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."

Lx.x.xVIII.

The one--for a pure style and cla.s.sic 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.

Lx.x.xIX.

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, Advertis.e.m.e.nts 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 cla.s.sic 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 pa.s.s'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 pet.i.tioner 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 a.s.sistance, 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