The Poetical Writings of Fitz-Greene Halleck/Fanny
FANNY.
FANNY.
i.
ANNY was younger once than she is now,
And prettier of course; I do not mean
To say that there are wrinkles on her brow;
Yet, to be candid, she is past eighteen—
Perhaps past twenty—but the girl is shy
About her age, and Heaven forbid that I
ii.
A secret of this sort; I have too long
Loved pretty women with a poet's feeling,
And when a boy, in day-dream and in song,
Have knelt me down and worshipped them: alas!
They never thanked me for't—but let that pass.
iii.
At the mere rustling of a muslin gown,
And caught some dreadful colds, I blush to say,
While shivering in the shade of beauty's frown.
They say her smiles are sunbeams—it may be—
But never a sunbeam would she throw on me.
iv.
For half an hour, without the slightest harm;
E'en when she wore her smiling summer face on
There was but little danger, and the charm
That youth and wealth once gave, has bade farewell:
Hers is a sad, sad tale—'tis mine its woes to tell.
v.
A retail dry-good shop in Chatham Street,
And nursed his little earnings, sure though slow,
Till, having mustered wherewithal to meet
The gaze of the great world, he breathed the air
Of Pearl Street—and "set up" in Hanover Square.
vi.
I'm but a poet—and bank-notes to me
Are curiosities, as closely eyed,
Whene'er I get them, as a stone would be,
Toss'd from the moon on Doctor Mitchill's table,
Or classic brickbat from the tower of Babel.
vii.
That money hath a power and a dominion;
For when in Chatham-street the good man dwelt,
No one would give a sous for his opinion.
And though his neighbours were extremely civil,
Yet, on the whole, they thought him—a poor devil.
viii.
Was not of brains particularly full;
It was not known that he had ever said
Any thing worth repeating—'twas a dull,
Good, honest man—what Paulding's muse would call
A "cabbage head"—but he excelled them all
ix.
The art of making money; and he found
The zeal for quizzing him grew less and less,
As he grew richer; till upon the ground
Of Pearl Street, treading proudly in the might
And majesty of wealth, a sudden light
x.
Of all who knew him; brilliant traits of mind,
And genius, clear, and countless as the dyes
Upon the peacock's plumage; taste refined,
Wisdom and wit, were his—perhaps much more—
'Twas strange they had not found it out before.
xi.
That cash had no small share; but there were still
Some other causes, which then gave a new
Impulse to head and heart, and joined to fill
His brain with knowledge; for there first he met
The editor of the New-York Gazette—
xii.
Knows much, yet not one-half so much as he
Knows of the world. Up to its very brim
The goblet of his mind is sparkling free
With lore and learning. Had proud Sheba's queen,
In all her bloom and beauty, but have seen
xiii.
Earth's monarch as he was, had never won her.
He would have hanged himself for very spite,
And she, blessed woman, might have had the honor
Of some neat "paragraphs"—worth all the lays
That Judah's minstrel warbled in her praise.
xiv.
Th' ascendant at our merchant's natal hour
Was bright with better destiny—its aid
Led him to pluck within the classic bower
Of bulletins, the blossoms of true knowledge,
And Lang supplied the loss of school and college.
xv.
Than others could; and to distinguish well
The different signals, whether ship or schooner,
Hoisted at Staten Island; and to tell
The change of wind, and of his neighbor's fortunes,
And, best of all—he there learned self-importance.
xvi.
From change of scene; for near his domicil
He of the pair of polished lamps then lived,
And in my hero's promenades, at will,
Could he behold them burning—and their flame
Kindled within his breast the love of fame—
xvii.
Of patriot ardor, and the consciousness
That talents such as his might well bestow
A lustre on the city; she would bless
His name; and that some service should be done her,
He pledged "life, fortune, and his sacred honor."
xviii.
Bursting from Fashion's groups assembled there,
Were heard, as round their lone plebeian hearth
Fanny and he were seated—he would dare
To whisper fondly that the time might come
When he and his could give as brilliant routs at home.
xix.
When the cold winter moon was high in heaven,
And trace out, by the aid of Fancy's finger,
Cards for some future party, to be given
When she in turn should be a belle, and they
Had lived their little hour, and passed away.
xx.
And desolate world of ours, that well repay
The toil of struggling through it, and atone
For many a long, sad night and weary day.
They come upon the mind like some wild air
Of distant music, when we know not where,
xxi.
Though brief, is boundless. That far, future home,
Oft dreamed of, beckons near—its rose-wreathed bower,
And cloudless skies before us: we become
Changed on the instant—all gold leaf and gilding;
This is, in vulgar phrase, called "castle building."
xxii.
To bid them linger longer, or to ask
On what day they intend to call again;
And, surely, 'twere a philosophic task,
Worthy a Mitchill, in his hours of leisure,
To find some means to summon them at pleasure.
xxii.
In some degree at least—for instance, drinking.
Champagne will bathe the heart a while in bliss,
And keep the head a little time from thinking
Of cares or creditors—the best wine in town
You'll get from Lynch—the cash must be paid down.
xxiv.
And spurn all chains, even though made of roses,
I'd recommend cigars—there is a free
And happy spirit, that, unseen, reposes
On the dim shadowy clouds that hover o'er you,
When smoking quietly with a warm fire before you.
xxv.
In memory's twilight beauty seen afar:
Dear to the broker is a note of hand,
Collaterally secured—the polar star
Is dear at midnight to the sailor's eyes,
And dear are Bristed's volumes at "half price;"
xxvi.
Spent in that fond forgetfulness of grief;
There is an airy web of magic in it,
As in Othello's pocket-handkerchief,
Veiling the wrinkles on the brow of Sorrow,
The gathering gloom to-day, the thunder cloud tomorrow.
xxvii.
Upon a bright throne of his own creation:
Untortured by the ghastly sprites that flit
Around the many, whose exalted station
Has been attained by means 'twere pain to hint on,
Just for the rhyme's sake—instance Mr. Clinton.
xxviii.
The mountain air at last; but there are others
Who strove, like him, to win the glittering wreaths
Of power, his early partisans and brothers,
That linger yet in dust from whence they sprung,
Unhonored and unpaid, though, luckily, unhung.
xxix.
Of party; and they hoped, when it arose,
To soar like eagles in the blaze of noon,
Above the gaping crowd of friends and foes.
Alas! like Guillé's car, it soared without them,
And left them with a mob to jeer and flout them.
xxx.
I've dwelt so long upon—they were more stable;
Hers were not "castles in the air" that rose
Based upon nothing; for her sire was able,
As well she knew, to "buy out" the one-half
Of Fashion's glittering train, that nightly quaff
xxxi.
From dandy coachmen, whose "exquisite" grin
And "ruffian" lounge flash brilliantly without,
Down to their brother dandies ranged within,
Gay as the Brussels carpeting they tread on,
And sapient as the oysters they are fed on.
xxxii.
'Tis wonderful how easy we believe her)
Had whispered he was rich, and all he met
In Wall Street, nodded, smiled, and "tipped the beaver;"
All,—from Mr. Gelston, the collector,
Down to the broker, and the bank director.
xxxiii.
Among the worthies of that street was fixed;
He had become director of a bank,
And six insurance offices, and mixed
Familiarly, as one among his peers,
With grocers, dry-good merchants, auctioneers,
xxxiv.
Of all religions, who at noonday form,
On 'Change, that brotherhood the moral muse
Delights in, where the heart is pure and warm,
And each exerts his intellectual force
To cheat his neighbor—legally, of course.
xxxv.
Circled around by lesser orbs, whose beams
From his were borrowed. The simile is not far
From truth—for many bosom friends, it seems,
Did borrow of him, and sometimes forget
To pay—indeed, they have not paid him yet.
xxxvi.
Was open in his praise, and plaudits rose
Upon his willing ear, "like the sweet south
Upon a bank of violets," from those
Who knew his talents, virtues, and so forth;
That is—knew how much money he was worth.
xxxvii.
But satisfied with this, his golden days
Their setting hour of darkness had not seen,
And he might still (in the mercantile phrase)
Be living "in good order and condition;"
But he was ruined by that jade Ambition,
xxxviii.
Whose spell, like whiskey, your true patriot liquor,
To politics the lofty hearts inclines
Of all, from Clinton down to the bill-sticker
Of a ward-meeting. She came slyly creeping
To his bedside, where he lay snug and sleeping.
xxxix.
A broach of terrapin her bosom wore,
Tompkins's letter was just seen beneath
Her arm, and in her hand on high she bore
A National Advocate—Pell's polite Review
Lay at her feet—'twas pommelled black and blue.
xl.
Muffled from throat to ankle; and her hair
Was all "en papillotes," each auburn tress
Prettily pinned apart. You well might swear
She was no beauty; yet, when "made up" ready
For visiters, 'twas quite another lady.
xli.
Manners have changed as well as moons; and he
Would fret himself once more into a passion,
Should he return (which heaven forbid!) and see,
How strangely from his standard dictionary,
The meaning of some words is made to vary.
xlii.
The wearing a pelisse, a shawl, or so;
Or any thing you please, in short, that screens
The face, and hides the form from top to toe;
Of power to brave a quizzing-glass, or storm—
'Tis worn in summer, when the weather's warm.
xliii.
The most genteel is made of "woven air;"
That kind of classic cobweb, soft and light,
Which Lady Morgan's Ida used to wear.
And ladies, this aërial manner dressed in,
Look Eve-like, angel-like, and interesting.
xliv.
"Dèshabillée"—his bedside tripping near,
And, gently on his nose her fingers laying,
She roared out "Tammany!" in his frighted ear.
The potent word awoke him from his nap,
And then she vanished, whispering verbum sap.
xlv.
For he had left off schooling, ere the Greek
Or Latin classics claimed his mind's attention:
Besides, he often had been heard to speak
Contemptuously of all that sort of knowledge,
Taught so profoundly in Columbia College.
xlvi.
Their works, no doubt—at least in a translation;
Yet there was argument in what he said,
I scorn equivocation or evasion,
And own it must, in candor, be confessed,
They were an ignorant set of men at best.
xlvii.
By centuries, and in the wrong place too;
They never saw a steamboat, or balloon,
Velocipede, or Quarterly Review;
Or wore a pair of Baehr's black satin breeches,
Or read an Almanac, or Clinton's Speeches.
xlviii.
Art, science, taste, and talent; and a stroll
Through this enlightened city would refine them
More than ten years hard study of the whole
Their genius has produced of rich and rare—
God bless the Corporation and the Mayor!
xlix.
Blushing, had owned his purest model lacks;
We've Mr. Bogart in the best of plaster,
The Witch of Endor in the best of wax,
Besides the head of Franklin on the roof
Of Mr. Lang, both jest and weather proof.
l.
A neater form was never made of board,
Holding majestically in her hands
A pair of steelyards and a wooden sword;
And looking down with complaisant civility—
Emblem of dignity and durability.
li.
Blending in one the funny and the fine:
His "Independence" will endure for ever,
And so will Mr. Allen's lottery-sign;
And all that grace the Academy of Arts,
From Dr. Hosack's face to Bonaparte's.
lii.
Cullen's magnesian shop has loudly spoken
To an admiring world; and better still
Is Gautier's fairy palace at Hoboken.
In music, we've the Euterpian Society,
And amateurs, a wonderful variety.
liii.
Famed for long heads, short lectures, and long bills;
And Quackenboss and others, who from heaven
Were rained upon us in a shower of pills;
They'd beat the deathless Æsculapius hollow,
And make a starveling druggist of Apollo.
liv.
But owns the first of orators we claim:
Cicero would have bowed the knee before 'em—
And for law eloquence, we've Doctor Graham.
Compared with him, their Justins and Quintillians
Had dwindled into second-rate civilians.
lv.
There's Pell's preface, and puffs by Horne and Waite.
For penetration deep, and learned toil,
And all that stamps an author truly great,
Have we not Bristed's ponderous tomes? a treasure
For any man of patience and of leisure.
lvi.
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.
To claim this Oxford scholar as our own:
That he was shipped 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.
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.
Are sparkling in their native fount no more,
And after years of wandering, the nine daughters
Of poetry have found upon our shore
A happier home, and on their sacred shrines
Glow in immortal ink, the polished lines
lx.
Of Woodworth, Doctor Farmer, Moses Scott—
Names hallowed 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.
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.
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 damned him—let him damn the muse.
lxiii.
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, unmatched Thermopylæ.
lxiv.
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 undismayed;
Yet what were these to General Laight's brigade
lxv.
The New York State Militia. From Bellevue,
E'en to the Battery flag-staff, the proud story
Of their manœuvres at the last review
Has rung; and Clinton's "order" told afar
He never led a better corps to war.
lxvi.
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.
Those "grave and reverend seigniors," who compose
Our learned societies—but here my pen
Stops short; for they themselves, the rumor goes,
The exclusive privilege by patent claim,
Of trumpeting (as the phrase is) their own fame.
lxviii.
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 shells and Dr. Griscom.
lxix.
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 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.
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.
The waves of party were at rest. Upon
Each complacent brow was gay good-humor'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.
Songs, patriotic, as in duty bound.
He had a little of the "nasal twang
Heard at conventicle;" but yet you found
In him a dash of purity and brightness,
That spoke the man of taste and of politeness.
lxxiv.
Of England's prettiest bard, Anacreon Moore.
They met when he, the bard, came here to lend
His mirth and music to this favorite shore;
For, as the proverb saith, "birds of a feather
Instinctively will flock and fly together."
lxxv.
"Lake of the Dismal Swamp!" that poet's name;
And the spray-showers their noonday halos wreathing
Around "Cohoes," are brightened by his fame.
And bright its sunbeam o'er St. Lawrence smiles,
Her million lilies, and her thousand isles.
lxxvi.
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.
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 flowed in mutual speech,
'Twere vain to tell how much each taught to each.
lxxviii.
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 cigar, '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 withered that hung o'er the wave,
But some blossoms were gathered while freshly they shone;
And a dew was distilled 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.
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 learned the party countersigns by rote,
And when to clap his hands, and how to vote.
lxxx.
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.
A thousand tricks, while Spencer touched 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.
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.
But Clinton's friends averred, 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.
Than he should be; that he had borrowed 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. McIntyre.
lxxxv.
He joined, contrived to give him different views
Of men and measures; and the information
Which he obtained, but aided to confuse
His brain. At best, 'twas never very clear;
And now 'twas turned with politics and beer.
lxxxvi.
By all, till he sincerely thought that Nature
Had formed him for an alderman at least—
Perhaps, a member of the Legislature;
And that he had the talents, ten times over,
Of Henry Meigs, or Peter H. Wendover.
lxxxvii.
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.
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.
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 learned, of course, good breeding.
xc.
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.
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, covered with green baize.
xcii.
And Bloomingdale and Bergen he had seen,
And Harlem 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.
On turtle, with "the party" at Hoboken;
And thanked them for his card in an oration,
Declared to be the shortest ever spoken.
And he had strolled one day o'er Weehawk hill:
A day worth all the rest—he recollects it still.
xciv.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood's days
Of happiness were passed 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.
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 McComb, the Street Commissioner—
ci.
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.
"Lang, in its praise, has penned 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.
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.
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.
And the stars are asleep on the quiet sea;
And hearts I love, and hearts that love me,
Are beating beside me merrily:
3.
Touched by the moonbeam, are withering fast;
Where the half-seen spirit of twilight reposes,
Hymning the dirge of the hours that are past—
4.
(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 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.
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.
A being with life and its best feelings warm;
And freely the wild song of gratitude weave thee,
Blessed spirit! that bore me and mine from the storm.
civ.
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.
One hates to be old-fashioned; 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.
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.
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.
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.
To feudal manners and a barbarous age.
Time was—when woman "poured her soul" in song,
That all was hushed 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.
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 "qu'en dira-t-on?"
cxi.
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 spurned, as far beneath
One whose high destiny it was to breathe,
cxii.
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 awhile, and every eye on Fanny.
cxiii.
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.
(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.
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 showed too plainly this intention,
Others have done the same—'twas not of her invention.
cxvi.
Tickets by all who wish them, for a dollar;
She patronised the Theatre, and thought
That Wallack looked extremely well in Rolla;
She fell in love, as all the ladies do,
With Mr. Simpson—talked as loudly, too,
cxvii.
To the gay circle in the box beside her;
And when the pit—half vexed and half afraid,
With looks of smothered indignation eyed her,
She calmly met their gaze, and stood before 'em,
Smiling at vulgar taste and mock decorum.
cxviii.
For literature a most becoming passion;
Had skimmed 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.
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 learned by heart
cxx.
Hydraulics, hydrostatics, and pneumatics,
Dioptrics, optics, katoptrics, carbon,
Chlorine, and iodine, and aërostatics;
Also,—why frogs, for want of air, expire;
And how to set the Tappan sea on fire!
cxxi.
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.
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.
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.
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.
cxxv.
cxxvi.
Broadway was thronged 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 swelled wild and high,
And hearts and heels kept tune in tremulous ecstasy.
cxxvii.
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.
The arbiters of fashion and gentility,
In different grades of splendor, from the head
Down to the very toe of our nobility:
Ladies, remarkable for handsome eyes
Or handsome fortunes—learned men, and wise
cxxix.
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.
And, with a breath, two rooms became but one,
Like man and wife—and, on the polished 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 pressed on flowers.
cxxxi.
Streamed like a shower of sunbeams—and free tresses
Wild as the heads that waved them—and a pretty
Collection of the latest Paris dresses
Wandered about the rooms like things divine,
It was, as I was told, extremely fine.
cxxxii.
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-souled courtesies.
cxxxiii.
In breeches of light drab, and coat of blue.
Taste was conspicuous in his powdered 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.
Her power, resistless—and her wish, command;
And Hope's young promises were all made good;
"She reigned a fairy queen in fairy land;"
Her dream of infancy a dream no more,
And then how beautiful the dress she wore!
cxxxv.
He had the rose, no matter for its thorn,
And he seemed 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.
The broad and perilous wave of the North River.
He bade adieu, when safely on the shore,
To poetry—and, as he thought, forever.
That night his dream (if after deeds make known
Our plans in sleep) was an enchanting one.
cxxxvii.
And walked Broadway, enraptured the next day;
Purchased a house there—I've forgot the number—
And signed 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.
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 filled his rooms with servants, and whatever
Is necessary for a "genteel liver."
cxxxix.
Was blotted from his "household coat," and he
Now "showed 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.
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 guessed, would knock Judge Skinner down.
cxli.
He was a subject worthy Bristed's pen;
Believed devoutly all his flatterers said,
And deemed himself a Crœsus among men;
Spread to the liberal air his silken sails,
And lavished guineas like a Prince of Wales.
cxlii.
The blood ran pure—the magnates of the land—
Hailed 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.
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.
With men of taste and judgment like his own,
And played "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.
Of muscle-shells picked 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.
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.
With eagle eye and step that never faltered,
The busy tongue of scandal dared to tell
That cash was scarce with him, and credit altered;
And while he stood the envy of beholders,
The Bank Directors grinned, and shrugged their shoulders.
cxlviii.
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.
About retrenchment and a day of doom;
He thanked 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.
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.
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.
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 asked advice of Fanny, and the maid
Promptly and duteously lent her aid.
cliii.
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.
And Fanny, as I said some pages since,
Was there in power and loveliness that even,
And he, her sire, demeaned him like a prince,
And all was joy—it looked a festival,
Where pain might smooth his brow, and grief her smiles recall.
clv.
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.
Than on that morn when Satan played the devil,
With her and all her race. A love-sick wooer
Ne'er asked a kinder maiden, or more civil,
Than Cleopatra was to Antony
The day she left him on the Ionian sea.
clvii.
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.
The midnight earthquake from its sleep of years
To do its task of woe. 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 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 ushered in—hard times.
clx.
Down came, by accident, a chandelier;
The mansion tottered 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.
To say good-by—the father stormed and swore—
The fiddlers grinned—the daughter looked dejected—
The flowers had vanished from the polished floor,
And both betook them to their sleepless beds,
With hearts and prospects broken, but no heads.
clxii.
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.
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 "stopped payment."
clxiv.
(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.
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.
I passed 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.
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 rumor tells;
clxix.
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.
'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 wronged her, I can only tell her
I'm sorry for it—so is my bookseller.
clxxi.
She faintly smiled, and said she had been reading
The Treasurer's Report in the Gazette,
McIntyre'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.
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.
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.
Of those who passed 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.
'Twas Yankee Doodle played by Scudder's band:
He muttered, as he lingered listening,
Something of freedom and our happy land;
Then sketched, as to his home he hurried fast,
This sentimental song—his saddest, and his last:
SONG.
1.
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.
2.
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.
3.
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.
4.
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.
5.
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.
6.
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.
