Part 11 (1/2)
Where--on each magisterial nose In colours of the rainbow linger, Like sunset hues on Alpine snows, The printmarks of your thumb and finger.
Where he, the wisest of wild fowl, Bird of Jove's blue-eyed maid--the owl, That feather'd alderman, is heard Nightly, by poet's ear alone, To other eyes and ears unknown, Cheering your every look and word, And making, room and gallery through, The loud, applauding echoes peal, Of his ”_ou peut on etre mieux Qu'au sein de sa famille_?”[A]
Oh for a herald's skill to rank Your t.i.tles in their due degrees!
At Singsing--at the Tradesmen's Bank, In Courts, Committees, Caucuses: At Albany, where those who knew The last year's secrets of the great, Call you the golden handle to The earthen Pitcher of the State.
(Poor Pitcher! that Van Buren ceases To want its service gives me pain, 'Twill break into as many pieces As Kitty's of Coleraine.) At Bellevue, on her banquet night, Where Burgundy and business meet, On others, at the heart's delight, The Pewter Mug in Frankfort-street; From Harlaem bridge to Whitehall dock, From Bloomingdale to Blackwell's Isles, Forming, including road and rock, A city of some twelve square miles, O'er street and alley, square and block, Towers, temples, telegraphs, and tiles, O'er wharves whose stone and timbers mock The ocean's and its navies' shock, O'er all the fleets that float before her O'er all their banners waving o'er her, Her sky and waters, earth and air-- You are lord, for who is her lord mayor?
Where is he? Echo answers, where And voices, like the sound of seas, Breathe in sad chorus, on the breeze, The Highland mourner's melody-- Oh HONE a rie! Oh HONE a rie!
The hymn o'er happy days departed, The hope that such again may be, When power was large and liberal-hearted, And wealth was hospitality.
One more request, and I am lost, If you its earnest prayer deny; It is, that you preserve the most Inviolable secrecy As to my plan. Our fourteen wards Contain some thirty-seven bards, Who, if my glorious theme were known, Would make it, thought and word, their own, My hopes and happiness destroy, And trample with a rival's joy Upon the grave of my renown.
My younger brothers in the art, Whose study is the human heart-- Minstrels, before whose spells have bow'd The learn'd, the lovely, and the proud, Ere their life's morning hours are gone-- Light hearts be theirs, the muse's boon, And may their suns blaze bright at noon, And set without a cloud.
HILLHOUSE, whose music, like his themes, Lifts earth to heaven--whose poet dreams Are pure and holy as the hymn Echoed from harps of seraphim, By bards that drank at Zion's fountains When glory, peace, and hope were hers, And beautiful upon her mountains The feet of angel messengers.
BRYANT, whose songs are thoughts that bless The heart, its teachers, and its joy, As mothers blend with their caress Lessons of truth and gentleness And virtue for the listening boy.
Spring's lovelier flowers for many a day Have blossom'd on his wandering way, Beings of beauty and decay, They slumber in their autumn tomb; But those that graced his own Green River, And wreathed the lattice of his home, Charm'd by his song from mortal doom, Bloom on, and will bloom on for ever.
And HALLECK--who has made thy roof, St. Tammany! oblivion-proof-- Thy beer ill.u.s.trious, and thee A belted knight of chivalry; And changed thy dome of painted bricks And porter casks and politics, Into a green Arcadian vale, With St*ph*n All*n for its lark, B*n B*il*y's voice its watch-dog's bark, And J*hn T*rg*e its nightingale.
These, and the other THIRTY-FOUR, Will live a thousand years or more-- If the world lasts so long. For me, I rhyme not for posterity, Though pleasant to my heirs might be The incense of its praise, When I, their ancestor, have gone, And paid the debt, the only one A poet ever pays.
But many are my years, and few Are left me ere night's holy dew, And sorrow's holier tears, will keep The gra.s.s green where in death I sleep And when that gra.s.s is green above me, And those who bless me now and love me Are sleeping by my side, Will it avail me aught that men Tell to the world with lip and pen That once I lived and died?
No: if a garland for my brow Is growing, let me have it now, While I'm alive to wear it; And if, in whispering my name, There's music in the voice of fame Like Garcia's, let me hear it!
The Christmas holydays are nigh, Therefore, till Newyear's Eve, good-by, Then _revenons a nos moutons_, Yourself and aldermen--meanwhile, Look o'er this letter with a smile; And keep the secret of its song As faithfully, but not as long, As you have guarded from the eyes Of editorial Paul Prys, And other meddling, murmuring claimants, Those Eleusinian mysteries, The city's cash receipts and payments.
Yours ever, T. C.
[A] A favourite French air. In English, ”where can one be more happy than in the bosom of one's family?”
EPISTLES, ETC.
TO
W*LT*R B*WNE, ESQ.,
MEMBER OF THE COUNCIL OF APPOINTMENT OF THE STATE OF NEW-YORK, AT ALBANY, 1821.
”Stand not upon the order of your going.
But go at once.”
”I cannot but remember such things were, And were most precious to me.”
_Macbeth._
We do not blame you, W*lt*r B*wne, For a variety of reasons; You're now the talk of half the town, A man of talent and renown, And will be for perhaps two seasons.
That face of yours has magic in it; Its smile transports us in a minute To wealth and pleasure's sunny bowers; And there is terror in its frown, Which, like a mower's scythe, cuts down Our city's loveliest flowers.
We therefore do not blame you, sir, Whate'er our cause of grief may be; And cause enough we have to ”stir The very stones to mutiny.”
You've driven from the cash and cares Of office, heedless of our prayers, Men who have been for many a year To us and to our purses dear, And will be to our heirs for ever, Our tears, thanks to the snow and rain, Have swell'd the brook in Maiden-lane Into a mountain river; And when you visit us again, Leaning at Tammany on your cane, Like warrior on his battle blade, You'll mourn the havoc you have made.