Part 3

He was a trustee of a Savings Bank, And lectured soundly every evil doer, Gave dinners daily to wealth, power, and rank, And sixpence every Sunday to the poor; He was a wit, in the pun-making line-- Past fifty years of age, and five feet nine.

CXLVII.

But as he trod to grandeur's pinnacle, With eagle eye and step that never falter'd, The busy tongue of scandal dared to tell That cash was scarce with him, and credit alter'd; And while he stood the envy of beholders, The Bank Directors grinn'd, and shrugg'd their shoulders.

CXLVIII.

And when these, the Lord Burleighs of the minute, Shake their sage heads, and look demure and holy, Depend upon it there is something in it; For whether born of wisdom or of folly, Suspicion is a being whose fell power Blights every thing it touches, fruit and flower.

CXLIX.

Some friends (they were his creditors) once hinted About retrenchment and a day of doom; He thank'd them, as no doubt they kindly meant it, And made this speech, when they had left the room: "Of all the curses upon mortals sent, One's creditors are the most impudent;

CL.

"Now I am one who knows what he is doing, And suits exactly to his means his ends; How can a man be in the path to ruin, When all the brokers are his bosom friends? Yet, on my hopes, and those of my dear daughter, These rascals throw a bucket of cold water!

CLI.

"They'd wrinkle with deep cares the prettiest face, Pour gall and wormwood in the sweetest cup, Poison the very wells of life--and place Whitechapel needles, with their sharp points up, Even in the softest feather bed that e'er Was manufactured by upholsterer."

CLII.

This said--he journey'd "at his own sweet will," Like one of Wordsworth's rivers, calmly on; But yet, at times, Reflection, "in her still Small voice," would whisper, something must be done; He ask'd advice of Fanny, and the maid Promptly and duteously lent her aid.

CLIII.

She told him, with that readiness of mind And quickness of perception which belong Exclusively to gentle womankind, That to submit to slanderers was wrong, And the best plan to silence and admonish them, Would be to give "a party"--and astonish them.

CLIV.

The hint was taken--and the party given; And Fanny, as I said some pages since, Was there in power and loveliness that even, And he, her sire, demean'd him like a prince, And all was joy--it look'd a festival, Where pain might smooth his brow, and grief her smiles recall.

CLV.

But Fortune, like some others of her sex, Delights in tantalizing and tormenting; One day we feed upon their smiles--the next Is spent in swearing, sorrowing, and repenting. (If in the last four lines the author lies, He's always ready to apologize.)

CLVI.

Eve never walk'd in Paradise more pure Than on that morn when Satan play'd the devil With her and all her race. A love-sick wooer Ne'er ask'd a kinder maiden, or more civil, Than Cleopatra was to Antony The day she left him on the Ionian sea.

CLVII.

The serpent--loveliest in his coiled ring, With eye that charms, and beauty that outvies The tints of the rainbow--bears upon his sting The deadliest venom. Ere the dolphin dies Its hues are brightest. Like an infant's breath Are tropic winds, before the voice of death

CLVIII.

Is heard upon the waters, summoning The midnight earthquake from its sleep of years To do its task of wo. The clouds that fling The lightning, brighten ere the bolt appears; The pantings of the warrior's heart are proud Upon that battle morn whose night-dews wet his shroud;

CLIX.

The sun is loveliest as he sinks to rest; The leaves of autumn smile when fading fast; The swan's last song is sweetest--and the best Of Meigs's speeches, doubtless, was his last. And thus the happiest scene, in these my rhymes, Closed with a crash, and usher'd in--hard times.

CLX.

St. Paul's toll'd one--and fifteen minutes after Down came, by accident, a chandelier; The mansion totter'd from the floor to rafter! Up rose the cry of agony and fear! And there was shrieking, screaming, bustling, fluttering, Beyond the power of writing or of uttering.

CLXI.

The company departed, and neglected To say good-by--the father storm'd and swore-- The fiddlers grinn'd--the daughter look'd dejected-- The flowers had vanish'd from the polish'd floor, And both betook them to their sleepless beds, With hearts and prospects broken, but no heads.

CLXII.

The desolate relief of free complaining Came with the morn, and with it came bad weather; The wind was east-northeast, and it was raining Throughout that day, which, take it altogether, Was one whose memory clings to us through life, Just like a suit in Chancery, or a wife.

CLXIII.

That evening, with a most important face And dreadful knock, and tidings still more dreadful, A notary came--sad things had taken place; My hero had forgot to "do the needful;" A note (amount not stated), with his name on't, Was left unpaid--in short, he had "stopp'd payment."

CLXIV.

I hate your tragedies, both long and short ones (Except Tom Thumb, and Juan's Pantomime); And stories woven of sorrows and misfortunes Are bad enough in prose, and worse in rhyme; Mine, therefore, must be brief. Under protest His notes remain--the wise can guess the rest.

CLXV.

* * * * * * * * * *

CLXVI.

For two whole days they were the common talk; The party, and the failure, and all that, The theme of loungers in their morning walk, Porter-house reasoning, and tea-table chat. The third, some newer wonder came to blot them, And on the fourth, the "meddling world" forgot them.

CLXVII.

Anxious, however, something to discover, I pass'd their house--the shutters were all closed; The song of knocker and of bell was over; Upon the steps two chimney sweeps reposed; And on the door my dazzled eyebeam met These cabalistic words--"this house to let."

CLXVIII.

They live now, like chameleons, upon air And hope, and such cold, unsubstantial dishes; That they removed, is clear, but when or where None knew. The curious reader, if he wishes, May ask them, but in vain. Where grandeur dwells, The marble dome--the popular rumour tells;

CLXIX.

But of the dwelling of the proud and poor From their own lips the world will never know When better days are gone--it is secure Beyond all other mysteries here below, Except, perhaps, a maiden lady's age, When past the noonday of life's pilgrimage.

CLXX.

Fanny! 'twas with her name my song began; 'Tis proper and polite her name should end it; If in my story of her woes, or plan Or moral can be traced, 'twas not intended; And if I've wrong'd her, I can only tell her I'm sorry for it--so is my bookseller.

CLXXI.

I met her yesterday--her eyes were wet-- She faintly smiled, and said she had been reading The Treasurer's Report in the Gazette, M'Intyre's speech, and Campbell's "Love lies bleeding;" She had a shawl on, 'twas not a Cashmere one, And if it cost five dollars, 'twas a dear one.

CLXXII.

Her father sent to Albany a prayer For office, told how fortune had abused him, And modestly requested to be Mayor-- The Council very civilly refused him; Because, however much they might desire it, The "public good," it seems, did not require it.

CLXXIII.

Some evenings since, he took a lonely stroll Along Broadway, scene of past joys and evils; He felt that withering bitterness of soul, Quaintly denominated the "blue devils;" And thought of Bonaparte and Belisarius, Pompey, and Colonel Burr, and Caius Marius,

CLXXIV.

And envying the loud playfulness and mirth Of those who pass'd him, gay in youth and hope, He took at Jupiter a shilling's worth Of gazing, through the showman's telescope; Sounds as of far-off bells came on his ears, He fancied 'twas the music of the spheres.

CLXXV.

He was mistaken, it was no such thing, 'Twas Yankee Doodle play'd by Scudder's band; He mutter'd, as he linger'd listening, Something of freedom and our happy land; Then sketch'd, as to his home he hurried fast, This sentimental song--his saddest, and his last.

I.

Young thoughts have music in them, love And happiness their theme; And music wanders in the wind That lulls a morning dream. And there are angel voices heard, In childhood's frolic hours, When life is but an April day Of sunshine and of showers.

II.

There's music in the forest leaves When summer winds are there, And in the laugh of forest girls That braid their sunny hair. The first wild bird that drinks the dew, From violets of the spring, Has music in his song, and in The fluttering of his wing.

III.

There's music in the dash of waves When the swift bark cleaves their foam; There's music heard upon her deck, The mariner's song of home, When moon and star beams smiling meet At midnight on the sea-- And there is music--once a week In Scudder's balcony.

IV.

But the music of young thoughts too soon Is faint, and dies away, And from our morning dreams we wake To curse the coming day. And childhood's frolic hours are brief, And oft in after years Their memory comes to chill the heart, And dim the eye with tears.

V.

To-day, the forest leaves are green, They'll wither on the morrow, And the maiden's laugh be changed ere long To the widow's wail of sorrow. Come with the winter snows, and ask Where are the forest birds? The answer is a silent one, More eloquent than words.

VI.

The moonlight music of the waves In storms is heard no more, When the living lightning mocks the wreck At midnight on the shore, And the mariner's song of home has ceased, His corse is on the sea-- And music ceases when it rains In Scudder's balcony.

THE RECORDER.

THE RECORDER.

A PETITION.

BY THOMAS CASTALY.

Dec. 20, 1828.

"On they move In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood Of flutes and soft RECORDERS." _Milton._

"Live in Settles numbers one day more!" _Pope._

My dear RECORDER, you and I Have floated down life's stream together, And kept unharm'd our friendship's tie Through every change of Fortune's sky, Her pleasant and her rainy weather. Full sixty times since first we met, Our birthday suns have risen and set, And time has worn the baldness now Of Julius Caesar on your brow; Your brow, like his, a field of thought, With broad deep furrows, spirit-wrought, Whose laurel harvests long have shown As green and glorious as his own; And proudly would the CAESAR claim Companionship with R*K*R'S name, His peer in forehead and in fame.

Both eloquent and learn'd and brave, Born to command and skill'd to rule, One made the citizen a slave, The other makes him more--a fool. The Caesar an imperial crown, His slaves' mad gift, refused to wear, The R*k*r put his fool's cap on, And found it fitted to a hair; The Caesar, though by birth and breeding, Travel, the ladies, and light reading, A gentleman in mien and mind, And fond of Romans and their mothers, Was heartless as the Arab's wind, And slew some millions of mankind, Including enemies and others. The R*k*r, like Bob Acres, stood Edgeways upon a field of blood, The where and wherefore Swartwout knows, Pull'd trigger, as a brave man should, And shot, God bless them--his own toes. The Caesar pass'd the Rubicon With helm, and shield, and breastplate on, Dashing his war-horse through the waters; The R*k*r would have built a barge Or steamboat at the city's charge, And pass'd it with his wife and daughters.

But let that pass. As I have said, There's naught, save laurels, on your head, And time has changed my clustering hair, And shower'd the snow-flakes thickly there; And though our lives have ever been, As different as their different scene; Mine more renown'd for rhymes than riches Yours less for scholarship than speeches; Mine pass'd in low-roof'd leafy bower, Yours in high halls of pomp and power, Yet are we, be the moral told, Alike in one thing--growing old, Ripen'd like summer's cradled sheaf, Faded like autumn's falling leaf-- And nearing, sail and signal spread, The quiet anchorage of the dead. For such is human life, wherever The voyage of its bark may be, On home's green-bank'd and gentle river Or the world's shoreless, sleepless sea.

Yes, you have floated down the tide Of time, a swan in grace and pride And majesty and beauty, till The law, the Ariel of your will, Power's best beloved, the law of libel (A bright link in the legal chain) Expounded, settled, and made plain, By your own charge, the jurors' Bible, Has clipp'd the venom'd tongue of slander, That dared to call you "Party's gander, The leader of the geese who make Our cities' parks and ponds their home, And keep her liberties awake By cackling, as their sires saved Rome. Grander of Party's pond, wherein Lizard, and toad, and terrapin, Your alehouse patriots, are seen, In Faction's feverish sunshine basking;" And now, to rend this veil of lies, Word-woven by your enemies, And keep your sainted memory free From tarnish with posterity, I take the liberty of asking Permission, sir, to write your life, With all its scenes of calm and strife, And all its turnings and its windings, A poem, in a quarto volume-- Verse, like the subject, blank and solemn, With elegant appropriate bindings, Of rat and mole skin the one half, The other a part fox, part calf. Your portrait, graven line for line, From that immortal bust in plaster, The master piece of Art's great master, Mr. Praxiteles Browere, Whose trowel is a thing divine, Shall smile and bow, and promise there, And twenty-nine fine forms and faces (The Corporation and the Mayor), Linked hand in hand, like loves and graces, Shall hover o'er it, group'd in air, With wild pictorial dance and song; The song of happy bees in bowers, The dance of Guido's graceful hours, All scattering Flushing's garden flowers Round the dear head they've loved so long.

I know that you are modest, know That when you hear your merit's praise, Your cheeks quick blushes come and go, Lily and rose-leaf, sun and snow, Like maidens' on their bridal days. I know that you would fain decline To aid me and the sacred nine, In giving to the asking earth The story of your wit and worth; For if there be a fault to cloud The brightness of your clear good sense, It is, and be the fact allow'd, Your only failing--Diffidence! An amiable weakness--given To justify the sad reflection, That in this vale of tears not even A R*k*r is complete perfection, A most romantic detestation Of power and place, of pay and ration; A strange unwillingness to carry The weight of honour on your shoulders, For which you have been named, the very Sensitive Plant of office-holders, A shrinking bashfulness, whose grace Gives beauty to your manly face. Thus shades the green and growing vine The rough bark of the mountain pine, Thus round her freedom's waking steel Harmodius wreathed his country's myrtle; And thus the golden lemon's peel Gives fragrance to a bowl of turtle.

True, "many a flower," the poet sings, "Is born to blush unseen;" But you, although you blush, are not The flower the poets mean. In vain you wooed a lowlier lot: In vain you clipp'd your eagle-wings-- Talents like yours are not forgot And buried with earth's common things. No! my dear R*k*r, I would give My laurels, living and to live, Or as much cash as you could raise on Their value, by hypothecation, To be, for one enchanted hour, In beauty, majesty, and power, What you for forty years have been, The Oberon of life's fairy scene.

An anxious city sought and found you In a blessed day of joy and pride, Scepter'd your jewell'd hand, and crown'd you Her chief, her guardian, and her guide. Honours which weaker minds had wrought In vain for years, and knelt and pray'd for, Are all your own, unpriced, unbought, Or (which is the same thing) unpaid for. Painfully great! against your will Her hundred offices to hold, Each chair with dignity to fill, And your own pockets with her gold. A sort of double duty, making Your task a serious undertaking.

With what delight the eyes of all Gaze on you, seated in your Hall, Like Sancho in his island, reigning, Loved leader of its motley hosts Of lawyers and their bills of costs, And all things thereto appertaining, Such as crimes, constables, and juries, Male pilferers and female furies, The police and the _polissons_, Illegal right and legal wrong. Bribes, perjuries, law-craft, and cunning, Judicial drollery and punning; And all the _et ceteras_ that grace That genteel, gentlemanly place! Or in the Council Chamber standing With eloquence of eye and brow, Your voice the music of commanding, And fascination in your bow, Arranging for the civic shows Your "men in buckram," as per list, Your John Does and your Richard Roes, Those Dummys of your games of whist. The Council Chamber--where authority Consists in two words--a majority. For whose contractors' jobs we pay Our last dear sixpences for taxes, As freely as in Sylla's day, Rome bled beneath his lictors' axes. 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 titles 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 illustrious, 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 grass green where in death I sleep And when that grass 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!