Part 5 (2/2)

In such an hour he turns, and on his view, Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before him; Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue Of summer's sky in beauty bending o'er him-- The city bright below; and far away, Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay.

XCVIII.

Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement, And banners floating in the sunny air; And white sails o'er the calm blue waters bent, Green isle, and circling sh.o.r.e, are blended there In wild reality. When life is old, And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold

XCIX.

Its memory of this; nor lives there one Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood's days Of happiness were pa.s.s'd beneath that sun, That in his manhood's prime can calmly gaze Upon that bay, or on that mountain stand, Nor feel the prouder of his native land.

C.

”This may be poetry, for aught I know,”

Said an old, worthy friend of mine, while leaning Over my shoulder as I wrote, ”although I can't exactly comprehend its meaning.

For my part, I have long been a pet.i.tioner To Mr. John M'Comb, the street-commissioner,

CI.

”That he would think of Weehawk, and would lay it Handsomely out in avenue and square; Then tax the land, and make its owners pay it (As is the usual plan pursued elsewhere); Blow up the rocks, and sell the wood for fuel-- 'Twould save us many a dollar, and a duel.”

CII.

The devil take you and John M'Comb, said I; Lang, in its praise, has penn'd one paragraph, And promised me another. I defy, With such a.s.sistance, yours and the world's laugh; And half believe that Paulding, on this theme, Might be a poet--strange as it may seem.

CIII.

For even our traveller felt, when home returning From that day's tour, as on the deck he stood, The fire of poetry within him burning; ”Albeit unused to the rhyming mood;”

And with a pencil on his knee he wrote The following flaming lines

TO THE HORSEBOAT.

1

Away--o'er the wave to the home we are seeking, Bark of my hope! ere the evening be gone; There's a wild, wild note in the curlew's shrieking; There's a whisper of death in the wind's low moan.

2

Though blue and bright are the heavens above me, And the stars are asleep on the quiet sea; And hearts I love, and hearts that love me, Are beating beside me merrily,

3

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