Part 2

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? Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?

No! the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave, But some blossoms were gather'd while freshly they shone; And a dew was distill'd from their flowers, that gave All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.

Thus memory draws from delight ere it dies, An essence that breathes of it many a year; Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer.

LXXIX.

For many months my hero ne'er neglected To take his ramble there, and soon found out, In much less time than one could have expected, What 'twas they all were quarrelling about. He learn'd the party countersigns by rote, And when to clap his hands, and how to vote.

LXXX.

He learn'd that Clinton became Governor Somehow by chance, when we were all asleep; That he had neither sense, nor talent, nor Any good quality, and would not keep His place an hour after the next election-- So powerful was the voice of disaffection.

LXXXI.

That he was a mere puppet made to play A thousand tricks, while Spencer touch'd the springs-- Spencer, the mighty Warwick of his day, "That setter up, and puller down of kings," Aided by Miller, Pell, and Doctor Graham, And other men of equal worth and fame.

LXXXII.

And that he'd set the people at defiance, By placing knaves and fools in public stations; And that his works in literature and science Were but a schoolboy's web of misquotations; And that he'd quoted from the devil even-- "Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven."

LXXXIII.

To these authentic facts each bucktail swore; But Clinton's friends averr'd, in contradiction, They were but fables, told by Mr. Noah, Who had a privilege to deal in fiction, Because he'd written travels, and a melo- Drama; and was, withal, a pleasant fellow.

LXXXIV.

And they declared that Tompkins was no better Than he should be; that he had borrow'd money, And paid it--not in cash--but with a letter; And though some trifling service he had done, he Still wanted spirit, energy, and fire; And was disliked by--Mr. M'Intyre.

LXXXV.

In short, each one with whom in conversation He join'd, contrived to give him different views Of men and measures; and the information Which he obtain'd, but aided to confuse His brain. At best, 'twas never very clear; And now 'twas turn'd with politics and beer.

LXXXVI.

And he was puff'd, and flatter'd, and caress'd By all, till he sincerely thought that nature Had form'd him for an alderman at least-- Perhaps, a member of the legislature; And that he had the talents, ten times over, Of H*n*y M**gs, or P*t*r H. W*nd*ver.

LXXXVII.

The man was mad, 'tis plain, and merits pity, Or he had never dared, in such a tone, To speak of two great persons, whom the city, With pride and pleasure, points to as her own. Men, wise in council, brilliant in debate, "The expectancy and rose of the fair state."

LXXXVIII.

The one--for a pure style and classic manner, Is--Mr. Sachem Mooney far before. The other, in his speech about the banner, Spell-bound his audience until they swore That such a speech was never heard till then, And never would be--till he spoke again.

LXXXIX.

Though 'twas presumptuous in this friend of ours To think of rivalling these, I must allow That still the man had talents; and the powers Of his capacious intellect were now Improved by foreign travel, and by reading, And at the Hall he'd learn'd, of course, good breeding.

XC.

He had read the newspapers with great attention, Advertisements and all; and Riley's book Of travels--valued for its rich invention; And Day and Turner's Price Current; and took The Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews; And also Colonel Pell's; and, to amuse

XCI.

His leisure hours with classic tale and story, Longworth's Directory, and Mead's Wall-street, And Mr. Delaplaine's Repository; And Mitchill's scientific works complete, With other standard books of modern days, Lay on his table, cover'd with green baize.

XCII.

His travels had extended to Bath races; And Bloomingdale and Bergen he had seen, And Harlaem Heights; and many other places, By sea and land, had visited; and been, In a steamboat of the Vice President's, To Staten-Island once--for fifty cents.

XCIII.

And he had dined, by special invitation, On turtle, with "the party" at Hoboken; And thank'd them for his card in an oration, Declared to be the shortest ever spoken. And he had stroll'd one day o'er Weehawk hill: A day worth all the rest--he recollects it still.

XCIV.

Weehawken! In thy mountain scenery yet, All we adore of nature in her wild And frolic hour of infancy, is met; And never has a summer's morning smiled Upon a lovelier scene, than the full eye Of the enthusiast revels on--when high

XCV.

Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbs O'er crags, that proudly tower above the deep, And knows that sense of danger which sublimes The breathless moment--when his daring step Is on the verge of the cliff, and he can hear The low dash of the wave with startled ear,

XCVI.

Like the death-music of his coming doom, And clings to the green turf with desperate force, As the heart clings to life; and when resume The currents in his veins their wonted course, There lingers a deep feeling--like the moan Of wearied ocean, when the storm is gone.

XCVII.

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 shore, 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 pass'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 petitioner 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 assistance, 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

Yet, far in the west, where the day's faded roses, Touch'd by the moonbeam, are withering fast; Where the half-seen spirit of twilight reposes, Hymning the dirge of the hours that are past,

4

There, where the ocean-wave sparkles at meeting (As sunset dreams tell us) the kiss of the sky, On his dim, dark cloud is the infant storm sitting, And beneath the horizon his lightnings are nigh.

5

Another hour--and the death-word is given, Another hour--and his lightnings are here; Speed! speed thee, my bark; ere the breeze of even Is lost in the tempest, our home will be near.

6

Then away o'er the wave, while thy pennant is streaming In the shadowy light, like a shooting star; Be swift as the thought of the wanderer, dreaming, In a stranger land, of his fireside afar.

7

And while memory lingers I'll fondly believe thee A being with life and its best feelings warm; And freely the wild song of gratitude weave thee, Bless'd spirit! that bore me and mine from the storm.

CIV.

But where is Fanny? She has long been thrown Where cheeks and roses wither--in the shade. The age of chivalry, you know, is gone; And although, as I once before have said, I love a pretty face to adoration, Yet, still, I must preserve my reputation,

CV.

As a true dandy of the modern schools. One hates to be oldfashion'd; it would be A violation of the latest rules, To treat the sex with too much courtesy. 'Tis not to worship beauty, as she glows In all her diamond lustre, that the beaux

CVI.

Of these enlighten'd days at evening crowd, Where fashion welcomes in her rooms of light, That "dignified obedience; that proud Submission," which, in times of yore, the knight Gave to his "ladye-love," is now a scandal, And practised only by your Goth or Vandal.

CVII.

To lounge in graceful attitudes--be stared Upon, the while, by every fair one's eye, And stare one's self, in turn; to be prepared To dart upon the trays, as swiftly by The dexterous Simon bears them, and to take One's share, at least, of coffee, cream, and cake,

CVIII.

Is now to be "the ton." The pouting lip, And sad, upbraiding eye of the poor girl, Who hardly of joy's cup one drop can sip, Ere in the wild confusion, and the whirl, And tumult of the hour, its bubbles vanish, Must now be disregarded. One must banish

CIX.

Those antiquated feelings, that belong To feudal manners and a barbarous age. Time was--when woman "pour'd her soul" in song, That all was hush'd around. 'Tis now "the rage" To deem a song, like bugle-tones in battle, A signal note, that bids each tongue's artillery rattle.

CX.

And, therefore, I have made Miss Fanny wait My leisure. She had changed, as you will see, as Much as her worthy sire, and made as great Proficiency in taste and high ideas. The careless smile of other days was gone, And every gesture spoke "_q'en dira-t' on_?"

CXI.

She long had known that in her father's coffers, And also to his credit in the banks, There was some cash; and therefore all the offers Made her, by gentlemen of the middle ranks, Of heart and hand, had spurn'd, as far beneath One whose high destiny it was to breathe,

CXII.

Ere long, the air of Broadway or Park Place, And reign a fairy queen in fairy land; Display in the gay dance her form of grace, Or touch with rounded arm and gloveless hand, Harp or piano.--Madame Catilani Forgot a while, and every eye on Fanny.

CXIII.

And in anticipation of that hour, Her star of hope--her paradise of thought, She'd had as many masters as the power Of riches could bestow; and had been taught The thousand nameless graces that adorn The daughters of the wealthy and high born.

CXIV.

She had been noticed at some public places (The Battery, and the balls of Mr. Whale), For hers was one of those attractive faces, That when you gaze upon them, never fail To bid you look again; there was a beam, A lustre in her eye, that oft would seem

CXV.

A little like effrontery; and yet The lady meant no harm; her only aim Was but to be admired by all she met, And the free homage of the heart to claim; And if she show'd too plainly this intention, Others have done the same--'twas not of her invention.

CXVI.

She shone at every concert; where are bought Tickets, by all who wish them, for a dollar; She patronised the Theatre, and thought That Wallack look'd extremely well in Rolla; She fell in love, as all the ladies do, With Mr. Simpson--talked as loudly, too,

CXVII.

As any beauty of the highest grade, To the gay circle in the box beside her; And when the pit--half vex'd and half afraid, With looks of smother'd indignation eyed her, She calmly met their gaze, and stood before 'em, Smiling at vulgar taste and mock decorum.

CXVIII.

And though by no means a _bas bleu_, she had For literature a most becoming passion; Had skimm'd the latest novels, good and bad, And read the Croakers, when they were in fashion; And Doctor Chalmers' sermons, of a Sunday; And Woodworth's Cabinet, and the new Salmagundi.

CXIX.

She was among the first and warmest patrons Of Griscom's _conversaziones_ where In rainbow groups, our bright-eyed maids and matrons, On science bent, assemble; to prepare Themselves for acting well, in life, their part As wives and mothers. There she learn'd by heart

CXX.

Words, to the witches in Macbeth unknown. _Hydraulics_, _hydrostatics_, and _pneumatics_, _Dioptrics_, _optics_, _katoptrics_, _carbon_, _Chlorine_, and _iodine_, and _aerostatics_; Also,--why frogs, for want of air, expire; And how to set the Tappan sea on fire!

CXXI.

In all the modern languages she was Exceedingly well versed; and had devoted, To their attainment, far more time than has, By the best teachers lately, been allotted; For she had taken lessons, twice a week, For a full month in each; and she could speak

CXXII.

French and Italian, equally as well As Chinese, Portuguese, or German; and, What is still more surprising, she could spell Most of our longest English words off hand; Was quite familiar in Low Dutch and Spanish, And thought of studying modern Greek and Danish.

CXXIII.

She sang divinely: and in "Love's young dream," And "Fanny dearest," and "The soldier's bride;" And every song, whose dear delightful theme, Is "Love, still love," had oft till midnight tried Her finest, loftiest "pigeon-wings" of sound, Waking the very watchmen far around.

CXXIV.

For her pure taste in dress, I can appeal to Madame Bouquet, and Monsieur Pardessus; She was, in short, a woman you might kneel to, If kneeling were in fashion; or if you Were wearied of your duns and single life, And wanted a few thousands and a wife. 1819.

CXXV.

* * * * * * * * * *

CXXVI.

"There was a sound of revelry by night;" Broadway was throng'd with coaches, and within A mansion of the best of brick, the bright And eloquent eyes of beauty bade begin The dance; and music's tones swell'd wild and high, And hearts and heels kept tune in tremulous ecstasy.

CXXVII.

For many a week, the note of preparation Had sounded through all circles far and near; And some five hundred cards of invitation Bade beau and belle in full costume appear; There was a most magnificent variety, All quite select, and of the first society.

CXXVIII.

That is to say--the rich and the well-bred, The arbiters of fashion and gentility, In different grades of splendour, from the head Down to the very toe of our nobility: Ladies, remarkable for handsome eyes Or handsome fortunes--learned men, and wise:

CXXIX.

Statesmen, and officers of the militia-- In short, the "first society"--a phrase, Which you may understand as best may fit you Besides the blackest fiddlers of those days, Placed like their sire, Timotheus, on high, With horsehair fiddle-bows and teeth of ivory.

CXXX.

The carpets were roll'd up the day before, And, with a breath, two rooms became but one, Like man and wife--and, on the polish'd floor, Chalk in the artists' plastic hand had done All that chalk could do--in young Eden's bowers They seemed to tread, and their feet press'd on flowers.

CXXXI.

And when the thousand lights of spermaceti Stream'd like a shower of sunbeams--and free tresses Wild as the heads that waved them--and a pretty Collection of the latest Paris dresses Wander'd about the rooms like things divine, It was, as I was told, extremely fine.

CXXXII.

The love of fun, fine faces, and good eating, Brought many who were tired of self and home; And some were there in the high hope of meeting The lady of their bosom's love--and some To study that deep science, how to please, And manners in high life, and high-soul'd courtesies.

CXXXIII.

And he, the hero of the night, was there, In breeches of light drab, and coat of blue. Taste was conspicuous in his powder'd hair, And in his frequent _jeux de mots_, that drew Peals of applauses from the listeners round, Who were delighted--as in duty bound.

CXXXIV.

'Twas Fanny's father--Fanny near him stood, Her power, resistless--and her wish, command; And Hope's young promises were all made good; "She reign'd a fairy queen in fairy land;" Her dream of infancy a dream no more, And then how beautiful the dress she wore!

CXXXV.

Ambition with the sire had kept her word. He had the rose, no matter for its thorn, And he seem'd happy as a summer bird, Careering on wet wing to meet the morn. Some said there was a cloud upon his brow; It might be--but we'll not discuss that now.

CXXXVI.

I left him making rhymes while crossing o'er The broad and perilous wave of the North River. He bade adieu, when safely on the shore, To poetry--and, as he thought, for ever. That night his dream (if after deeds make known Our plans in sleep) was an enchanting one.

CXXXVII.

He woke, in strength, like Samson from his slumber, And walk'd Broadway, enraptured the next day; Purchased a house there--I've forgot the number-- And sign'd a mortgage and a bond, for pay. Gave, in the slang phrase, Pearl-street the go-by, And cut, for several months, St. Tammany.

CXXXVIII.

Bond, mortgage, title-deeds, and all completed, He bought a coach and half a dozen horses (The bill's at Lawrence's--not yet receipted-- You'll find the amount upon his list of losses), Then fill'd his rooms with servants, and whatever Is necessary for a "genteel liver."

CXXXIX.

This last removal fix'd him: every stain Was blotted from his "household coat," and he Now "show'd the world he was a gentleman," And, what is better, could afford to be; His step was loftier than it was of old, His laugh less frequent, and his manner told

CXL.

What lovers call "unutterable things"-- That sort of dignity was in his mien Which awes the gazer into ice, and brings To recollection some great man we've seen, The Governor, perchance, whose eye and frown, 'Twas shrewdly guess'd, would knock Judge Skinner down.

CXLI.

And for "Resources," both of purse and head, He was a subject worthy Bristed's pen; Believed devoutly all his flatterers said, And deem'd himself a Croesus among men; Spread to the liberal air his silken sails, And lavish'd guineas like a Prince of Wales.

CXLII.

He mingled now with those within whose veins The blood ran pure--the magnates of the land-- Hail'd them as his companions and his friends, And lent them money and his note of hand. In every institution, whose proud aim Is public good alone, he soon became

CXLIII.

A man of consequence and notoriety; His name, with the addition of esquire, Stood high upon the list of each society, Whose zeal and watchfulness the sacred fire Of science, agriculture, art, and learning, Keep on our country's altars bright and burning.

CXLIV.

At Eastburn's Rooms he met, at two each day, With men of taste and judgment like his own, And play'd "first fiddle" in that orchestra Of literary worthies--and the tone Of his mind's music, by the listeners caught, Is traced among them still in language and in thought.

CXLV.

He once made the Lyceum a choice present Of muscle shells pick'd up at Rockaway; And Mitchill gave a classical and pleasant Discourse about them in the streets that day, Naming the shells, and hard to put in verse 'twas, "Testaceous coverings of bivalve moluscas."

CXLVI.