saw his realm with carnage spread,
Saw our fire illume the ocean,
Covered with the floating dead.
Hail the gallant Constitution, &c.

Twice had Time his glass inverted,
While the strife deformed the flood,
Ere the fiend of death, diverted,
Ceased to glut on human blood.
Hail the gallant Constitution, &c.

See, our foe, upon the billow,
Floats a wreck without a spar—
Lowly lies on ocean's pillow,
Many a brave and gallant tar.
Hail the gallant Constitution, &c.

Hark! his lee gun speaks submission,
Bid our vengeful tars forbear—
Mercy views the foe's condition,
Sees a bleeding brother there.
Hail the gallant Constitution, &c.

161

Man the boats! the foe, confounded,
Yields to our superior fire;
Board the prize! relieve the wounded!
Ere in anguish they expire.
Hail the gallant Constitution, &c.

Ah! the fight was hard contested,
Groaning there an hundred bleed,
Sixty-nine has death arrested,
From their floating prisons freed.
Hail the gallant Constitution, &c.

Clear the wreck! she can not swim, boys;
See! she follows the Guerriere!
Now your cans fill to the brim, boys,
Sing our navy's bright career.
Hail the gallant Constitution, &c.

Toast the heroes famed in story,
Hull, Decatur, Rodgers, Jones;
Bainbridge, chief in naval glory,
Smiling Freedom joyfully owns.
Hail the gallant Constitution!
Hull immortalized her name;
Bainbridge, round it in profusion
Pours the golden blaze of fame.

162

HORNET AND PEACOCK.

Rejoice! rejoice! Fredonia's sons rejoice!
And swell the loud trumpet in patriotic strain;
Your choice, your choice, fair Freedom is your choice,
Then celebrate her triumphs on the main.
For the trident of Neptune, long by Britain wielded,
At length to Fredonia reluctantly yielded.
Then for Hull, Decatur, Jones,
And for Bainbridge, swell the tones,
While the ready hand of Fame
Bright emblazons every name—
Brave Lawrence, gallant Lawrence, now is shouted with acclaim.
Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, boys,
Free is our soil, and the ocean shall be free;
Our tars, shall Mars protect beneath our stars,
And Freedom's eagle hover o'er the sea.

Attend, attend, ye gallant tars attend,
While your deeds are recounted in patriotic song;
Ascend, ascend, your banners high ascend,
And your cannon the loud chorus still prolong.

163

First, the bold Constitution led the path of glory,
The gallant little Wasp then added to the story;
Soon a brighter glory 'waits,
The renowned United States—
For she gave Columbia's fleet,
A new frigate that she beat;
While the famed Constitution sunk another in the deep.
Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, boys,
Free is our soil, and the ocean shall be free;
Our tars shall Mars protect beneath our stars,
And Freedom's eagle hover o'er the sea.

Again, again, Columbia's flag again
Triumphantly floats where Britannia's used to soar;
In vain the main has owned the Peacock's reign,
Her gaudy rainbow honors are no more!
For Lawrence taught the Hornet so fiercely to assail her,
That all her boasted prowess in fight could not avail her;
But she ended her career,
Like the Java and Guerriere;
For the Hornet's sting was plied
Till the sea, with blushes dyed,
Its tyrant's fifth defeat in its bosom sought to hide.

164

Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, boys,
Free is our soil, and the ocean shall be free;
Our tars shall Mars protect beneath our stars,
And Freedom's eagle hover o'er the sea.

Unite, unite, Columbia's sons, unite,
And hurl on aggressors the tempest they provoke,
The fight is right, then raise your sabres bright,
And Britons soon shall tremble at the stroke.
The foe's on our coast! put your mountain-oaks in motion,
Fly to the main, for your wrongs were on the ocean;
There in a flood of fire,
Every tar shall breathe his ire;
His motto, while he fights,
Be “Free trade and sailors' rights,”
Till even-handed Justice every injury requites.
Huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, huzza, boys,
Free is our soil, and the ocean shall be free;
Our tars shall Mars protect beneath our stars,
And Freedom's eagle hover o'er the sea.

165

ENTERPRISE AND BOXER.

Through the gloom of despondence, bright glory appears,
And scatters again on the ocean its splendor;
Hark! Freedom's loud clarion proclaims to the sphere,
The names of more heroes who die to defend her;
On Lawrence's bier,
Yet glistened her tear,
When this full sounding chorus saluted her ear:
No tyrant shall ever rule over that flood,
Which Lawrence and Burrows have stained with their blood.

Delighted, she listened, and learned from the strain,
That her flag was victorious while Britain's descended:
And though her tears fell for the fate of the slain,
She gloried in sons who so nobly defended:
Who in Liberty's cause,
With Heaven's applause,
Had died in defence of their country and laws.
Now vainly shall tyrants lay claim to that flood,
Which Lawrence and Burrows have stained with their blood.

166

Young Burrows, unknown on the annals of Fame,
Arose and laid claim to a chaplet of laurel;
Fought the Boxer, enveloped in sulphur and flame,
Till the victory he gained, though he died in the quarrel.
On victory's breast,
The hero shall rest,
While his spirit aspires to the realms of the blest.
And ne'er shall a tyrant rule over that flood,
Which Lawrence and Burrows have stained with their blood.

Then fill up your goblets, bid sorrow adieu,
The heroes who fell are encircled with glory;
While music inspires, let us toast the brave crew,
Who survive the hot contest to tell us the story;
The fight they'll ne'er shun,
For with gun matched to gun,
In triumph we only count six to their one.
No tyrant shall ever rule over that flood,
Which Lawrence and Burrows have stained with their blood.

167

PERRY AND M'DONOUGH:

OR, ERIE AND CHAMPLAIN

Hail to the day which arises in splendor,
Shedding the lustre of victory far!
Long shall its glory illume September,
Which twice beheld freemen the victors in war.
Roused by the spirit of heaven-born Freedom,
Perry her lightning pours over the lake;
His falchion a meteor glitters to lead them,
And swift on the foemen in thunders they break.
Loud swells the cannon's roar,
Round Erie's sounding shore,
Answered in volleys by musketry's voice;
Till Britain's cross descends,
And the haughty foe bends—
Victory! glory! Columbians, rejoice!

Hail to the day which in splendor returning,
Lights us to conquest and glory again;
Time told a year—still the war-torch was burning,
And threw its red ray on the waves of Champlain;

168

Roused by the spirit that conquered for Perry,
Dauntless M'Donough advanced to the fray;
Instant the glory that brightened Lake Erie,
Burst on Champlain with the splendor of day
Loud swells the cannon's roar
On Plattsburgh's bloody shore,
Britons retreat from the tempest of war;
Prevost deserts the field,
While the gallant ships yield—
Victory! glory! Columbians, huzza!

Hail to the day which, recorded in story,
Lives the bright record of unfading fame!
Long shall Columbians, inspired by its glory,
Hail its returning with joyous acclaim.
Victory scattered profusely the laurel,
Over our heroes, on land and on flood;
Britain, astonished, relinquished the quarrel,
Peace saw her olive arise from the blood.
Now cannons cease to roar,
Round Freedom's peaceful shore,
Silent and hushed is the war-bugle's voice;
Let festive joys increase
In the sunshine of peace,
Peace gained by victory! Freemen, rejoice!

The engagement on Lake Erie, between Commodores Perry and Barclay, occurred September 10, 1813, and that of Lake Champlain, between M'Donough and Downie, Sept. 11, 1814.

Sir George Prevost, commander of the British land-forces, made a hasty retreat after the capture of Commodore Downie's fleet.

169

SARATOGA AND MORGIANNA.

Come, banish all your petty jars,
And shout your joy in loud huzzas,
In honor of Columbia's tars,
Whose valor ne'er shall fail her;
Let echo answer to the strain,
And pass the tidings o'er the main,
That British pride,
Which we deride,
Again is humbled on the tide,
By Freedom's gallant sailor.

Once Saratoga swelled the song,
As Britain will remember long,
Burgoyne with seven thousand strong,
In fight could not avail her;
Now Saratoga on the main,
Has shown that Britains claim is vain,
To rule the sea
By nature free—
'T is what shall never, never be,
Says every Yankee sailor.

170

This Saratoga you shall hear,
Was fitted out a privateer,
And manned by tars unknown to fear,
From danger never paler;
To die or conquer all agreed—
To die or valiantly succeed!
To nobly die,
But never fly
While George's cross was waving high,
'T was like a Yankee sailor.

They hoisted sail, and cruised afar,
To aid their country in the war,
And many a valiant British tar
Has reason to bewail her;
They fought and captured all they met,
While Britons vainly fume and fret;
Each gallant prize
In safety lies,
While far to sea for more she flies,
To enrich a Yankee sailor.

At length they spy a worthier mark,
To try their little, gallant bark—
Behold a ship of war! and, hark!
They arrogantly hail her!
The Saratoga quick replies,
In language that astounds the skies;

171

While Freedom's sons
Still serve their guns,
'Till called “away,” each boarder runs,
And each, a Yankee sailor.

The foe has eighteen guns, or more,
The Saratoga only four:
Away! my lads, and board once more,
And fiercely still assail her.
Huzza, huzza, boys! see, she strikes!
Now board your prize without your pikes,
And succor those
No longer foes
Whose generous blood in duty flows,
And save a brother sailor.

173

TYPOGRAPHICAL ODES.

HAIL TO THE ART.

Hail to the art! whose effulgence has brightened
The darkness that shrouded, for ages, the world;
Long shall her sons, by its lustre enlightened,
Wave the bright banner which Freedom unfurled.
Dark was the human mind,
And hoodwinked reason blind,
While Tyranny gave to his war-steeds the rein;
Then Faust arose to bless,
And gave to man the press,
Free as the billows of Neptune's domain.

Then Liberty roused from the slumber of ages,
And taught a new nation to rise in the West;

174

While History, smiling, unfolded her pages,
And showed the bright name of Columbia impressed.
Long fought her patriot band,
Blood flowed around the land,
Till liberty triumphed over tyranny's powers;
The light which printing shed,
Like Sol's effulgence spread,
And glory, with bright Independence, was ours.

Beaming with splendor, from Liberty's altar,
Ascended the flame which our art had kept bright,
When demons united again to assault her,
Demolish her shrine, and extinguish its light.
Hark! trumpets sound alarms;
Drums, bugles, call to arms—
Arouse, freemen, rouse! to the field like your sires!
Soon shall the foeman yield,
Or fly the embattled field,
For Liberty triumphs while Printing inspires.

Twice have our arms Independence protected,
And twice haughty Britain has yielded the fight;
Long shall our valor and rights be respected,
Long shall the blaze of our glory be bright.

175

Then hail the heaven-born art,
Which first improved the heart,
And ransomed the mind from the thraldom of sense!
Long shall Columbia bless
The free unshackled Press,
Liberty's Ægis, and Virtue's defence.

WHILE AROUND THE FESTIVE BOARD.

WRITTEN FOR THE CELEBRATION OF A SOCIETY OF PRINTERS.

While around the festive board
The son of Freedom throng,
And bid her praises rise
In patriotic song;
Ye brethren of our heaven-born art
Unite to hail the day;
Let joy expand each patriot heart,
Each tongue assist the lay.
Arise, 't is Freedom's natal morn,
Ye sons of Faust, arise!
For ever swear to guard
The dearly-purchased prize.

176

Mankind in darkness groped,
Their blind and erring way,
Deep veiled in Gothic shades,
With scarce a glimpse of day,
Till Faust arose and bid our art
Illume their darkened mind;
Then independence fired the heart
Which knowledge had refined.
Arise, 't is Freedom's natal morn,
Ye sons of Faust, arise!
For ever swear to guard
The dearly-purchased prize.

But long they sought in vain
To win the heavenly prize;
Oppression's lengthened reign
Their ardent wish denies,
Till o'er our hard-earned western soil
He dared his sceptre wield;
'T was then our sires, with blood and toil
Gained freedom and the field.
Arise, 't is Freedom's natal morn,
Ye sons of Faust, arise!
For ever swear to guard
The dearly-purchased prize.

Then smiling peace was ours,
And every earthly bliss,

177

Till Europe's treacherous powers
Betrayed us with a kiss.
But, like our fathers, now we'll rise,
Our birthrights to maintain—
Swear by the God of earth and skies
No tyrant here shall reign.
Arise, 't is Freedom's natal morn,
Ye sons of Faust, arise!
For ever swear to guard
The dearly-purchased prize.

Then let the foe advance,
The press shall still inspire,
To wield the missive lance,
Or guide the vengeful fire;
And here we swear, when Freedom calls
We'll not refuse to die;
The foe shall see beneath our balls
His columns fall in pi.
Arise, 't is Freedom's natal morn,
Ye sons of Faust, arise!
For ever swear to guard
The dearly-purchased prize.

Long ere a foreign flag
O'ertops Columbia's stripes,

178

We'll forge our sticks to arms,
To balls convert our types.
We'll never flinch, but give them chase,
Display our mystic stars;
Our eagle still shall hold his place,
And hurl the shafts of Mars.
Arise, 't is Freedom's natal morn,
Ye sons of Faust, arise!
For ever swear to guard
The dearly-purchased prize.

Who threats with foreign rule
Our shooting-sticks defy;
We'll have a brush with all,
Before we take the lie.
We'll hush the English lion's roar,
French cannon we'll compose,
The form of tyranny beat o'er,
And hot-press all our foes.
Arise, 't is Freedom's natal morn,
Ye sons of Faust, arise!
For ever swear to guard
The dearly-purchased prize.

Long may we keep the morn,
Which gave our nation birth,
And when, at length, our works
Are finished here on earth—

179

May we our Heavenly Author meet,
(Our earthly forms forsook,)
And each become a perfect sheet
In his eternal book.
Till then, on Freedom's natal morn,
Let joyful pæans rise:
To-day for us was born
The goddess of the skies.

Faust the inventor of the art of printing.

The words in italics are technical terms peculiar to the art.

PRINTERS' ODE.

From the crystalline courts of the temple of light,
The dove-eye of Mercy to earth was directed,
Where mortals were grov'ling, deep shrouded in night;
For passion was worshipped and wisdom rejected:
Immersed in each ill
Of corrupted free-will,
Yet Mercy was patient, and Patience slept still:
For infinite Love had his banner unfurled,
And the precepts of wisdom were preached to the world.

But haughty Ambition extended his reign,
And wielded the sceptre of magic delusion,

180

Held Reason enshackled in Tyranny's chain,
And governed by knowledge and learning's exclusion.
With mitre and hood,
Superstition and blood,
Corruption and vice deluged earth like a flood;
The blood-crimsoned banner of war was unfurled,
And knowledge and science were swept from the world.

Deep locked in the shrine of antiquity's lore,
The Scriptures of light were withheld unexpounded,
A counterfeit Peter still guarded the door,
And the seekers of truth were by error confounded.
Omnipotence saw—
Bade Delusion withdraw,
And ordained that our art should promulgate his law.
Then Genius his fetters at Tyranny hurled,
And printing appeared to enlighten the world.

The blush of Aurora now lighted the east,
And banished the darkness of mystical terror:
Man sprang from the shrine of the mystical beast,
While prejudice owned and relinquished his error,

181

The truth was received,
Admired and believed,
And ours is the art which the blessing achieved:
For now was the banner of Wisdom unfurled,
And printing arose, like a sun, to the world.

The sage of Genoa, whose emulous soul,
By a flash from our art, glowed with new inspiration;
In brilliant perspective saw glory's bright goal,
And enrolled a new world on the page of creation.
With high-swelling breast,
Still onward he pressed,
Till Eden's bright regions appeared in the West;
Each clime saw the canvass of Europe unfurled,
While printing taught Commerce to polish the world.

But the sons of the West to more glory were born,
And to us shall proud Europe the laurel surrender;
For though hers was the blushing effulgence of morn,
Yet ours is the noon of meridian splendor;
For Heaven decreed
That Columbia be freed,
And printing and valor accomplished the deed.
The banner of war was by Justice unfurled,
And freedom by printing proclaimed to the world.

182

Our standard the eagle of liberty bears,
His eyes, like the stars that surround him, resplendent,
While the olive asks peace, every arrow declares,
Columbia for ever shall be independent;
For freedom is ours,
Nor shall Europe's mad powers
A feather e'er filch from our bird as he towers;
And while a free PRESS thus enlightens the world,
The banner of Liberty ne'er shall be furled.

PRINTING AND INDEPENDENCE.

When, wrapped in folds of papal gloom,
Dark Superstition awed the world,
Consigned fair Knowledge to the tomb,
And Error's sable flag unfurled;
Earth heard the mandate from the skies—
“Let there be light—great ART, arise!”

Young Science wiped her tears and smiled,
And infant Genius plumed his wing;
The arts assemble round the child,
And all this glowing chorus sing—
Rise, sun of science! quick, arise!
And lend thy light to darkened eyes.

183

Our art arose, and man had light,
The clouds of superstition fled,
The fiend of ignorance took his flight,
And Error hid his hateful head;
Whilst swelled this chorus to the skies—
“Our art shall live, and Freedom rise.”

The goddess, who for ages past
Had wept beneath despotic night,
Her cankering fetters burst at last,
And claimed the charter of her right,
While men and seraphs joined this strain—
“Printing shall live, and Freedom reign.”

Hail, Freedom! hail, celestial guest!
Oh, never from thy sons depart;
Thine be the empire of the West,
Thy temple every freeman's heart;
The art of printing gave thee birth,
And brightens still thy reign on earth.

Arise, ye favored sons of light,
Professors of our heaven-born ART—
And in the chorus all unite,
While joy expands the throbbing heart;
“The art of printing shall endure,
“And Independence be secure.”

184

AWAKE THE LOUD TRUMPET.

Awake the loud trumpet, 'tis Freedom invites,
Let heroes respond to the strain;
The olive of peace with the laurel unites,
And music swells sweet o'er the plain.
Thy birth, Independence, by freemen be kept,
Till Tyranny's banner be furled,
Till despots have bled, where their victims have wept,
And Freedom has spread o'er the world.

When dark Superstition had fettered the mind,
And Reason in bondage was bound,
The goddess descended to ransom mankind,
And Genius arose from the ground.
The Press she established, a pillar of fire,
(While Night's sable curtain was furled),
Its splendor bade mystic Delusion retire,
And Printing gave light to the world.

The daring Columbus his canvass unfurled,
A nation arose in the West,
The storehouse of Europe, a mart for the world,
A home for the poor and oppressed.

185

Here Freedom's bright temple effulgent shall shine,
Her flag o'er its turrets unfurled,
Our arms have twice saved it, 't will never decline
While Printing gives light to the world.

PRINTERS' JUBILEE

Hark! 'twas the trumpet of Freedom that sounded,
Millions of voices respond to the strain,
Hailing the day when an empire was founded,
Firm as our mountains, and free as the main!
Brightly the star of its glory is beaming—
Loudly the pæans of gladness arise!
Gayly our star-spangled banners are streaming;
Proudly our cannon are shaking the skies.
'T is Freedom's jubilee,
Then join ye brave and free,
Hail its return, independent and blest!
Wake music's sweetest voice,
Long may we thus rejoice!
Hail to Columbia, the queen of the West!

Dark was the gloom which her temple surrounded,
Sad were the sighs that exhausted her breath,

186

When, from its deep-vaulted roof, first resounded,
The soul-stirring words, “Independence or death!”
Franklin, the pride of our art and the nation,
Fixed on the charter of glory his seal,
Freemen confirmed it, with loud acclamation,
Heaven has sanctioned the solemn appeal.
Sons of the brightest art
Heaven can to man impart,
Join in the chorus—our country is blest—
This is her Jubilee,
Long shall her sons be free!
Hail to Columbia, the queen of the West!

Long was the struggle for freedom and glory;
Fierce was the conflict our fathers sustained;
Bright are their actions emblazoned in story:
Long may we guard what their valor obtained.
Hail to the art which such zeal could awaken!
Long may it flourish, their sons to inspire;
Freedom for ever the world had forsaken,
Had not the press been “a pillar of fire.”
Sons of the brightest art
Heaven can to man impart,
Join in the chorus—our country is blest—
This is her jubilee,
Long may her sons be free;
Hail to Columbia, the queen of the West!

187

SONS OF FAUST.

Sons of Faust, to whom belong
Hearts and arms for freedom strong,
Festive rites, and patriot song,
Join in revelry!
Raise the tributary lay,
'T is Columbia's natal day,
Let each heart be light and gay,
Heirs of liberty!

Banish hence each petty feud.
Let no selfish care intrude,
'T is the hour for gratitude,
Social mirth and glee!
While the sparkling rubies swim,
Round each mantling goblet's brim,
Quaff them ere their light be dim,
Drink to liberty!

Think what cause for joy is our,
In this land of fruits and flowers,
Splendid towns, and shady bowers,
Blessed with liberty!

188

Freed from sceptre, crown, and throne,
Independence is our own,
Never, but to Heaven alone,
Will we bend the knee!

Peace and plenty, through the land,
Scatter joys on every hand,
Bidding grateful hearts expand,
On our jubilee!
Hark the cannon's martial roar,
Loud proclaims from shore to shore,
That Columbia's sons adore
Heaven-born liberty!

We who boast the matchless art
Which can light and truth impart,
Let us all, with hand and heart,
Keep the jubilee!
'T is our ART, and that alone,
Makes the worth of freedom known,
While admiring millions own,
That has made them free!

What inspired our sires to brave
Ocean's rough, tempestuous wave,
Seeking freedom, or a grave,
Death, or liberty?

189

'T was the PRESS, a beacon-light,
Beaming on their mental sight,
Led them through that gloomy night,
O'er the stormy sea!

This sustained them in the field,
This compelled the foe to yield,
This is freedom's sword and shield,
This proclaims us free!
Let us, then, our joy express,
For the blessings we possess,
While a free unshackled PRESS
Guards our liberty!

ART OF PRINTING.

When o'er proud Tiber's flood
Fair Science reared her dome,
And Greece had lent her arts
To gild imperial Rome;
Ambitious Genius aimed her flight
To seek unknown renown,
But, veiled in sable shades of night,
She sunk bewildered down;
For fate to them denied the art
Which gives to knowledge birth,

190

Refines the human heart,
And scatters bliss on earth.

No soft refinements graced
Or harmonized the mind,
For maddening war's career
Left calmer joys behind;
The social ties which life endear
Their thoughts could ne'er engage;
The sympathetic smile and tear
Were lost in battle's rage:
For fate to them denied the art
Which gives to knowledge birth,
Refines the human heart,
And scatters bliss on earth.

Time told a thousand years
On his eventful page,
When Faust, at length, appears
To bless the happy age;
His plastic hand lends genius wings,
Bids wisdom proudly soar,
And infant learning joyful springs
With powers unknown before.
His was the heaven-descended art
To give fair knowledge birth,
To mend the human heart,
And civilize the earth.

191

The sun of science rose,
And chased the clouds of night;
While wondering realms surveyed,
Astonished at the sight—
The social arts, in wisdom's train,
With love and peace advance,
Teach man to feel his fellow's pain,
A brother's joy enhance.
Ours is the heaven-descended art
To give fair knowledge birth,
To mend the human heart,
And civilize the earth.

Hail, art of arts! all hail!
Thy praises mock the lyre;
To reach the boundless theme,
Its tones in vain aspire;
But grateful hearts, who feel the bliss
Thy magic power bestows,
Respond to every strain like this,
How dull soe'er it flows:
Ours is the heaven-descended art,
To give fair knowledge birth,
To mend the human heart,
And civilize the earth.

193

DRAMATIC AND THEATRICAL.

THE NINTH ANNIVERSARY OF THE NEW YORK MIRROR, JULY, 1831.

A DRAMATIC MEDLEY, IN ONE ACT.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
IMMORTALS.

Apollo, Patron of all the Fine Arts.
Clio, the Muse presiding over History.
Euterpe, the Muse presiding over Music.
Melpomene, the Muse presiding over Tragedy.
Thalia, the Muse presiding over Comedy.
Terpsichore, the Muse presiding over Dancing.
Erato, the Muse presiding over Lyric and Tender Poetry.
Polhyminia, the Muse presiding over Singing and Rhetoric.
Calliope, the Muse presiding over Epic Poetry.
Urania, the Muse presiding over Astronomy. Cupids, Apparitions, &c.

MORTALS.

First Editor, Second Editor, Collector, Librarian, and Peter, the Printer's Devil, &c.

194

SCENE I.

The Battery by moonlight. Music in Castle Garden.
Enter three Muses, viz: Polhyminia, Erato, and Terpsichore.
Pol.
When shall we three meet again,
In honor of the Mirror's reign?

Era.
When the present volume's done,
When the NINTH is number one.

Terps.
That wont be till June has run.

Pol.
Where the place?

Era.
Within the Park.

Terps.
There to meet with—

Era.
Morris.

Terps.
Hark!

Pol.
I come, Euterpe.

Era.
Clio calls,
From the Castle Garden walls.

All.
Fair or foul, we pay no fare,
Hover o'er the bridge, and through the air.

[Exeunt into Castle Garden, and out of the port-holes.

SCENE II.

The Park. Evening. Moonlight. Theatre lighted up. Music in Peale's Museum.
Enter Euterpe, Thalia, and Clio.
Eut.
Where hast thou been, sister, say?

Tha.
Strolling up and down Broadway,

195

Stripping vice of its disguise,
Shooting folly as it flies:
Paulding now demands my aid,
That 's a call I can 't evade.
Halleck asks no favors, bless him!
All the sisters so caress him.
Cox, you know, in Albion's isle,
Waits for my inspiring smile;
Thither, in a shell I'll sail,
Bannered with a peacock's tail;
He will folly's emblem view,
And then he'll do, he'll do, he'll do!

Eut.
I'll give thee a favoring wind.

Tha.
Thank thee sister,thou art kind.

Clio.
I'll supply thee with another.

Tha.
I myself have all the other.
Where hast thou been with thy flute?

Eut.
Austen's voice has kept it mute;
For I can not wake such tones
As Cinderella breathes with Jones.
Brichta, Gillingham, and Knight,
Fill their hearers with delight;
Feron, George, and tuneful Poole,
Pupils of a Sterling school,
All have won such high repute,
I 've a mind to break my flute!
All that I can now pretend,
Is their sweetest airs to blend,

196

Copied weekly from the stage,
For the Mirror's music page.

Tha.
Where hast thou been, sister Clio?

Clio.
In the classic isle of Scio,
Gathering facts to form a story
Of Moslem hate and Grecian glory;
Present times and foreign ages,
Fit to grace the Mirror's pages;
Buried archives, deep and loamy—
Look what I have—

Tha.
Show me! show me!

Clio.
Here I have Minerva's thumb,
Dug from Herculaneum.

Eut.
Be dumb! be mum! our sisters come!

Enter Polhyminia, Erato, and Terpsichore. All join hands and sing in chorus.
Aonian sisters, hand in hand,
Thus shall bless Columbia's land,
When they go about, about,
Inviting native talent out.

Pol.
Volume eighth its course has run—

Era.
Volume NINE—

Terps.
Has just begun

Enter Melpomene, Calliope, and Urania.
Eut.
Thrice to thine,

Cal.
And thrice to mine,

All.
To make up NINE.

Clio.
Peace! the charm's wound up.

197

Enter 1st and 2d Editors, reading communications by moonlight.
1st Ed.
Here let us halt a moment on the green.
So foul and fair a scroll I have not seen.

2d Ed.
How far is 't called to Flushing? What are these,
So strange in their attire, yet formed to please;
That look not like the belles of gay Broadway,
And yet are near it? Ladies, if I may
So far presume, I beg that you'll command me
In anything. You seem to understand me!
Mortal or not, you know what I am saying,
By each at once her taper finger laying
Upon her lips. As females you appear,
And yet your silence baffles that idea.

1st Ed.
Speak if you can! What are you? Why demur?

Clio.
All hail the Mirror's senior editor!

Tha.
All hail to thee, whose fame shall long exist!

Eut.
A thousand names are added to thy list!

Mel.
All hail to thee, who shall be rich as Crœsus!

2d Ed.
Why do you start, good sir, at what should please us?
[To the Muses.]
Are ye fantastical, I fain would know?
Or that indeed which outwardly ye show?

198

You greet my partner, here, with present fee,
And great prediction: why not speak to me,
Who neither beg nor fear your love or hate?

All.
Hail! lesser than thy partner, yet more great!

Clio.
Thou shalt have fame that ne'er can fade nor fail,

All.
So all hail Morris, Fay, and Willis, hail!

1st Ed.
Stay, ye imperfect speakers! tell me more.
I know that I am senior editor;
But as to fame, and wealth, and all the rest,
The thousand names which you have just expressed,
Stands not within the prospect of belief,
No more than to be rich as Lydia's chief.
How know you this? or why here, after dark,
Stop you our way in this triangled Park,
With such prophetic greeting in our path?

[They vanish.
2d Ed.
The earth hath bubbles, as the water hath,
And these are of them. Whither did they fly?

1st Ed.
Into the air, or theatre, just by;
Would they had staid, and told their story out.

2d Ed.
Were such things here, as we do speak about?
Or have we breathed exhilarating gas,
And merely dreamed that such things came to pass?

199

1st Ed.
Thy fame shall still increase.

2d Ed.
Thy wealth shall grow.

1st Ed.
And reputation: went it not so?

2d Ed.
To the self-same tune and words. Whom have we here?

Enter Collector, in haste.
Col.
The news of my success will charm thine ear;
One thousand new subscribers swell our list,
Which still increases, and they all insist
On paying in advance. There 's the amount,
Which you will find correct, sir, if you count.

2d Ed.
What! can their words be true?

[Aside.
1st Ed.
Sir, you are kind.
[Musing.
Thanks for your pains—the greatest is behind.
Wealthy as Crœsus! the hope within me stirs,
Our children's children may be editors!
Two truths are told—the one a golden fact—
As happy prologues to the swelling act.

2d Ed.
Look, how our partner's rapt!

1st Ed.
Come what, come may,
Time and the hour run through the roughest day.

[Exeunt.

200

SCENE III.

The Battery. Evening.
Enter the nine Muses.
Clio.
Speak, sister, speak! is the deed done?

Tha.
Long ago—long ago;
'T is volume NINE, and number one.

Era.
Great acts are seldom slow,
Nor single; new ideas on former wait,
The brightest thoughts the fastest propagate.

CHORUS.
Many more volumes must this one ensue;
New pictures will abound,
And elegance surround,
As if in plates were found
Propagation too.

Clio.
He must—

Tha.
He shall—

Eut.
He will spill ink a flood,
And labor hard to make his title good.

Chorus.
He must, he shall, he will, &c.

Terps.
Now let us dance.

Tha.
Agreed,

Eut.
Agreed.

Chorus.
We should rejoice when books succeed.

Clio.
When poets woo, what should we do?
When Freedom's voice in thunder
Rends tyrants' chains asunder,

201

And fills the world with wonder,
What should we do?

Chorus.
Rejoice—we should rejoice.

Enter Apollo, in a rage.
Tha.
How now, Apollo! what's the matter now?
There seems to be a cloud upon thy brow.

Apol.
Have I not reason, meddlers as you are,
Saucy and overbold? How did you dare
To trade and traffic, after dark,
With Fay and Morris in the Park,
And I, the leader of your choir,
“The bright-haired master of the lyre,”
Was never called to bear my part,
Or show the glory of our art?
But make amends now: get you gone,
And meet me there to-morrow morn;
From thence we'll go to Clinton hall,
Where I expect you, one and all;
Your vessels and your spells provide,
Your charms, and everything beside.
I'm for the air; this night I'll spend,
To show that I'm the Mirror's friend.
Apollo hands Terpsichore into the car of a balloon just then inflated; the cord is cut, and they slowly ascend, singing:—
Now we go, and now we fly,
Sweet Terpsichore and I;

202

Oh, what a dainty pleasure's this!
To sail in the air,
Along with the fair;
To sing, to toy, to dance, and kiss.
Over woods, railroads, and mountains,
Over seas, canals, and fountains,
Over steeples, towers, and turrets,
We fly by night o'er poet's garrets.

Chorus.
We fly by night o'er poet's garrets.

[Apollo and Terpsichore ascend in a balloon, and pass over the city just as the clock on the City-Hall ought to strike twelve. The rest of the Muses form a dance on the Battery, and then disperse.

SCENE IV.

Clinton-Hall Library. Sunrise. In the centre the magic urn.
Enter the nine Muses. Music.
Clio.
Thrice has quarter-day been round.

Tha.
Thrice and once has S---s called.

Eut.
T---n cries, 't is time! 't is time!

Clio.
Round about the urn we'll go,
In our contributions throw;
All who wish to aid the Mirror,
Quickly bring your offerings hither.
Works by genius wrought upon,
Days and nights full many a one;

203

Pictures brought from gallery wall,
Arcade bath, and City-hall;
Fancy's sketch and faithful view,
History's scenes and portraits too;
All your wonted treasures bring,
On this NINTH year's opening;
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn,
Bring them to the charmed urn.

CHORUS.
Taste ad genius shall combine
To embellish volume NINE.

EUT.
Novel, romance, moral tale,
Female fancy to regale;
Essay grave, and satire keen,
Strictures on the drama's scene;
Female manners, dress, and beauty,
With some hints of moral duty;
March of sciences and arts,
Letters sent from foreign parts;
Travels over land and sea,
Sketches of biography;
Weekly literary news,
Candid, liberal reviews;
Fairy tale, and mirthful sketch,
All that 's useful hither fetch.
All your wonted treasure bring,
On this NINTH year's opening;
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn,
Bring them to the charmed urn.

204

Chorus.
Taste and genius shall combine
To embellish volume NINE.

Tha.
Native scenery, grand or fair,
By our tourists sketched with care;
Mountains, cataracts, and springs,
All that mark their journeyings;
New inventions as they rise,
Aphorisms of the wise,
Fresh discoveries of note,
Great improvements just afloat;
Reminiscences of things
Fled on Time's unwearied wings;
Curious legends, and relations
Known to former generations,
(When the Park was out of town,)
By their children handed down;
Newest fashions as they pass,
Poesy of every class;
Anecdote and humor chaste,
Polished wit for ears of taste;
Weekly list of strange events,
Current facts and incidents;
All your wonted treasures bring,
On this NINTH year's opening;
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn,
Bring them to the charmed urn.

Chorus.
Taste and genius shall combine
To embellish volume NINE.

205

Enter Apollo.

Oh, well done! I commend your pains,
For nothing 's lost the Mirror gains.
And now about the urn we'll sing,
Like elves and fairies in a ring
Enchanting all that we put in.

SONG.

Grave essays and light,
Sad stories and gay,
Mingle, mingle, mingle,
You that mingle may.

Pol.
Sedley, Sedley, aid the medley.

Terps.
Wit of Paulding sharp and scalding.

Era.
Verse of Palmer, that 's a charmer.

Mel.
Tale from Leggett, readers beg it.

Chor.
Around, around, around, about, about,
Put in the good, and keep the others out.

Tha.
Paulding's Dutch and Yankee chat.

Apol.
Put in that, put in that.

Ura.
Here 's Bulwer's brain.

Apol.
Put in a grain.

Tha.
Here is Cox's latest letter,
That will please the reader better.

Apol.
Put in all these, 't will raise it's worth the higher,
Hold! here's three stanzas from Ianthe's lyre.

206

Chor.
Around, around, around, about, about,
Put in the good, and keep the others out.

Apol.
By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something sentimental comes,
Open locks, whoever knocks.

Enter Librarian, with a packet.
Era.
What have you there? Show me! show me!
Say, is it prose or poetry?
[Exit Librarian.
Oh, I perceive, there 's both. Who sent
This bucket-full of sentiment?
Pious thoughts and moral feeling,
Tender wishes, hopes revealing;
Home's enjoyments, pastoral pleasure—

Apol.
Pour it in—'t is Woodworth's measure.

Chor.
Around, around, around, about, about,
Put in the good, and keep the others out.

Era.
Thus, in poesy divine,
Many a gem for us doth shine.
Sprague our pages shall inspire
With his grandeur and his fire.
Halleck's classic satires charm,
Wetmore's martial numbers warm;
Pierpoint's airs, and Schroeder's lays,
Cheer us on our rugged ways;
Here, with Brooks's taste is blent,
Bryant's heartfelt sentiment;
Sands's humor, Whittier's strength,

207

Bryan's charity, and length;
Pickering, Nature's simple bard,
Smooth and polished Everard;
Willis, delicate and chaste,
Percival, of classic taste;
Cooper, Irving, Hillhouse, Clark,
Nack and all, will “toe the mark.”
Here is Huntley's sweetness stealing,
Here is Embury's depth and feeling;
Thyrga, Isabel, and Cora,
Hinda, Jane, Estelle, and Norna;
Ida, Selim, Alpha, Reuben,
Damon, Rusticus, and Lubin;
Woodbridge, Iolante, Delia,
Mary, Emma, and Aurelia;
Bogart, gentle—Muzzy, tender,
and ****s of every gender;
Signs and Greek initials plenty,
A, B, C, the four-and-twenty;
Then there 's Cassio's manly mind,
And not to mention hosts behind.
Here they have been, and shall be,
The freshest flowers of poesy.

Chor.
Around, around, around, about, about,
Put in the good, and keep the others out.

Apol.
Nor doth talent less abound,
Nor is lesser richness found,
In those columns which compose

208

Story or romance of prose;
Mirthful sketch, or stricture grave,
Tales of wonder on the wave
Told in “Leisure Hours at Sea,”
When the wind is fair and free.

Era.
“Little Genius,” bright and gay,
From the racy pen of Fay;
Critical remarks by B---
On dramatic melody;
Inman's candid speculations
On domestic publications;
W---s “each month in York,”
All combine to aid the work.

Apol.
All your wonted treasures bring,
On this NINTH year's opening;
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn,
Bring them to the charmed urn.
Enough of letters—now commence
A detail of embellishments;
Gems of art, where'er displayed,
Put in next our charm to aid.

Clio.
Here, then, as before, I place
Weir's grandeur, Ingham's grace;
Newton's truth, and Bennett's nature,
Henry Inman's skill in feature;
Hoyle's pellucid lake and sky,
Fisher's coursers, as they fly;
Architectural grace, that shines

209

Bright in Davis's designs,
Cummings's delicious bloom,
Speaking eye, and snowy plume;
Jervis, Leslie, Morse, and Cole,
Full of feeling, fire, and soul;
Mountain scenery, bold and grand,
From the pencil of Durand;
Trumbull's patriotic groups,
And revolutionary troops;
Agate, Reinagle, and Morse,
Who teach the canvass to discourse;
With a host of names as high,
Which oblivion shall defy;
Forming each a radiant gem,
Modern painting's diadem.

Chorus.
Taste and genius all combine
To embellish volume NINE:
Around, around, about, about,
Put in the good, the bad keep out.

Cal.
From the graver's hand, I bring
No less rich an offering;
Sculptured on these plates, there shine,
Form for form, and line for line;
Light for light, and shade for shade,
In those picture-gems displayed.
All may thus their beauties own,
Kept before by one alone;
Living on each lasting plate,

210

Though the models yield to fate.
Here are Smillie's force and brightness,
Hoagland's depth, and Hatch's lightness;
Sparkling touches from Durand,
Scenes from Smith's ingenious hand;
Balch and Eddy, Rawdon, Wright,
Whose performances delight;
Mason, Adams, Anderson,
With a host come crowding on,
Far too numerous to name,
All whose works are known to fame.

Apol.
Hold! enough of graphic art,
City view, and rural chart;
Leave them all to tasteful Weir,
He will see that they appear.
Though we highly prize such treasures,
They must yield to Music's measures;
For our spells are not complete
Till we add an art so sweet.

Eut.
Let the grateful task be mine—
Haydn's splendor here shall shine;
Handel's solemn grandeur roll,
Weber's horrors fright the soul;
Sweet Rossini's strains that move
E'en the sternest hearts to love,
With the grave Mozart's combined,
Here shall charm the ear and mind;
While a thousand more, in turn,

211

Shall contribute to the urn.

Apol.
Such shall be our spells of power,
Meet for chamber, hall, or bower;
So our labors we conclude,
Now the charm is firm and good.

All.
Hail to those, whose kind assistance
Gave our protegé existence!
Hail to those who with renown
Did its earliest labors crown!
Hail to those who now may grace
Its prouder rank, and prosperous race!
Hail to all whose generous aid
Has a sure foundation laid!
On which the Mirror long shall stand,
Reflecting light throughout the land.
While your smiles our labors cheer,
Through another rolling year,
We will go about, about,
Drawing native talent out,
Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine,
And thrice again to make up NINE.
Peace! the charm's wound up.

[Exit Apollo.
Enter First Editor.
1st Ed.
How now, you promisers of wealth and fame!
What is't you do?

All.
A deed without a name.

212

1st Ed.
I conjure you by that which you foresee,
Howe'er you come to know it, answer me
To what I ask you.

Clio.
Speak.

Tha.
Demand.

Terps.
We'll answer.

1st Ed.
The Mirror's fate? thou dancing necromancers.

Clio.
Woulds't know it from our mouths, or from our master's?

1st Ed.
Conjure them up—let's see these poet-tasters!

Clio.
Pour in the milk of roses, and the dew
Gathered by starlight, when the moon was new;
Nine pearly drops from Heliconia's spring,
With gold-dust, shaken from a hum-bird's wing.

All.
Come high, or low
Thyself and office deftly show.

[Music.
First Apparition, the genius of the Portfolio.
1st Ed.
Tell me, thou well-known power—

Clio.
He knows thy thought;
Hear his speech, but say thou nought.

Appar.
Beware of politics! avoid such stuff;
Beware of party strife! I 've said enough.

[Descends.
1st Ed.
Whate'er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks,

213

Thou 'st harped my fear aright—we'll shun their ranks.
But one word more.

Clio.
He will not be commanded:
Here comes another, less polite—but candid.

Second Apparition, the genius of the Analectic Magazine.
Appar.
Attend! attend! attend!

1st Ed.
Had I three ears I 'd hear thee to an end.

Appar.
Be liberal, mild, but manly—laugh to scorn
The shafts of envy; there 's no journal born
Can harm the Mirror with its present talent.

[Descends.
1st Ed.
Then let them live.

Third Apparition, the genius of the Literary Casket and Pocket Magazine.
1st Ed.
But who is this young gallant
Of baby stature?

All.
Listen, but speak not;
He, like the others, knows thy every thought.

Appar.
Be independent, firm, and take no care
Who chafes, who frets, or where detractors are:
The Mirror must be prosperous until
Inferior scribblers all its columns fill;
Till every tasteless dunce shall weekly see
His nonsense in it.

[Descends.

214

1st Ed.
That will never be.
Sweet bodements! good!—I thank you! yet my heart
Throbs to know one thing. Tell me, if your art
Can tell so much, of years how many score,
How many volumes—

All.
Seek to know no more.

1st Ed.
I will be satisfied! Deny me this,
And you embitter all my promised bliss.

All.
Show his eyes, and please his heart,
Come like shadows, so depart.

[Music.
A procession of Cupids, each bearing a volume of the Mirror, elegantly bound and lettered, followed by the “Little Genius,” with his magical glass. As the NINTH volume passes, the editor speaks.
1st Ed.
Thou art too like the eighth to be mistook.
Thy gilding cheers my eyeballs; and thy look,
Thou other gold-bound back, is like the rest;
The twelfth is like the former! Be ye blest
For showing this! A fourteenth! still in bloom!
What! will the line stretch out to the crack of doom!
Another yet! Ha! eighteen! nineteen! twenty!
All bound and lettered too with gilding plenty!
And there 's the Little Genius with a glass,
Which shows me many others yet to pass!
Delightful prospect!

[Music—Muses vanish.

215

The scene suddenly changes to the editor's closet, where the First Editor appears seated in an arm-chair, rubbing his eyes. Peter, the printer's devil, stands at his elbow.
1st Ed.
Well, what is it, Peter?

Dev.
The printer says there 's neither rhyme nor metre
In that there sonnet to a lady's sandal;
And bade me tell you that the piece on scandal
Is not well pointed. We 're now standing still
For want of copy.

1st Ed.
That's impossible.

Dev.
We've not a line, sir, and are short two columns.

1st Ed.
Well, here 's enough so fill a dozen volumes,
Here, in this urn. Ha! where the dickens is it?
Saw you those girls that just made me a visit,
And left me in such haste?

Dev.
I met with none,
When I came in, sir, you were all alone,
And sound asleep, too, till you heard me call.

1st Ed.
Oh! was it but a dream, then, after all!
And waiting, too, for copy! From this hour
I'll not rely on any fabled power,
But on myself alone; that which the NINE
Promised in sleep, shall, waking, yet be mine.

216

I'll win the prize; no boasting like a fool,
This deed I'll do before my purpose cools.

[Writes.
Enter Collector.
Col.
Sir, since you ridiculed that dinner caper,
A, B, and C, have bid me stop their paper.

1st Ed.
Bring me no more reports! let them fly all;
Till dunces fill our columns we can't fall.
The hand I write with, and the heart I bear,
Shall never sag with doubt, nor shake with fear;
I'll write till fingers, head, and sinews ache;
Give me some paper—now I'm wide awake.
Send out more agents; scour the country round;
Stop those that talk of stopping; there'll be found
Enough without them. Take this copy, Peter,
For volume NINE, Say, is it larger—neater?—
False-hearted cravens!—here's another lot;
Throw sonnets to the dogs, we want them not!

[Exit Devil.
Enter Second Editor.
1st Ed.
Of all men else I have so wished for thee;
But sit thee down; my fingers as you see,
Are stained with ink. A column's wanted still.

2d Ed.
I have no words—my voice is in my quill.

1st Ed.
Then lay on, Fay, at essay, tale, or puff,
Till Peter reappears, and cries—enough!

217

SHOOTING STARS: OR, THE BATTLE OF THE COMETS.

AN UNWRITTEN TRAGEDY, IN TWO ACTS. NOT BY SHAKESPEARE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Philus Philomusus, a celebrated manufacturer of looking-glasses.
Dr. Fungus, editor of the “Literary Mushroom,” and retailer of catsup.
Sedley, editor of the “Comet,” with a fiery beard.
Fabulator, a writer of the tales, fables, and allegories.
Epigram, scribbler on a small scale.
Conundrum, scribbler on a small scale.
Stanley, a wary politician, on the fence.
Caustic, a satirical fellow, supposed to be the dramatist himself.
Keeper of the Park, a friend to all parties.
Officer, a runner of the marble house.
Finance, travelling agent of the looking-glass maker.
Trustall, travelling agent for the “Mushroom.”

[_]

Note.—This travestie was published in the “New York Mirror” on its twelfth anniversary, July, 1834. It was introduced to the readers of the “Mirror” by an extract from an epistle of the author, as follows; “In the way of badinage, I yesterday asked my pretty cousin, if she took the ‘Literary Mushroom.’ She, of course, had never heard of it; and with naiveté peculiar to herself, inquired its character. I told her the term was meant to express, in the abstract, a mass of periodicals, lately set afloat in the world, to pick the pockets of readers, without entertaining or edifying them. She smiled at the conceit, and suggested the name of Doctor Fungus, as the editor. This casual hint gave existence to the following travestie, which will, of course, put your well-known modesty to the blush; but which, I shall, nevertheless, insist upon your publishing, as the prologue for your twelfth volume. I remain, as ever, sub rosa, yours truly, ---.”

218

ACT I.

SCENE I

The Park, in front of the debtors' jail. Whitey-blue posts seen in endless perspective. The City-Hall clock strikes eleven.
Enter Keeper of the Park and Officer.
Keeper.
Has Fungus, sir, walked forth this morning?

Off.
No;
It was his usual time an hour ago.

Keep.
At any time, sir, when you see him here,
Let no unfeeling creditor come near;
I would not have him stared at. See! who 's that,
Now entered at the gate, so plump and fat?

Off.
Sir, 't is the Mirror's principal collector,
With pockets lined like some pet-bank director.

Keep.
Leave me awhile, but be within my call.

[Exit Officer.
Enter Finance.
Good morning, sir, you 're welcome to the hall.
I heard last night you had arrived express,
With news of your unparalleled success.

Fin.
Yes, sir; and I am proud to be the man
That served the Mirror since it first began.
Defeated Fungus will attempt no more
To cross our path, as he has done before;

219

No longer will his Mushroom work be known—
The Mirror, now, securely reigns alone.

Keep.
Near Tewksbury, I think, in Jersey state,
Your agent got two thousand names of late!
Has Fungus, sir, lost any friends of note?

Fin.
Sir, I was posted home by the first boat,
Ere an account was taken of his loss;
But as I left the place, to come across
Upon the railroad, it was boldly said,
The Mushroom never more could raise its head!

Keep.
That work, I fear 's, unlike the Mirror, sir,
Too tame and spiritless to make a stir;
Worse news than this poor Fungus never met,
For on his agent's luck his all was set.

Fin.
Ill fortune is to Fungus nothing new, sir;
He bets at random, and is still the loser;
Yet his chagrin he has the tack to hide well—
How does he pass his time, sir, here in Bridewell?

Keep.
As one whose income ne'er was half a crown,
But as an editor he 's much cast down.
Sometimes he reads and walks, and wishes fate
Had blest him with a less conspicuous state.

Fin.
Were it not possible to see this editor?
They say he'll talk with any but a creditor.

Keep.
This is his usual hour of walking out,
Here, in the Park; we'll see him soon, no doubt;
After his morning draught he seldom fails.

220

Here we may stand unseen, behind these pales,
Awhile to observe how he at fortune rails.

[They retire.
Enter Fungus.
Fun.
By this time the decisive blow is struck—
Either my agents have been blessed with luck,
Or I no more can send the Mushroom forth,
For eighteen pence is all that I am worth!
Would I had wealth, if fate's stern will were so,
For what have we poor editors but wo!
While the rich reader pays us, if he chooses,
And is content with nothing he peruses!

Fin.
He seems extremely moved.

Keep.
He 's ill at ease,
I'll introduce you to him, if you please.

[Coming forward.
Fun.
Why, there's another check to proud ambition.
That man, through me, obtained his late commission;
And now I am his prisoner—he 's my bail,
For the extended limits of the jail.
Such an unlooked-for change who could believe,
That saw him for his unpaid salary grieve,
When I employed him as my out-door clerk?
Good morrow, Mr. Keeper of the Park.
The grass looks cheerful, and the day is fair.
Has any news arrived? Whom have you there?

221

Keep.
A gentleman of breeding and address,
Who came last night from Tewksbury, express.

Fun.
Comes he to me with letters or advice?

Keep.
He serves the Mirror, sir, let that suffice.

Fun.
Then he wont dun me—so good morning, sir,
You 're welcome, though the friend of Philus, for
I'm almost such myself—could I forget
That he grows rich, while I'm confined for debt;
Were he not called the great belles-lettres leader,
I might be truly happy, and his reader.
You 've canvassed in New Jersey!—what success?

Fin.
Ah! that will reach your ears too soon, I guess.

Fun.
If to my loss it can't too soon. But tell,
Are all my agents and collectors well?
And does the list of their subscribers swell?

Fin.
Since my arrival, sir, another post
Came in, which brought us word a numerous host,
Of your subscribers 'mong the Jersey hills,
Have stopped their papers, and not paid their bills!

Fun.
Fate, do thy worst! the Mushroom then must slumber,
I have not paper for another number;
No cash—no credit—sighs and prayers are all
I have to give—the work, alas! must fall!

Fin.
Our Philus, sir, depends on perseverance,
Patience and toil, and faithful friends' adherence,

222

Talent, and taste, and tact—for these have made him,
Yet he pays liberally to all who aid him.
His writers love a bold and active leader,
And so does every male and female reader.
Patrons, like women, must be warmly wooed,
Such is the course our Philus has pursued.

Fun.
Alas! I thought them children, all together,
Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a feather.
And rather hoped to win their hearts and cash
With stale, old stories, anecdotes, and trash!
But literary editors, I find,
Are put in trust for tastes of every kind;
And when themselves are void of wit and tact,
Who can say how their patrons may not act?

Enter Officer.
Off.
Sir, here's a man, who told me, with a groan,
He wished to see the doctor, all alone.

Keep.
I come to him.

[Exit Keeper.
Fin.
His business must require
Your private ear, and so I will retire;
Wishing you all the earthly good I can,
Not wronging him I serve—the Mirror man.

[Exit Finance.
Fun.
Farewell; alas! who can this fellow be?

223

A sudden chill is running over me.
I fear some heavy news.
Enter Keeper.
Who is't, O'Hare?

Keep.
A man whose looks bespeak a world of care.
A melancholy messenger, I dread,
For when I asked the news, he shook his head.
He comes express from Tewksbury to you,
I fear his news is fatal, so adieu!

[Exit.
Fun.
Fatal, indeed! his brow 's a running title,
That speaks the page below, a sad recital.
Enter Trustall.
Say, friend, how goes the work?—do many stop?
Of new subscribers have you reaped a crop?
Thou tremblest, and the whiteness of thy cheek
Is apter than thy tongue, the news to speak.
E'en such a man, so faint and wo-begone,
So dead in look, so dull, and so forlorn,
Drew Simpson's curtain, when the night was lowery,
And told him Forrest had redeemed the Bowery.
Now wouldst thou say—“your pen did thus and thus,
And thus your scissors, both enraptured us:”
Stopping my greedy ear with flattery's meed,
Till in the end, to stop my ear indeed,
Thou hast a sigh to change this dew to frost,

224

Ending with scissors—pen—and—all—are lost.

Trust.
Your scissors yet remain, from hook impending,
But for your pen—

Fun.
Why that, perhaps, wants mending;
Although I scarcely use it once a week.
Yet, say, good Trustall—speak, I charge thee, speak!
Must we yield up our editorial fame,
And let the Mirror every honor claim?
Must each competitor still lose the prize!
Tell thou thy master his suspicion lies,
And I will take it as a kind disgrace,
And thank thee for such insult to my face.

Trust.
Your fears are true; the Mirror “goes ahead.”

Fun.
Yet, for all this, say not the Mushroom's dead.

Trust.
I'm sorry I must force you to believe,
A sad disaster nothing can retrieve;
But all your Jersey patrons, sir, are lost;
They 've stopped the Mushroom, and not paid the cost;
While each of them now takes, oh! cursed chance,
The New York Mirror, paid for in advance!
They say, “that sheet, beside our Mushroom paper,
Is like the sun compared to farthing taper!
Its active spirit lends a fire, that's fanned

225

E'en to the dullest peasant in the land;
And makes its way against all opposition,
Though ever courting generous competition.”
A nobler work, or one in richer dress,
Was never issued from the weekly press.
In fine, its editor has won the field,
And your sharp scissors and dull pen must yield.

Fun.
Yet, hold! for oh, this prologue lets me in
To a vile plot—where have our agents been?
Why suffered they such chances to befall?
They should have given every one a call.

Trust.
The lucky Philus, seeking our defeat,
Called for the Mushroom, and was shown a sheet;
Asking what reparation we could make,
For all the articles our scissors take
Without acknowledgment. When I with pride,
Impatient of such taunts, indignant cried,
“Hold! most ambitious editor of York,
At champagne parties first to draw a cork,
While speaking with my master's mouth, you see,
I now propose the selfsame words to thee,
Which thou wouldst have me answer to.” From these
More words arose, and we had quite a breeze,
Till, in the end, two thousand names were struck
From our subscription list! Confound the luck!
Low in the dust our scissors' journal lies,
From whence, with life 't will never more arise.

226

Fun.
Oh! hadst thou stabbed, at every word thou'st uttered,
Sharp scissors in my flesh, I 'd not have muttered
A single oath! Oh, heavens! methinks I see
My little pet in mortal agony!
Gorging the ravenous wolf's insatiate crop!
But, say, did all—did all our patrons stop?

Trust.
All but the free list—fifteen hundred, ten.

Fun.
Let them, too, stop. Inhospitable men!
Against our rigid rules, a balance due,
To discontinue without paying too!
Was't not enough to have the secret blown,
That we ne'er wrote a sentence of our own;
That all our pictures were from worn-out plates;
Our newest fashions all of last year's dates;
But must you cheat us out of all we sent you?
Nor could the editor's lost fame content you?
You never published, monsters, if you had,
You 'd know the pang of being driven mad!

Trust.
Take comfort, sir, and hope a better day;
Another work, perhaps, will better pay.

Fun.
Oh! who can tamely, and with patience fast,
By thinking on an alderman's repast,
Or wander coatless, when 't is damp and chill,
By bare remembrance of a tailor's bill?
Away! by heavens, I shall abhor to see
The man who talks of publishing to me.

227

And when thou sitt'st up late, with good old folks,
In tedious winter nights, to crack your jokes,
Amuse them with the marvellous relation
Of many a poor, ill-fated publication,
Which, like my own, have toiled, with heart and hand,
To mar the brightest Mirror in the land,
And toiled in vain, but died at last unread—
And send your hearer laughing to his bed.

[Exeunt omnes.

SCENE II.

A street in New York, near St. Paul's Church.
Enter Philus, with arms folded, à la Kean.
Phi.
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this bright event;
And all the clouds, which on the Mirror frowned,
In the deep bosom of the ocean drowned.
Now are our brows with laurel chaplets twined;
Our doubts and fears are given to the wind;
Eleven volumes, bound at great expense,
Are now displayed as gilded monuments
Of our success, filled with the choicest treasures,
Engraving, music, and delightful measures;
Grim Opposition smooths his wrinkled face,
And now, instead of jockeying in the race,
To check our course, convinced of his mistake,
Has struck his flag, and follows in our wake.

228

But I, that am not shaped for fawning tricks,
To bite, and snarl, and lick the foot that kicks,
Why I shall still, without remorse or dread,
In duty's path, like Crockett, go ahead.
Mid flowers of literature I'll toil and delve,
And my next step commences Volume Twelve.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

The Park. Fungus reading a pamphlet.
Enter Philus and the Keeper.
Phi.
Good-day, my lord; what subject is't you read?
I fear, I bother you.

Fun.
You do indeed.

Phi.
Friend, leave us to ourselves; we must confer.

[Exit Keeper.
Fun.
I owe you nothing; what 's your business, sir?

Phi.
Suspicion haunts the guilty, like a ghost,
He sees a bailiff in each painted post.

Fun.
Where guilt without controlment, holds his sway,
And steals a rival's patronage away,
An editor might fear each post a Turk;
And I, proprietor of one sweet work,
Have now the fatal object in my eye,
Who caused my periodical to die.

229

Phi.
Why, what a dunce was Æsop's bird of night,
To ape the eagle in his mid-day flight,
Till Sol's bright rays did all his powers confound,
And so, for all his wings, the fool was drowned.
Thou shouldst have been content as carrier, sir,
And not aspired to be an editor.
With a poor, frothy brain, half-crazed with rhyming,
Nor broken thus thy neck with foolish climbing.

Fun.
Hadst broken thine, when first thou chased a bubble,
It might have saved Jack Ketch a little trouble;
But thou wast born to edify mankind,
Amuse the ladies, and improve their mind;
To reach the top of fame and fortune's ladder,
While I, beneath its foot, have played the adder.
How many love-sick lines and maiden sighs
Hast thou to answer for! how many eyes
Of liquid blue hast thou gemmed round with pearls
Bright as thy wit; how many lovely girls
Will bless the hour that gave thy Mirror birth!
The tuneful cricket chirruped in the hearth;
The mocking-bird sung, a plagiaristic sign,
Foreboding many a sweet, but stolen line;
Æolian harps were heard upon the breeze,
And, though 't was August, blossoms decked the trees;

230

The kittens gambolled in their frolic play,
And thrilling expectation held its sway;
Canaries warbled with their sweetest glee,
And currant tarts were all the rage for tea;
More than a printer's pains thy printer took,
(Thy types were not by Connor nor by Cooke,)
Yet brought forth less of hope—I mean in size,
Mottoes it had, and Algebra sublime,
With much of Woodworth's amatory rhyme;
Types in its head, like German text appeared,
And if the rest be true, that I have heard,
It came into the world—

Phi.
I'll hear no more.
Take this bank-note, and pay thy paper score;
I'll puff thy work; my censures were but feigned;
For this, among the rest, was I ordained.

Fun.
Oh! and for much more generous acts than this,
Just Heaven reward thee with a life of bliss!

Phi.
What! shall the aspiring hopes of talent sink,
Which should have mounted? see what tears of ink,
My pen shall shed in sympathy for him,
Who sought the Mirror's downfall; he shall swim;
And, if a doubt remain, thy hopes to wither,
Down, down to Wall street, say I sent thee thither;
Cash it—'t is genuine.
[Exit Fungus.
Indeed, 't is true,

231

What Fungus told me of; our work, when new,
Came forth into the world with some acclaim,
For all admired the Mirror and its frame;
The men all wondered, and the female tribe
Cried, “Heaven bless us, let us all subscribe!”
And so they did, which plainly showed they prized it,
And, till this hour they've always patronized it.
Stay, let me see—the eleventh volume 's done,
No sharing spoils before the field is won.
I'll quickly sell each copy that remains;
When they are gone, then must I count my gains.

[Exit.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

The Battery. The steam packet William Gibbons, just arriving from Charleston.
Enter Philus.
Phi.
Now, by St. Paul, the work goes bravely on,
And doubt no longer argues pro and con.
What molehill mountains would not prudence see,
Through some weak eyes, to undertake like me!
Come, come—this doubt's a scarecrow after all,
Cold prudence climbs not, lest it chance to fall,
While confidence soon scales the laden bough,
And banquets on the fruit, as I do now.
E'en all mankind to wealth and fame incline,
Great men choose greater means—the Mirror's mine.

232

Enter Finance, with papers.
Fin.
Good news, my lord, the William Gibbons spoke,
Below the Hook, the packet Hearts of Oak,
And brought up all our European files—
Read their contents, and see how fortune smiles.
Here's one that says—“the thrilling notes of fame,
From north to south, from east to west, proclaim,
The New York Mirror's worth, to every ear,
In every clime, and zone, and hemisphere;
In England, Scotland, Germany, and France,
And throughout Asia, does it cause advance;
While classic bards in Italy and Greece,
Awake their lyres to honor its increase.

Phi.
Thy news, Finance, true modesty can 't swallow;
Go, wash it down, and here 's a phœnix dollar.
[Exit Finance.
Was ever Fame thus boldly wooed and won?
Has ever Fame adopted such a son?
What I! without a friend my suit to back,
To court her thus, and yet not get the sack!
Upon my life, the goddess seems to find
Something in me. I'll have my office lined
With Mirror pictures—and I'll keep in pay
A score or two of artists, by the day.
For since I 've crept in favor with myself,
I will maintain it—never mind the pelf.

233

Enter Epigram.
Phi.
Cousin of Epigram, give me thy hand,
I'm glad to see thee—how do matters stand
In the proud Athens of our native land.

Epi.
Apollo and the muses, in convention,
Agreed, at once, without the least dissension,
To braid a civic chaplet for thy brow,
Of flowers and laurels—they are at it now.

Phi.
Now, by St. Paul! methinks I feel it here,
Its tints and odors do my senses cheer!
What think'st thou, cousin—wert an easy matter,
To get a “Brush Hat,” too, from Bond the hatter?

Epi.
No doubt, my lord, he strait shall send you one.

Phi.
Thus far, before the wind, we gayly run.
My fortune smiles, and no one boon refuses,
Even to a chaplet from the tuneful muses!
Tell Bond to send the best upon his shelf.

Epi.
I fly to serve thee.

Phi.
Say to serve thyself.
For by-and-by, claim thou of me, my cousin,
(Our work complete), and thou shalt have a dozen.
[Exit Epigram.
Why, now my golden dream is out at last,
Ambition, like an early friend, hast cast
With eager hand, my curtains back, to say,
That what I dreamed last night is true to-day.
A laurel crown! thou bright reward of toil,

234

Oh! how thy glory makes my spirits boil;
Lie still, my heart, more nerves must yet be strained,
Crowns won by toil, must be by toil maintained.
[Exit Philus.

SCENE II.

The Mirror publication office, filled with poets and authors.
Phi.
Stand all apart—cousin of Epigram,
At length, by thy assistance, here I am
Applauded by the daily press—but say,
Shall we but wear these laurels for a day,
Or shall they last as fresh as they are now?

Epi.
I hope for ages, sir, they'll grace thy brow.

Phi.
Oh! Epigram! reluctant I proceed,
To try if thou be steadfast friend indeed.
Now, though thy friendly hand once took my part,
When envious Slander threw a venomed dart,
I would have some kind friend to aid me still.

Epi.
Why you have here a thousand, sir, that will.

Phi.
Cousin, thou wert not wont to be so dull—
Shall I be plain? I wish thy teeming skull
To furnish a poetical address,
About this chaplet, and the Mirror press.

Epi.
I must attempt whate'er your highness pleases.

Phi.
Indeed! methinks thy former kindness freezes.

235

Thou dost refuse me, then?

Epi.
Allow me time
To think, and I may hammer out a rhyme.
[Exit Epigram.

Phi.
I'll henceforth deal with bards of nobler flight;
None write for me, who can't compose at sight.
High-reaching Epigram grows circumspect,
And studies hard, but seldom writes correct.
Still there are traits of excellence about him;
The best on 't is, it can be done without him—
Better, perhaps, for did he not decline,
Why, then the verses had been his, not mine.
We'll make a shift as 't is. Come here, Finance;
Didst thou to Caustic certain sums advance?

Fin.
I did, sir.

Phi.
Give him, then, this note, and say,
Ourselves would speak a word with him to-day.
[Exit Finance.
This plodding Epigram no more shall be
The neighbor of my councils. What! has he
So long held out untired, nor paused to blow,
And stops he now for breath? well, be it so.
Enter Stanley.
Well, Stanley, have you any news to tell us?

Stan.
I hear, my liege, that Sedley has grown jealous,

236

And will get up a paper of his own,
And vows the Mirror shall be overthrown.
He calls his sheet the Comet, and has paid
A year's advance for your Conundrum's aid.

Phi.
Why let him go, we've many such to spare.
Hark thee, friend Selim, where is Mrs. Thayer?

Selim.
In the far West, I hear she 's teaching school.

Phi.
I'll write to her, before my purpose cool.

Enter Epigram.
Epi.
My lord, I have considered in my mind
Your late request, and do not feel inclined
To undertake that curious rhyming medley.

Phi.
Well, let that rest. Conundrum writes for Sedley.

Epi.
I 've heard the news, sir.

Phi.
He 's your kinsman, Stanley.
But you'll condemn an action so unmanly.

Epi.
My lord, I claim that gift, by promise due,
A dozen hats—but I'll compound for two—

Phi.
Stanley, beware! for if your wife see fit
To write for Sedley, you shall answer it.

Epi.
What says your highness to my just request?

Phi.
I do remember me, when once my guest,
This Sedley wrote an interesting column,
For number one, I think, of our ninth volume,

237

And our friend Fay did prophesy that he
Some future day, an editor would be.
Enter Finance.
'T is odd—an editor—perhaps. Where's Caustic?

Fin.
At your book-table, writing an acrostic.

Epi.
May 't please you to resolve me in my suit?

Phi.
Conduct him to my closet—but be mute.

[Exit Finance.
Epi.
I beg your highness' ear, my lord, again.

Phi.
I'm busy—thou troublest me—I'm not i' th' vein.
[Exit Philus.

Epi.
By the lord Harry! is it thus he pays
My services, and all my lines of praise?
If his contributors have any sense
Of such ungentle treatment, they'll dispense
Their favors to the “Comet”—grave Viator,
Claudius, Potentus, Caustic, Fabulator,
Congerro, Croaker, Gamut, and the rest,
Till a new galaxy shall light the West.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

Front vestibule of the City-Hall. Philus reading a communication.
Phi.
How sweet is every strain from Lydia Huntley!
Enter Finance.
Good news or bad, that thou com'st in so bluntly?

238

Fin.
Bad news, my lord, as I can gather from it,
That Peregrine is writing for the Comet;
And Epigram has left us in a huff,
To write for Sedley a prodigious puff.

Phi.
Perry with Sedley touches me more near
Than Epigram's revolt; but hence with fear!
Dangers retreat when boldly they 're confronted,
Neither my courage nor my pen is blunted.
Let 's muster men who racy quills can wield,
We must be brief when traitors brave the field.
Collect our forces: Paulding, Irving, Stone,
Bryant and Wetmore, Woodworth, Knapp, and Hone,
Pintard and Stuart, Strong, Verplanck, and Wharton,
Sage Matthew Carey, Payne, and General Morton;
Dunlap and Leggett, Hoffman, Cox, and Fay,
Willis and Inman, Palmer, Sprague, and Day;
Smillie, Durand, with Weir, and Simms, and Hawes,
With Clarke and Bird, and all who love our cause;
Bid all our fair invincibles assemble:
Tuneful Pierce Butler, late Miss Fanny Kemble,
Fair Sigourney and Embury, advance;
Come, see, and conquer with a single glance!
Aiken and Bogart, Vanderpool and Brooks,
Whipple and Gould, Montgomery and Crookes

239

Muzzy, and Fitch, and Thayer, disdain to shrink,
And quench this Comet in a sea of ink.
Enter Caustic.
How now? the news?

Caus.
A work will soon be out,
Yclept the Comet, edited, no doubt,
By recreant Sedley, who now waits assistance
From Epigram, to give the brat existence.

[Exit.
Phi.
Why, let it come, then. Hasten you, Finance,
Swiftly as you can make White Surrey prance,
Post to Whitehall, to Fabulator's bower,
Bid him straight levy all the strength and power
That he can make; 't is Paulding that I mean,
Beg him to furnish all that he can glean,
And meet me here at eight to-morrow morn.
Commend me to his grace. Away! begone!
[Exit Finance.
Enter Stanley.
Well, my good lord, what news have you collected?

Stan.
Willis is on the seas, and soon expected.

Phi.
Well, what of Sedley, and the Comet press.

Stan.
I know not, mighty sovereign, but by guess.

Phi.
Well, as you guess?

240

Stan.
Sustained by Epigram,
Conundrum, Ondit, Rebus, Flash, and Flam,
Sedley expects to win a laurel crown.

Phi.
Where are thy forces, then, to put him down?
Where be thy legends, tales, romantic stories,
Grave essays, proverbs, fables, allegories,
The foe at hand, and thou no arms to meet 'em!
No classic fire to scatter and defeat 'em!
Or, hast thou sold such literary lumber,
To help the rebels out in their first number?

Stan.
My lord, such subjects, serious and erratic,
Are all transcribed, and ready in my attic.

Phi.
What do they in the attic, sapient sir,
When here they 're needed by thy editor?
Away, then, to thy garret for them—stay,
I will not trust thee. I have thought a way
To make thee sure—if thou play'st double game,
I'll blazon to the world thy real name;
So I'll expect thy papers without fail,
Or else thy fame's assurance is but frail.

Stan.
As I prove true, my lord, so deal with that.

Enter Caustic.
Caus.
Poor Epigram is sued, sir, for a hat,
And what subscribers he procured, refuse
To pay the balance of their several dues;

241

Saying, that their subscription was a shame.

Phi.
Off with their names!—so much for Epigram.

Caus.
My lord, I'm sorry I 've more news to tell.

Phi.
Out with it, Caustic, we can bear it well.

Caus.
Sedley has come out with a daily sheet,
Which boys are peddling now in every street.
One cent a-piece is all the price they ask;
An eighth of which rewards them for their task;
It carries all before it, it is said,
As eighty thousand copies have been spread.
The Sun, the Moon, the Star, and fifty others,
All join the Comet, like a band of brothers,

Phi.
Why, ay, this looks rebellion! Stop the press!
And put in our poetical address.
By heaven, this news my stirring soul alarms,
And all my energies are now in arms!
Come forth, my honest pen! which, here I vow,
Shall not again be dry as it is now;
Ne'er shall these watching eyes have needful rest,
Till these apostates have been skinned and dressed,
Ne'er shall these limbs on downy bed regale
Till I have seized this Comet by the tail!

[Exit in a rage

242

SCENE IV.

Office of the Comet—publication morning. Sedley, Epigram, Conundrum, Acrostic, &c.
Sed.
Thus far, on sweet revenge and profit bent,
Have we marched on without impediment,
And poured our streams of poison round (sans pity),
Into the very bowels of the city.
And here 's a letter, which friend Stanley sent,
With lines of comfort and encouragement,
Such as will help to animate our cause,
And gild our triumph with the town's applause.
Our comet still shall sweep along its path,
To some a fearful visitant of wrath,
To others, light—then let it still on high
Brandish its fiery tresses in the sky,
And with them scourge the bad, revolting “stars,”
That have consented to the loud huzzas,
Which greet The New York Mirror every week,
Whose worth we envy, and whose fall we seek.
When beggars die, there are no Comets seen;
The “Mushroom” fell, and all went on serene;
But ere the mightiest Julius fell, in Rome,
Stars dropped down blood, portentous of his doom!
So, ere the aspiring Mirror tumble down,
Our sweeping “Comet” startles all the town.

Con.
Your words have fire, my lord, and make those glow,
Who trembled at the number of our foe.

243

Sed.
Why, were they doubled we should conquer still;
Thrice is he armed who holds a ready quill;
While he who scribbles with a patent pen
Can ne'er supply, with copy, half his men.
Then, go ahead, my lads; to hope still cling,
And pluck your quills from the proud eagle's wing.

[Exeunt with a flourish.

SCENE V.

Publication office of the Mirror, as before. Philomusus, Fabulator, Caustic, Claudius, &c.
Phi.
Good Fabulator, sir, the cheerful speed
Of your supply deserves my thanks indeed.

Fab.
I am rewarded, sir, in having power
To serve my friend.

Phi.
May Fame and Fortune shower
Their favors on you. Is it ascertained,
How many patrons have, in all, been gained
For this same “Comet?”

Fab.
Sir, they can but boast
Of six or seven thousand, at the most.

Phi.
Why, our battalia treble that account;
Besides, the Mirror's name is like a mount
Of eastern granite, which the rebels lack.

Caus.
The most of them lack jackets to their back,
Oh, Muse of Grub street! such a tattered host;
So poor; so famished; each a fleshless ghost;

244

'T is well for them that we've no buzzards here.

Phi.
Now, by St. Paul, we'll send them bread and beer.
Dinners and coats—apparel, food, and drink,
Plenty of paper, and good writing ink;
And beat them then. How long, do ye think, my lords,
Before these fools repent this war of words?

Caus.
To-morrow scatters these ill-favored cattle,
So soon, I hear they mean to give us battle.

Phi.
The sooner, still, the better; we are ready.
No dangers daunt the heart that's always steady.
Enter Finance.
Will Stanley aid us with his writings, sir.

Fin.
He does refuse, my lord; he will not stir.

Phi.
Dearly shall he repent, he did refuse 'em!
A thousand hearts are swelling in my bosom,
Fame's trumpet calls me to the task—away!
My soul's in arms, and eager for the fray!

[Exeunt with a flourish.

SCENE VI.

Interior of a modern printing establishment. On one side the compositors are seen at their cases, on the other are steam-presses, in full operation. Stage dark.
Enter Philomusus from a closet.
Phi.
'T is now the dead of night, and half the town
Are sleeping on their beds of—straw or down,

245

Yet I, with all my care-worn thoughts, mayhap,
Shall not be able to procure a nap.
The clock strikes twelve! and hark! from room to room
The sounds of printing-engines pierce the gloom:
Press answers press with clank of iron wheels,
While from each case a fainter murmur steals,
The clink of types in the composing-sticks,
Of which compositors scarce see the nicks,
All giving note of preparation for
To-morrow morning's literary war.
My stern impatience chides this night's delay,
Which limps so slow and tediously away.
I'll to my closet, and attempt once more,
To catch a snooze, for I must stir at four.
Ha! what sweet sounds are those which greet my ears!
[Music is heard.
Sure 't was the music of the tuneful spheres,
Or the soft warblings of a seraph's lyre!
No matter what it was—I must retire.

[Lies down—sleeps—dreams.
Music. Vision of Apollo and the Muses, who approach his couch, and Apollo holds a laurel crown over the sleeper's head, while goddesses appear to kiss him!
Apollo.
O thou, whose courage, sleeping or awake,

246

Not all the terrors of thy foes can shake,
Where conscience and where friends thy course approve,
Sleep on, while I, commissioned from high Jove,
With dreams of rapture sweeten thy repose,
And give thee confidence to meet thy foes.

CHORUS OF THE MUSES.
Place the chaplet on his head,
Scatter roses o'er his bed;
Philomusus, friend of ours,
We will strew thy couch with flowers;
Philus, persevere in duty,
Friend of virtue—friend of beauty;
Thus we virgin sisters nine,
Thus thy brows with garlands twine;
Dew ambrosial thou shalt sip,
Take it from each Muse's lip.
[They each stoop and kiss him.
Philus, persevere in duty—
Friend of virtue—friend of beauty.

Apollo.
The morning's dawn has summoned us away,
Now Philomusus, wake, without delay!
Ere blaze of noon has drowned the morning's beam,
Thou shalt have realized this pleasing dream;
Philus, awake! thy hopes and means are ample—
Awake! to gifted minds a bright example.

247

Lively music. Philomusus starts from his couch, and rushes to the front, à la Kean.
Phi.
Give me another wreath!—another kiss!—
Thanks, bright Apollo! for this hour of bliss!
Ha! was it, after all, then, but a dream!
But then so fascinating did it seem,
That all my pulses now with rapture play—
Who 's there?

Enter Finance.
Fin.
'T is I, my lord; 't will soon be day,
Your friends are up, and ready for the fray.

Phi.
Oh! I have had so sweet a dream tonight.

Fin.
A right good omen, sir, of Sedley's flight.

Phi.
I feel it is so; at them, then, pell-mell!
Such be the fate of all who dare rebel.

[Exeunt with a flourish.

SCENE VII.

The field of battle—flourishes, shouts, and every kind of noise the prompter can conveniently make.
Enter Philus Philomusus.
Phi.
What, ho! young Sedley! Philomusus calls!
I hate thy paper for 't is worked with balls.
Now, if thou dost not hide thee from my quill,
Sedley, I say, come forth and try thy skill!

248

I'll meet thee here, with all thy Grub street force,
I'll hold my tongue—for I am getting hoarse.

[Exit—flourish.
Enter Caustic and Finance.
Fin.
Rescue! oh, rescue! noble Caustic, quick!
Great Philus Philomusus beats old Nick!
His quill 's used up, and he with pencil writes,
Dashing at Sedley, and his scribbling wights.

Enter Philomusus.
Phi.
A pen!—a pen!—my kingdom for a pen!

Caus.
I'll fly to Jansen's, sir, and get you ten.

Phi.
Slave! must I wait at such a time for thee?
When every second is a century!
I think there be six “Comets” in the fray,
Five have I pulled down by the beard to-day,
Instead of Sedley's—but I'll try again—
A pen—a pen—my kingdom for a pen!
Rally your powers, Finance! your forces rally;
I'll lead you on to a most glorious sally:
Draw, archers draw, your arrows to the head,
With shafts of satire strike the rebels dead!
Spur Pegasus, ye poets, till he prance,
Ye cannoniers of argument, advance;
Charge, ye light cavalry of anecdote,
While Fame's shrill trumpet breathes its liveliest note;
Rattle quick vollies forth, ye rhyming lovers,

249

Advance your standards (blue and yellow covers;)
Upon them, Caustic, with your forces charge!
Gamut, push on! with buckler, shield, and targe;
Level long-toms, good Leggett, at his hull,
And let a shower of grape salute his skull;
With whole broadsides of tales assail the dolts,
'Twixt wind and water, sir—drive home their bolts!
On, gallant Power, with hot hell-kettle fights;
Lawson, advance, with all thy Scottish knights;
Charge, Paulding, charge! with tales and allegories;
On, Dunlap, on! with thy dramatic stories;
Outflank them, Woodworth, with thy wingéd prancers,
Supported by thy Amazonian lancers;
Sound drums and trumpets! boldly and cheerfully!
The word, St. George, Mirror, and victory!

[A most glorious flourish, in the midst of which a bright and fiery comet, accompanied by a shower of stars, is seen to fall into the North river, where it expires in a hiss, in which it is expected all the audience will participate. Shouts of victory succeed, and the curtain falls amid thunders of applause.

250

ADDRESS

FOR THE OPENING OF THE NEW PARK THEATRE—SPOKEN BY MRS. BARNES, IN THE CHARACTER OF MELPOMENE.

What glorious vision bursts upon my view!
Does fancy mock me? No, 't is true! 't is true!
No false illusive dream of past delight,
But blest realities, salute my sight:
The ruthless fiend of ruin is displaced,
By beauty, fashion, elegance, and taste.
Thrilled with such rapture as when first I pressed
The infant Shakespeare to this throbbing breast,
I hail the scene, my temple and my home,
While rays of beauty light the vaulted dome.
Despair, avaunt! the storm of grief is past,
And joy's bright sunshine gilds the scene at last!

Here, where the tragic muse has mourned so long
The sleep of passion, and the death of song,
Where o'er the urn of blighted hopes she hung,
With vacant, beamless eye, and silent tongue;
While shapeless heaps of ruins smoked around,

251

And desolation marked the blackened ground—
Here, from its ashes, see her temple burst,
With grace and splendor that surpass the first.
So from its parent's dust the phœnix springs,
With Eden's richest plumage in his wings;
Thus dazzling soars, unrivalled, and alone,
His age a century, and a world his own.

Ye generous freemen, who in danger stand
The shield and bulwark of our happy land;
Who, mid the sweeter luxuries of peace,
Behold your greatness with your arts increase;
Whose liberal minds throw lustre on the age,
Oh still protect and patronize the stage;
That bright auxiliar in refinement's cause,
Which raised proud Greece to what at length she was,
Invited forth, and scattered, unconfined,
The boundless treasures of a Shakespeare's mind;
And taught the vulgar barbarous sons of strife,
The gentler courtesies that sweeten life.

Ye freeborn fair, who grace Columbia's clime,
Whose bosoms glow with sentiments sublime;
Whose smiles inspire the actions they reward,
Whose tears embalm the virtues they applaud;
Still let those smiles and tears alternate prove
That wit can charm, that sympathy can move.

252

And while your hearts celestial truth revere,
Still condescend to trace her picture here;
Still let your presence consecrate the art
That holds a mirror to the human heart;
That shows the black and hideous form of vice,
And raises virtue's worth beyond a price;
That culls the fruits of fancy's wide domains,
That calls from poesy her sweetest strains;
That teaches young affection what alone
Can make a virtuous, manly heart, her own;
And shows to art how vain are all its wiles,
That he who wins must first deserve your smiles.

Columbians, all! ye patriots, and ye fair,
Still let the drama claim your generous care;
Cherished by you, it will the champion prove
Of freedom, virtue, and the arts you love;
So shall this city, by refinement blest,
Become the pride and mistress of the West;
So shall your country rise to greater fame,
And endless glory gild Columbia's name.

253

ADDRESS

WRITTEN FOR THE OPENING OF THE WARREN THEATRE.

A bard, whose name will live an endless age,
Has truly said that all the world's a stage;
And we may add, that each revolving day
Presents some scene of an eventful play.
But whether tragic scenes our grief excite,
Or comic incidents afford delight;
Whether the pompous pageantry of war
Spreads ruthless devastation wide and far,
Or peaceful arts, with rural joys attract
The pleased attention through the busy act;
Whate'er the piece, or style of execution,
It always terminates in revolution.
This forms the grand catastrophe of all
The various dramas acted since the fall;
For be the curious plot whate'er it may,
The time a century, or a single day;
A Cæsar slaughtered, or a Samson shorn,
A rustic wedded, or a nation born;
A broken bank, or mended constitution,
Or a new stage—'t is still a revolution.

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Mark how the curious insect-artists drive
Their surplus population from the hive;
Who, in their turn, a new republic form
Whence their own offspring are compelled to swarm;
So woodland songsters quit their parent's care,
And with their new-fledged pinions cleave the air;
Seek a new home beneath another sky,
And teach their own young nestlings how to fly.

Such is Eternal Wisdom's wondrous plan,
Through all his works, from insects up to man;
The modest virgin owns her bashful flame,
And yields her parent's for a lover's name;
While he whose virtues win her fond embrace,
Becomes the founder of another race.

Fired with the glow of hardy enterprise,
To western scenes the young adventurer flies,
Where the first tree his sounding axe brings down,
Forms the foundation of a future town.
Charmed by such zeal, sustained by kindred force,
The forests melt, and rivers change their course;
Till howling deserts blossom like the rose,
And each rude hamlet to a city grows;
Till a new state is added to the nation,
Another star to Freedom's constellation.

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'T was the same principle, that brought of yore,
Our pilgrim fathers to Columbia's shore,
Where their descendants Freedom's flag unfurled,
And gave a new republic to the world.

If, then, the drama tend to mend the heart,
Refine the taste, and moral truths impart,
You'll all confess that this enlightened age,
And growing city, claim another stage;
And on the strongest proof that we are right,
Behold this bright assemblage here to-night.
See beauty, fashion, genius, science, wit,
With taste and elegance, in box and pit;
All eager to support attempts like this,
To lighten care, and heighten human bliss;
Philanthropists, who by experience know
How sweet the pleasures which from virtue flow;
Who feel that blessing others is the best,
The only way of being truly blest.

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PRIZE ADDRESS,

ON THE OPENING OF A CIRCUS.

The cultured mind, accustomed to explore
And taste the choicest sweets of classic lore,
With rapture dwells on each inspiring lay
That paints the sports of Grecia's proudest day;
When the thronged stadium rang with loud acclaims,
To hail the victor in her manly games;
Those daring feats which famed Alcides taught,
To nerve the limb, and elevate the thought;
Feats which the royal Iphitus restored,
And consecrated to the powers adored;
Which gave to Greece a wreath of fadeless bloom,
And raised the glory of imperial Rome.

There, the fleet courser, with an eye of flame.
Bold, like his rider—and as proud of fame,
Impatient champed the bit, or pawed the ground,
With ear erect, to catch the trumpet's sound;
Then, with a speed that mocked the passing wind,
Spurned the dull earth, and left the world behind.
And with him flew—erect upon his feet!

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The bold equestrian, through the furious heat,
Reckless of danger—(such are Grecians still)—
The rein submitted to the courser's will,
While, at the target, with unerring art,
The fearless rider threw the whizzing dart!
Or, with a harnessed pair, of equal speed,
Vaulted with matchless grace, from steed to steed,
While mingled sounds of wonder and applause
Proclaimed the deepest interest in his cause;
Till, past the goal, and claimant of the prize,
When peals of acclamation pierced the skies.

With feats like these, to charm the present age,
And join the stadium to the modern stage;
To elevate the pleasures of the ring,
By every aid dramatic art can bring—
For this, you see, another fabric reared,
Where late a dreary, barren waste appeared!
For this, kind patrons, we would humbly sue,
To dedicate the tasteful fane to you.

Here shall Latona's bright-haired son impart
The sweetest lessons of his tuneful art;
Here may the eye of taste admire the speed,
And graceful prowess, of the generous steed;
And here, in pleased astonishment, may scan
The still more wondrous active powers of man.

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Here, studious votaries of the classic page
May view the feats of Grecia's golden age;
Feats which secured the victors of the game
Unfading honors, and a deathless fame;
Inspired her youth with that chivalric glow
Which urged them onward to subdue the foe;
Which fired her sons with emulative zeal,
To rise the guardians of their country's weal;
To which she owed the glory of her state,
And that unconquered pride which made her great;
Preserved her freedom—gained the world's applause,
And prompts her now to be what then she was.

And if like causes like effects produce,
If you admit the stadium's wondrous use,
May not a thousand equal blessings spring
From such achievements as shall grace our ring?
May not our patriot youth, who here perceive
What sprightliness and courage can achieve,
Be fired with emulation to command
“The fiery steed, and train him to their hand!”
To vault, like feathered Hermes, on his back,
And fearless guide him to the fierce attack;
To wield the sabre, or direct the dart,
And boldly practise each equestrian art;
To wrestle, leap, or throw the pondrous quoit,
And bear away the palm in each exploit?

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Yes, generous patrons—thus our gallant youth,
Champions of freedom, honor, love, and truth,
Will learn to guard the sacred rights you prize,
And raise Columbia's glory to the skies;
In every clime behold her flag unfurled,
Till Freedom's golden star shall light the world.

ADDRESS,

SPOKEN BY MR. HAMBLIN ON THE OCCASION OF A COMPLIMENTARY BENEFIT TO MR. COOPER THE TRAGEDIAN.

“The king comes here to-night!” He who could wring
Our hearts at will, was “every inch a king!”
For when in life's bright noon, the stage he trod,
In majesty and grace, a demi-god;
With form, and mien, and attitude, and air
Which modern kings might envy in despair;
When his stern brow, and awe-inspiring eye,
Bore sign of an imperial majesty;
Then—in the zenith of his glory—then,
He moved a model for the first of men!
The drama was his empire: and his throne
No rival dared dispute—he reigned alone!
“His feet bestrode the ocean! his waved arm
Crested the world!” His voice possessed a charm,

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To love's, to friendship's, and to classic ears,
Like the sweet music of the tuneful spheres:
“But, when he meant to quail, and shake the world,”
His accents were “like rattling thunders” hurled,
Or plead, “like angels, trumpet-tongued,” to prove
The worth of freedom, and the joys of love!

Whether he gave ungentle wives rebuke,
As simple Leon, or Aranza's duke,
Or tamed (as wild Petruchio) the shrew,
Or showed a fiend in the unpitying Jew;
Displayed the wrecks of passion's withering storm,
In stern Penruddock's, or the Stranger's form;
Whether he bid unnumbered victims bleed,
“As Macedonia's madman, or the Swede,”
Moved as Iago, or the generous Moor,
Or gallant Rolla, mid the battle's roar,
Stemming alone, the tide of war and death;
Hamlet, or Damon; Bertram or Macbeth;
Gloster, Young Wilding, Falstaff, Charles de Moor,
The graceful Doricourt, the gay Belcour;
Brutus—aye, both the Brutuses—of Rome;
Mark Antony, lamenting Cæsar's doom;
The proud Coriolanus, or the sire
Of sweet Virginia. Still his soul of fire

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With grandeur blazed, to ravish or appal—
He “was the noblest Roman of them all!”

Whether he wore the reckless mien of Pierre,
Or the time-scathed decrepitude of Lear,
“Fourscore and upwards”—he might justly say,
“Didn't I, fellow! I have seen the day,”
When, with the very lightning of my brow,
“I would have made them skip—I am old now,
And these same crosses spoil me:”—

Yes, 'tis true
He once commanded, where he now must sue;
For he's old now—and those unrivalled powers
For you exerted, in his happiest hours,
Like flickering lights, which in their sockets burn,
Are fast departing—never to return!

But shall he now, when silvered o'er with age,
Who never made his exit on the stage
But 'mid the thunders of heartfelt applause,
Unhonored pass when he at last withdraws?
He, who devoted all his noon-day powers
To strew your thorny path with classic flowers—
He, whom with laurels you have richly decked,
Shall he at last be chilled with cold neglect?
Perish the thought!—'Tis Cooper's right to claim—
Besides the glory of a deathless name—

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Of your regard, a more substantial proof
Than the loud cheers which shake this vaulted roof—
Protection for his offspring!—dearer far
To his fond heart than earthly glories are;
And you concede this claim—or else to-night,
Here were not seen a galaxy so bright,
Of beauty, taste, and fashion—'tis a blaze
Which so reminds him of his better days,
That fond regrets, with gratitude sincere,
Are mingled in the language of a tear.
And as the worn “war-horse,” at the trumpet shrill,
Leaps o'er each barrier that restrains his will,
Impatient still to claim the hero's right,
The foremost post amid the desperate fight;
So comes our monarch of a former age,
Again to claim his empire o'er the stage,
From tyro potentates this truth to wring,
He was and is “in every inch a king;”
With one bright flash renew th' expiring flame,
And gild the trophies round his honored name.

263

EPILOGUE, TO COX'S OPERA OF ROKEBY.

SPOKEN BY BARNES, PLACIDE, AND HILSON.

Enter Barnes, in character of a Physician.
Barnes.

Oh, spare your hands—'tis useless, all this blarney,
The play can't live, without a word from Barney:
'Tis like a patient—quacks to death may steam him,
And he is damned, if science don't redeem him.
Grappling with fate, 'tis I alone can part 'em—
Barney will save the piece, secundem artem.

Go on—that's right—your smiles are what I'm after—
The best prescription is a roar of laughter;
One hearty laugh, no matter how excited,
May save a life when every hope is blighted.

'Tis true, Placide has got an epilogue,
But 'taint the thing—it don't “go the whole hog;”

264

So, while he's back there, spelling out each line,
I'll give you an extrumpery of mine;
Original throughout—no one has read it—
So, if you have a tear, prepare to shed it.

“A certain fair one—once, in days of yore—
Caught a bad quinsy, and her throat was sore;
She could not speak, nor swallow, chew nor sup,
She scarcely breathed—the doctors gave her up!
Her weeping friends, in silence, breathed their sighs,
And stood prepared to close her fading eyes!
'Twas at this awful crisis, 'mid the gloom,
Her favorite monkey stole into the room;
With doctor's formal air approached the bed,
Seized hold her wrist, then gravely shook his head!
The droll manœuvre called a smile from death,
And one convulsive laugh restored her breath;
Broke her disorder, let the fair escape,
Who owed her cure alone to Dr. Ape.”
D'ye take?—or must I give your wits a jog?
Stay—here comes Harry, with his epilogue.

Enter Placide, who comes forward and speaks.
Placide.
“In ancient times, when plighted vows were broken”—

265

Barnes.
You're too late, Hal—the epilogue is spoken.

Placide.
Spoken! By whom?

Barnes.
By me.

Placide.
By you!

Barnes.
'Tis certain.

Placide.
Why 'taint a minute since they dropt the curtain,
And my address a good half hour employs.

Barnes.
I've done the deed—didst thou not hear a noise?
If you attempt, you'll find yourself mistaken;
I made them laugh—that saved the author's bacon.

Placide.
And who bade you display your monkey capers?
The sun requires no aid from farthing tapers—
I saved the piece, sir.

Barnes.
You!

Placide.
My humble talents
Secured the thing's success, and turned the balance;
Or, as Prince Rupert says—“alone I did it!”
It's true, I pledge my honor!

Enter Hilson, speaking.
Hilson.
Heaven, forbid it!
To put so mere a trifle “up the spout!”

Placide.
Hilson, be quiet! I know what I'm about.

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Hilson.
That tone, my boy, smacks sharply of the acid.

Barnes.
Placide by name, but not exactly placid.
You're somewhat wroth.

Placide.
I am—and shall be wrother—
I'll speak my speech!

Hilson.
Not if you love the author.
Since I have saved his opera, 'twere wrong
To jeopardize it with a speech so long.

Placide.
You saved the opera!

Barnes.
You saved it!

Both.
You!

Hilson.
Yes, I myself alone—you know it's true;
I hit it on the head—and, lest it fail,
Here's a short epilogue, to clinch the nail:
Addressing the Audience.
“When erst the muses, on Parnassus' top,
In mazy dances—”

Barnes.
Prithee, Tommy, stop;
Throw poetry and physic to the dogs,
Nor bore our friends, here, with dull epilogues.

Hilson.
Agreed, old Barney!—and, to end disputes,
The readiest way to harmonize our flutes
Is to admit—so be it understood,
To please our friends we've all done what we could.

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If we have failed—

Placide.
Why, then—

Barnes.
What, then, Placide?

Placide.
They'll take a good intention for the deed.

Hilson.
I'll answer for 't—I know these gen'rous folks,
They 're always laughing at us, or our jokes.
But what of our young author?—Jests nor wit
Won't add a penny to his benefit.

Placide.
His benefit is safe.

Barnes.
What then of Rokeby?

Hilson.
Should that be damned it would a serious joke be.
But see!—there's mercy in each judge's eye—
The bard's acquitted!—Rokeby shall not die!

Placide.
Egad! their plaudits make old Drury shake!

Hilson.
It's just the thing!

Barnes.
I say—“there's no mistake!”

269

ACROSTICS.

IN AN ALBUM.

Just emblems of your minds, these leaves I view,
As yet unwritten, and unsullied too;
Now guard them well—nor let the hand of art
Ere cast a blot upon the book or heart.

Each is now open—watch them both with care,
Lest truant thoughts and wishes enter there;
Invite the good, the talented and wise,
Zealous in virtue's cause, their numbers prize;
Avoid the bad, the doubtful, and the rash—
Better remain a blank than teem with trash.
Endeavor still from Truth's exhaustless store,
To cull the choicest of her precious ore—
Hearts thus endued, are rich for ever more.

270

Maidens, this book must a memorial be
A dear lamented parents' legacy;
Remember when you taste its fragrant flowers
Gathered by fancy from the loveliest bowers,
Affection, duty, sorrow, all combined,
Require the tribute of a grateful mind;
Embrace, dear girls, the yielding moment, then,
To con parental counsel o'er again.

SCIENCE AND GENIUS HAPPILY COMBINED.

Science and genius happily combined,
Adorn, enrich, and elevate his mind;
Moulded by Nature in her happiest mood,
Unawed by threats, by flattery unsubdued;
Each social virtue warms his generous breast,
Lives in his acts, and renders others blest.

Modest of worth that wins unnumbered hearts,
An artist and a patron of the arts;
Void of a wish another's fame to dim,
Envious of none, though thousands envy him;
Richly endowed with every mental grace,
Indulgent Heaven can give the human race;
Celestial truth completes the perfect plan—
Know you the picture?—Maverick is the man.

271

ALTHOUGH, DEAR GIRL.

Although, dear girl, an envious length of space
Between us lies, which fancy dreads to trace,
Believe me, though we dwell so far apart,
You never can be absent from my heart.

Buoyant with hopes, and innocence combined,
Rich in endowments of the form and mind;
Youth, beauty, fortune, friends, and kindred dear,
All, all conspire thy morn of life to cheer;
Nature and art unite their varied powers,
To wreath thy brow, and strew thy path with flowers.

Warmly the wish is flowing from thy breast,
Oh may you thus be long and truly blest;
On thy young heart, may heaven's approving smile,
Dawn, like a sunbeam on some flowery isle,
Where naught but peace and pleasure dare intrude,
Or interrupt the sacred solitude.
Rich in like virtues, may thy lover's breast,
Treasure thine image as its only guest—
Heaven will approve, and both be doubly blest.

272

ART THOU, DEAR NIECE.

Art thou, dear niece, in life's young bloom,
Now, ere the scene is dressed in gloom,
Neglectful of those flowers of mirth,
Meant to refresh our minds on earth?
Art thou, so young, so fair in truth,
Regardless of the joys of youth,
Intended in our path below,
As antidotes to human wo?

Waste not thy youth, thy health, and bloom,
On themes of sorrow, doubt, and gloom;
Our earthly joys, in mercy given,
Do not retard our course to heaven.
Wear in thy face the cheerful smile,
Of innocence, devoid of guile;
Revere and worship with the heart,
The eyes and lips may still impart
Hope's sparkling ray, joy's silver tone,
The good are cheerful—they alone.

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EPITAPH—ACROSTIC.

When virtuous souls throw off their robes of clay,
Invited home to realms of endless day,
Lingering behind, affection, drowned in grief,
Looks round in vain, despairing of relief;
Impatient of the chastisement, we mourn,
And grieve for pleasures that no more return;
Mingling our tears upon the senseless urn.

But we forget that virtue can not die,
Eternal joys now bless our friend on high;
The soul still lives far from this clayey bed,
He is not here, but risen from the dead.
Ere we are called to lay these bodies by,
Let us his virtues imitate, and try,
Like him to live, and then like him to die.

ELEGIAC ACROSTIC.

Joined with his kindred spirits in the sky,
Oh, wherefore wish him back again to die?
Here all is pain, or transitory joy,
Nothing can there his perfect bliss alloy.

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Rich in the best endowments of the mind,
Imbued with virtues of the gentlest kind,
Cheerful he journeyed through this chequered wild,
Honest, sincere, benevolent, and mild,
As husband, father, friend, he filled his part,
Religious smile the sunshine of the heart,
Death came to him the messenger of love,
Sent to conduct him to his home above.