The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth

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.

University of Virginia Library

ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING EPISTLE.