Fanny Part 3

LVI.

Oxonian Bristed! many a foolscap page He, in his time, hath written, and moreover (What few will do in this degenerate age) Hath read his own works, as you may discover By counting his quotations from himself-- You'll find the books on any auction shelf.

LVII.

I beg Great Britain's pardon; 'tis not meant To claim this Oxford scholar as our own: That he was shipp'd off here to represent Her literature among us, is well known; And none could better fill the lofty station Of Learning's envoy from the British nation.

LVIII.

We fondly hope that he will be respected At home, and soon obtain a place or pension.

We should regret to see him live neglected, Like Fearon, Ashe, and others we could mention; Who paid us friendly visits to abuse Our country, and find food for the reviews.

LIX.

But to return.--The Heliconian waters Are sparkling in their native fount no more, And after years of wandering, the nine daughters Of poetry have found upon our sh.o.r.e A happier home, and on their sacred shrines Glow in immortal ink, the polish'd lines

LX.

Of Woodworth, Doctor Farmer, Moses Scott-- Names hallow'd by their reader's sweetest smile; And who that reads at all has read them not?

"That blind old man of Scio's rocky isle,"

Homer, was well enough; but would he ever Have written, think ye, the Backwoodsman? never.

LXI.

Alas! for Paulding--I regret to see In such a stanza one whose giant powers, Seen in their native element, will be Known to a future age, the pride of ours.

There is none breathing who can better wield The battle-axe of satire. On its field

LXII.

The wreath he fought for he has bravely won, Long be its laurel green around his brow!

It is too true, I'm somewhat fond of fun And jesting; but for once I'm serious now.

Why is he sipping weak Castalian dews?

The muse has d.a.m.n'd him--let him d.a.m.n the muse

LXIII.

But to return once more: the ancients fought Some tolerable battles. Marathon Is still a theme for high and holy thought, And many a poet's lay. We linger on The page that tells us of the brave and free, And reverence thy name, unmatch'd Thermopylae.

LXIV.

And there were spirited troops in other days-- The Roman legion and the Spartan band, And Swartwout's gallant corps, the Iron Grays-- Soldiers who met their foemen hand to hand, Or swore, at least, to meet them undismay'd; Yet what were these to General Laight's brigade

LXV.

Of veterans? nursed in that Free School of glory, The New-York State Militia. From Bellevue, E'en to the Battery flagstaff, the proud story Of their man[oe]uvres at the last review Has rang; and Clinton's "order" told afar He never led a better corps to war.

LXVI.

What, Egypt, was thy magic, to the tricks Of Mr. Charles, Judge Spencer, or Van Buren?

The first with cards, the last in politics, A conjuror's fame for years have been securing.

And who would now the Athenian dramas read When he can get "Wall-street," by Mr. Mead.

LXVII.

I might say much about our letter'd men, Those "grave and reverend seigniors," who compose Our learn'd societies--but here my pen Stops short; for they themselves, the rumour goes, The exclusive privilege by patent claim, Of trumpeting (as the phrase is) their own fame.

LXVIII.

And, therefore, I am silent. It remains To bless the hour the Corporation took it Into their heads to give the rich in brains, The worn-out mansion of the poor in pocket, Once "the old almshouse," now a school of wisdom, Sacred to Scudder's sh.e.l.ls and Dr. Griscom.

LXIX.

But whither am I wandering? The esteem I bear "this fair city of the heart,"

To me a dear enthusiastic theme, Has forced me, all unconsciously, to part Too long from him, the hero of my story.

Where was he?--waking from his dream of glory.

LXX.

And she, the lady of his dream, had fled, And left him somewhat puzzled and confused.

He understood, however, half she said; And that is quite as much as we are used To comprehend, or fancy worth repeating, In speeches heard at any public meeting.

LXXI.

And the next evening found him at the Hall; There he was welcomed by the cordial hand, And met the warm and friendly grasp of all Who take, like watchmen, there, their nightly stand, A ring, as in a boxing match, procuring, To bet on Clinton, Tompkins, or Van Buren.

LXXII.

'Twas a propitious moment; for a while The waves of party were at rest. Upon Each complacent brow was gay good humour's smile; And there was much of wit, and jest, and pun, And high amid the circle, in great glee, Sat Croaker's old acquaintance, John Targee.

LXXIII.

His jokes excell'd the rest, and oft he sang Songs, patriotic, as in duty bound.