The poetical writings of Fitz-Greene Halleck, with extracts from those of Joseph Rodman Drake

When Bony fought his host of foes,
Heroes and generals arose
Like mushrooms when he bade them;
Europe, while trembling at his nod,
Thought him a sort of demi-god,
So wondrous quick he made them.

But “every dog must have his day,”
And Bony's power has passed away,
His track let others follow;
Yet in that talent of the Great,
With dash of goose-quill to create,
Our Clinton beats him hollow!

Alas! thou little god

Major-General Morton, commanding the militia of the city.—In dignity and courtesy, a worthy representative of the old school, and retaining in many respects its costume, particularly in the arrangement of his hair.

of war,
The proud effulgence of thy star
Is dimmed, I fear, forever,
Though bright thy buttons long have shined,
And still thy powdered hair behind
Is clubbed so neat and clever.

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Yet round thee are assembled now
New chieftains, all intent as thou
On hard militia duty:
Here's King,

The lately lost and lamented president of Columbia College; her model of an accomplished scholar and gentleman. In early life an aide to a military commander.

conspicuous for his hat,
And Ferris Pell, for God knows what,
And Bayard

A young officer in a similar military position. He was one of the firm of Le Roy, Bayard, and McEvers, prominent merchants of New York, and a brother-in-law of the late General Stephen Van Rensselaer. Mr. Bayard is still a resident of this city.

, for his beauty.

These are but colonels—there are hosts
Of higher grades, like Banquo's ghosts,
Upon my sight advancing;
In truth they made e'en Jackson stare,
When in the Park, up-tossed in air,
He saw their plumage dancing.

Yet I should wrong them not to name
Two Major-Generals, high in fame,
By Heaven! a gallant pair!
(They haven't any soldiers yet,)
His Honor, General by brevet,
Bogardus, brevet Mayor.

Should England dare to send again
Her scoundrel red-coats o'er the main,
I fear some sad disaster;
Each soldier wears an epaulette,
The Guards have turned a capering set,
And want a dancing-master.

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Sam Swartwout!

He was for a time the proprietor of the meadows between Weehawken and Jersey City.

where are now thy Grays?
Oh, bid again their banner blaze
O'er hearts and ranks unbroken!
Let drum and fife your slumbers break,
And bid the devil freely take
Your meadows at Hoboken!

University of Virginia Library

BONY'S FIGHT.