Poems by George Pope Morris Part 25

She is not dead--She can not die!

A mortal left this vale of wo!-- An angel lives on high!"

The earth upon her coffin-lid Sounded a hollow, harsh adieu!

The mound arose, and she was hid For ever from the view!

For ever?--Drearily the thought Pa.s.sed, like an ice-bolt, through the brain; When Faith the recollection brought That we shall meet again.

The mourners wound their silent way Adown the mountain's gentle slope, Which, basking in the smile of May, Looked cheerfully as hope.

As hope?--What hope?--That boundless One G.o.d in His love and mercy gave; Which brightens, with salvation's sun, The darkness of the grave.

New-York in 1826. [See Notes]

(Address of the carrier of the New-York Mirror, on the first day of the year.)

Air--"Songs of Shepherds and Rustical Roundelays."

Two years have elapsed since the verse of S. W. [See Notes]

Met your bright eyes like a fanciful gem; With that kind of stanza the muse will now trouble you, She often frolicks with one G. P. M.

As New Year approaches, she whispers of coaches, And lockets and broaches [See Notes], without any end, Of sweet rosy pleasure, of joy without measure, And plenty of leisure to share with a friend.

'Tis useless to speak of the griefs of society-- They overtake us in pa.s.sing along; And public misfortunes, in all their variety, Need not be told in a holyday song.

The troubles of Wall-street, I'm sure that you all meet, And they're not at all sweet--but look at their pranks: Usurious cravings, and discounts and shavings, With maniac ravings and Lombardy banks. [See Notes]

'Tis useless to speak of our dealers in cotton too, Profits and losses but burden the lay; The failure of merchants should now be forgotten too, Nor sadden the prospects of this festive day.

Though Fortune has cheated the hope near completed, And cruelly treated the world mercantile, The poet's distresses, when Fortune oppresses, Are greater, he guesses--but still he can smile.

'Tis useless to speak of the gas-lights [See Notes] so beautiful, Shedding its beams through "the mist of the night;"

Eagles and tigers and elephants, dutiful, Dazzle the vision with columns of light.

The lamb and the lion--ask editor Tryon, His word you'll rely on--are seen near the Park, From which such lights flow out, as wind can not blow out, Yet often they go out, and all's in the dark.

'Tis useless to speak of the seats on the Battery [See Notes], They're too expensive to give to the town; Then our aldermen think it such flattery, If the public have leave to sit down!

Our fortune to harden, they show Castle Garden-- Kind muses, your pardon, but rhyme it I must-- Where soldiers were drilling, you now must be willing To pay them a shilling--so down with the dust.

'Tis useless to speak of our writers poetical [See Notes], Of Halleck and Bryant and Woodworth, to write; There are others, whose trades are political-- Snowden and Townsend and Walker and Dwight.

There's Lang the detector, and Coleman the hector, And Noah the protector and judge of the Jews, And King the accuser, and Stone the abuser, And Grim the confuser of morals and news.

'Tis useless to speak of the many civilities Shown to Fayette [See Notes] in this country of late, Or even to mention the splendid abilities Clinton possesses for ruling the state.

The union of water and Erie's bright daughter Since Neptune has caught her they'll sever no more; And Greece and her troubles (the rhyme always doubles) Have vanished like bubbles that burst on the sh.o.r.e.

'Tis useless to speak of Broadway and the Bowery, Both are improving and growing so fast!

Who would have thought that old Stuyvesant's dowery Would hold in its precincts a play-house [See Notes] at last?

Well, wonder ne'er ceases, but daily increases, And pulling to pieces, the town to renew, So often engages the thoughts of our sages, That when the fit rages, what will they not do?

'Tis useless to speak of the want of propriety In forming our city so crooked and long; Our ancestors, bless them, were fond of variety-- 'Tis naughty to say that they ever were wrong!

Tho' strangers may grumble, and thro' the streets and stumble, Take care they don't tumble through crevices small, For trap-doors we've plenty, on sidewalk and entry, And no one stands sentry to see they don't fall.

'Tis useless to speak of amus.e.m.e.nts so various, Of opera-singers [See Notes] that few understand; Of Kean's [See Notes] reputation, so sadly precarious When he arrived in this prosperous land.

The public will hear him--and hark! how they cheer him!

Though editors jeer him--we all must believe He pockets the dollars of sages and scholars: Of course then it follows--he laughs in his sleeve.

'Tis useless to speak--but just put on your spectacles, Read about Chatham, and Peale's [See Notes] splendid show: There's Scudder and Dunlap--they both have receptacles Which, I a.s.sure you, are now all the go.

'Tis here thought polite too, should giants delight you, And they should invite you, to look at their shapes; To visit their dwelling, where Indians are yelling, And handbills are telling of wonderful apes!

'Tis useless to speak of the din that so heavily Fell on our senses as midnight drew near; Trumpets and bugles and conch-sh.e.l.ls, so cleverly Sounded the welkin with happy New Year!

With jewsharps and timbrels, and musical thimbles, Tin-platters for cymbals, and frying-pans too; Dutch-ovens and bra.s.ses, and jingles and gla.s.ses, With reeds of all cla.s.ses, together they blew! [See Notes]

Then since it is useless to speak about anything All have examined and laid on the shelf, Perhaps it is proper to say now and then a thing Touching the "Mirror"[See Notes]--the day--and myself.

Our work's not devoted, as you may have noted, To articles quoted from books out of print; Instead of the latter, profusely we scatter Original matter that's fresh from the mint.

Patrons, I greet you with feelings of grat.i.tude; Ladies, to please you is ever my care-- Nor wish I, on earth, for a sweeter beat.i.tude, If I but bask in the smiles of the fair.

Such bliss to a poet is precious--you know it-- And while you bestow it, the heart feels content: Your bounty has made us, and still you will aid us, But some have not paid us--we hope they'll repent!

For holyday pleasure, why these are the times for it; Pardon me, then, for so trifling a lay; This stanza shall end it, if I can find rhymes for it-- May you, dear patrons, be happy to-day!

Tho' life is so fleeting, and pleasure so cheating, That we are oft meeting with accidents here, Should Fate seek to dish you, oh then may the issue Be what I now wish you--A HAPPY NEW YEAR!

The Hero's Legacy.

Upon the couch of death, The champion of the free, Gave, with his parting breath, This solemn legacy:-- "Sheathed be the battle-blade, "And hushed the cannons' thunder: "The glorious UNION G.o.d hath made, "Let no man put asunder!

"War banish from the land, "Peace cultivate with all!

"United you must stand, "Divided you will fall!

"Cemented with our blood, "The UNION keep unriven!"

While freemen heard this counsel good, His spirit soared to heaven.

What Can It Mean?

(Written for Miss Poole, and sung by her in the character of cowslip.)