Part 4 (1/2)

He had a little of the ”nasal tw.a.n.g Heard at conventicle;” but yet you found In him a dash of purity and brightness, That spoke the man of taste and of politeness.

LXXIV.

For he had been, it seems, the bosom friend Of England's prettiest bard, Anacreon Moore.

They met when he, the bard, came here to lend His mirth and music to this favourite sh.o.r.e; For, as the proverb saith, ”birds of a feather Instinctively will flock and fly together.”

LXXV.

The winds that wave thy cedar boughs are breathing, ”Lake of the Dismal Swamp!” that poet's name; And the spray-showers their noonday halos wreathing Around ”Cohoes,” are brighten'd by his fame.

And bright its sunbeam o'er St. Lawrence smiles, Her million lilies, and her thousand isles.

LXXVI.

We hear his music in her oarsmen's lay, And where her church-bells ”toll the evening chime;”

Yet when to him the grateful heart would pay Its homage, now, and in all coming time, Up springs a doubtful question whether we Owe it to Tara's minstrel or Targee.

LXXVII.

Together oft they wander'd--many a spot Now consecrated, as the minstrel's theme, By words of beauty ne'er to be forgot, Their mutual feet have trod; and when the stream Of thought and feeling flow'd in mutual speech, 'Twere vain to tell how much each taught to each.

LXXVIII.

But, from the following song, it would appear That he of Erin from the sachem took The model of his ”Bower of Bendemeer,”

One of the sweetest airs in Lalla Rookh; 'Tis to be hoped that in his next edition, This, the original, will find admission.

SONG.

There's a barrel of porter at Tammany Hall, And the bucktails are swigging it all the night long; In the time of my boyhood 'twas pleasant to call For a seat and segar, mid the jovial throng.

That beer and those bucktails I never forget; But oft, when alone, and unnoticed by all, I think, is the porter cask foaming there yet?

Are the bucktails still swigging at Tammany Hall?

No! the porter was out long before it was stale, But some blossoms on many a nose brightly shone; And the speeches inspired by the fumes of the ale, Had the fragrance of porter when porter was gone.

How much Cozzens will draw of such beer ere he dies, Is a question of moment to me and to all; For still dear to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that barrel of porter at Tammany Hall.

SONG.

There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the night long, In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song.

That bower and its music I never forget; But oft, when alone, in the bloom of the year, I think, is the nightingale singing there yet?