 | The poetical writings of Fitz-Greene Halleck, with extracts from those of Joseph Rodman Drake |  |
313
THE LOVE OF NOTORIETY.
There are laurels our temples throb warmly to claim,
Unwet by the blood-dripping fingers of War,
And as dear to the heart are the whispers of fame,
As the blasts of her bugle rang fiercely and far;
The death-dirge is sung o'er the warrior's tomb,
Ere the world to his valor its homage will give,
But the feathers that form Notoriety's plume,
Are plucked in the sunshine, and live while we live.
Unwet by the blood-dripping fingers of War,
And as dear to the heart are the whispers of fame,
As the blasts of her bugle rang fiercely and far;
The death-dirge is sung o'er the warrior's tomb,
Ere the world to his valor its homage will give,
But the feathers that form Notoriety's plume,
Are plucked in the sunshine, and live while we live.
There's a wonderful charm in that sort of renown
Which consists in becoming “the talk of the town;”
'Tis a pleasure which none but your “truly great” feels,
To be followed about by a mob at one's heels;
And to hear from the gazing and mouth-open throng,
The dear words “That's he,” as one trudges along;
While Beauty, all anxious, stands up on tip-toes,
Leans on her beau's shoulder, and lisps “There he goes.”
Which consists in becoming “the talk of the town;”
'Tis a pleasure which none but your “truly great” feels,
To be followed about by a mob at one's heels;
And to hear from the gazing and mouth-open throng,
The dear words “That's he,” as one trudges along;
While Beauty, all anxious, stands up on tip-toes,
Leans on her beau's shoulder, and lisps “There he goes.”
For this the young Dandy, half whalebone, half starch,
Parades through Broadway with the stiff Steuben march;
A new species of being, created, they say,
By nine London tailors, who ventured one day
To cabbage a spark of Promethean fire,
Which they placed in a German doll latticed with wire,
And formed of the scarecrow a Dandy divine,
But mum about tailors—I haven't paid mine.
Parades through Broadway with the stiff Steuben march;
A new species of being, created, they say,
By nine London tailors, who ventured one day
314
Which they placed in a German doll latticed with wire,
And formed of the scarecrow a Dandy divine,
But mum about tailors—I haven't paid mine.
And for this, little Brummagem mounts with a smile
His own hackney buggy, and dashes in style
From some livery stable to Cato's Hotel,
And though 'tis a desperate task to be striving
With these sons of John Bull in the science of driving,
We have still a few Jockies who do it as well.
His own hackney buggy, and dashes in style
From some livery stable to Cato's Hotel,
And though 'tis a desperate task to be striving
With these sons of John Bull in the science of driving,
We have still a few Jockies who do it as well.
There are two, “par example,” 'tis joy to behold,
With their Haytian grooms trotting graceful behind them,
In their livery jackets of blue, green, and gold,
Their bright varnished hats and the laces that bind them:
The one's an Adonis, who, since the sad day
That he shot at himself
has been courted no more;
The other's a name it were treason to say,
A very great man—with “two lamps at his door.”
With their Haytian grooms trotting graceful behind them,
In their livery jackets of blue, green, and gold,
Their bright varnished hats and the laces that bind them:
The one's an Adonis, who, since the sad day
That he shot at himself
The Baron Von Hoffman.—An adventurer styling himself a Dutch nobleman of high distinction, and by the fashionable circles courted and caressed accordingly, until detected as an impostor. “A fish can as vell live out of water as I can live out of de ladies,” was a favorite remark of the bogus baron, who came very near winning the hand of a noted New-York belle and heiress. Among his attempts at notoriety was that of shooting at himself with the wad of a pistol. He soon after disappeared from New York, and when last heard from was at Morrison's Hotel, Dublin, quietly luxuriating in the blaze of his fame.
The other's a name it were treason to say,
A very great man—with “two lamps at his door.”
H.
| The poetical writings of Fitz-Greene Halleck, with extracts from those of Joseph Rodman Drake | |