THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN.
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF WASHINGTON.
Why moves to mournful measures slow
Yon sable retinue of wo,
With tearful eye and visage pale?
And why this universal gloom?
Sure Nature trembles o'er her tomb,
And bids her wilder'd children wail!
Do plagues infest, do wars alarm,
Has God in wrath made bare his arm,
To hurl his bolts of vengeance round?
Have towns been sack'd by hostile ire,
Have cities sunk in floods of fire,
While earthquakes shook the shuddering ground?
Ah! no, thy sons, Columbia, mourn,
A hero past that fatal “bourne
From whence no traveller returns;”
Before him none more good, more great,
E'er felt th' unerring shafts of fate,
Though glory's lamp illume their urns.
Behold yon pallid war-worn chief,
A marble monument of grief,
Who once our troops to victory led;—
The burst of sorrow now control,
But now the tears of anguish roll,
A tribute to th' immortal dead!
Fain would the muse those virtues scan,
Which dignified the godlike man,
And launch in seas without a shore;
But sure his name alone conveys
More than a thousand hymns of praise,
The matchless Washington 's no more!
AN ODE.
Almighty Power! the One Supreme!
Our souls inspire, attune our lays
With hearts as solemn as our theme,
To sing hosannas to thy praise!
Then, while we swell the sacred song,
And bid the pealing anthem rise,
May seraphim the strain prolong,
And hymns of glory fill the skies.
Thy word omnific form'd this earth,
Ere time began revolving years—
Thy fiat gave to nature birth
And tuned to harmony the spheres.
When stern oppression's iron hand
Our pious fathers forced to roam,
And o'er the wild wave seek the land
Where freedom rears her hallow'd dome—
When tempests howl'd, and o'er the main,
Pale horror rear'd his haggard form;
Thou didst the fragile bark sustain
To stem the fury of the storm!
When savage hordes, from wilds immense,
Raised the shrill war-whoops frantic yell,
Thine arm made bare in our defence,
Dispersed the gloomy hosts of hell!
Thou bad'st the wilderness disclose
The varied sweets of vernal bloom—
The desert blossom'd like the rose,
And breathed Arabia's rich perfume!
Look down from heaven's empyreal height,
And gild with smiles this happy day.
Send us some chosen son of light
Our feet to guide in wisdom's way.
The sons of Faction strike with awe,
And hush the din of party rage,
That liberty, secured by law,
May realize a golden age.
On those thy choicest blessings shower
To whom the cares of state are given;
May justice wield the sword of power,
Till earth 's the miniature of heaven!
TABITHA TOWZER.
Miss Tabitha Towzer is fair,
No guinea pig ever was neater,
Like a hakmatak slender and spare,
And sweet as a mush-squash, or sweeter.
Miss Tabitha Towzer is sleek,
When dress'd in her pretty new tucker,
Like an otter that paddles the creek,
In quest of a mud-pout, or sucker.
Her forehead is smooth as a tray,
Ah! smoother than that, on my soul,
And turn'd, as a body may say,
Like a delicate neat wooden-bowl.
To what shall I liken her hair,
As straight as a carpenter's line,
For similes sure must be rare,
When we speak of a nymph so divine.
Not the head of a Nazarite seer,
That never was shaven or shorn.
Nought equals the locks of my dear,
But the silk of an ear of green corn.
My dear has a beautiful nose,
With a sled-runner crook in the middle,
Which one would be led to suppose
Was meant for the head of a fiddle.
Miss Tabby has two pretty eyes,
Glass buttons shone never so bright,
Their love-lighted lustre outvies
The lightning-bug's twinkle by night.
And oft with a magical glance,
She makes in my bosom a pother,
When leering politely askance,
She shuts one, and winks with the other.
The lips of my charmer are sweet,
As a hogshead of maple molasses,
And the ruby-red tint of her cheek,
The gill of a salmon surpasses.
No teeth like her's ever were seen,
Nor ever described in a novel,
Of a beautiful kind of pea-green,
And shaped like a wooden-shod-shovel.
Her fine little ears, you would judge,
Were wings of a bat in perfection;
A dollar I never should grudge
To put them in Peale's grand collection.
Description must fail in her chin,
At least till our language is richer;
Much fairer than ladle of tin,
Or beautiful brown earthern pitcher.
So pretty a neck, I'll be bound,
Never join'd head and body together,
Like nice crook'd-neck'd squash on the ground,
Long whiten'd by winter-like weather.
Should I set forth the rest of her charms,
I might by some phrase that's improper,
Give modesty's bosom alarms,
Which I would n't do for a copper.
Should I mention her gait or her air,
You might think I intended to banter;
She moves with more grace you would swear,
Than a founder'd horse forced to a canter.
She sang with a beautiful voice,
Which ravish'd you out of your senses;
A pig will make just such a noise
When his hind leg stuck fast in the fence is.
SIGNIOR SQUEAK'S DANCING ADVERTISEMENT.
A gentleman of vast agility,
Who teaches capers and civility,
And whose whole life consists of play days,
Informs the gentlemen and ladies
Of Bellows Falls, and other places,
That he 's grand master of the graces—
Professor of the violin,
And hopes to suit them to a pin
In teaching arts, and fascinations,
Dancing and other recreations.
Amphion, Orpheus, or Apollo,
In fiddling he can beat all hollow;
And all those wonder-working elves,
Who made huge houses build themselves,
And rocks responsive to their ditties,
Rise into palaces and cities,
Compared with him, are every one
Like fire-bugs liken'd to the sun.
He steps a hornpipe so genteel,
You 'd think him dealing with the de'il.
Can teach young ladies nineteen millions
Of spick and span new French cotillions,
With flourishes, and turns, and twists,
Of arms and elbows, toes and wrists,
And attitudes of fascination,
Enough to ravish all creation.
He whirls, and bounds, and sinks and rises,
Makes figures of all sorts and sizes,
Flies nine times round the hall, before
He condescends to touch the floor,
And now and then like lightning springs
And borne aloft on pigeons' wings,
Cuts capers wonderful and rare
Like fairy frolicking in the air.
He waltzes in a style so smart
A lady's adamantine heart
Will be inevitably melted,
Like ore that 's in a furnace smelted.
All these and fifty other capers
Not fit to print in public papers,
Which put the genteel polish on,
And fit a tippy for the ton,
Said Signior Squeak will teach his scholars;—
Terms, per quarter, twenty dollars.
Nota Bene—ladies grown,
Said Signior waits upon alone,
Teaching graces, arts, and airs,
And other delicate affairs;
How to look and act as prettily
As belles of England, France, or Italy.
