Part 3 (2/2)

LXV.

Of veterans? nursed in that Free School of glory, The New-York State Militia. From Bellevue, E'en to the Battery flagstaff, the proud story Of their man[oe]uvres at the last review Has rang; and Clinton's ”order” told afar He never led a better corps to war.

LXVI.

What, Egypt, was thy magic, to the tricks Of Mr. Charles, Judge Spencer, or Van Buren?

The first with cards, the last in politics, A conjuror's fame for years have been securing.

And who would now the Athenian dramas read When he can get ”Wall-street,” by Mr. Mead.

LXVII.

I might say much about our letter'd men, Those ”grave and reverend seigniors,” who compose Our learn'd societies--but here my pen Stops short; for they themselves, the rumour goes, The exclusive privilege by patent claim, Of trumpeting (as the phrase is) their own fame.

LXVIII.

And, therefore, I am silent. It remains To bless the hour the Corporation took it Into their heads to give the rich in brains, The worn-out mansion of the poor in pocket, Once ”the old almshouse,” now a school of wisdom, Sacred to Scudder's sh.e.l.ls and Dr. Griscom.

LXIX.

But whither am I wandering? The esteem I bear ”this fair city of the heart,”

To me a dear enthusiastic theme, Has forced me, all unconsciously, to part Too long from him, the hero of my story.

Where was he?--waking from his dream of glory.

LXX.

And she, the lady of his dream, had fled, And left him somewhat puzzled and confused.

He understood, however, half she said; And that is quite as much as we are used To comprehend, or fancy worth repeating, In speeches heard at any public meeting.

LXXI.

And the next evening found him at the Hall; There he was welcomed by the cordial hand, And met the warm and friendly grasp of all Who take, like watchmen, there, their nightly stand, A ring, as in a boxing match, procuring, To bet on Clinton, Tompkins, or Van Buren.

LXXII.

'Twas a propitious moment; for a while The waves of party were at rest. Upon Each complacent brow was gay good humour's smile; And there was much of wit, and jest, and pun, And high amid the circle, in great glee, Sat Croaker's old acquaintance, John Targee.

LXXIII.

His jokes excell'd the rest, and oft he sang Songs, patriotic, as in duty bound.

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