Fanny Part 12

A FRAGMENT.

His shop is a grocer's--a snug, genteel place, Near the corner of Oak-street and Pearl; He can dress, dance, and bow to the ladies with grace And ties his cravat with a curl.

He's ask'd to all parties--north, south, east, and west, That take place between Chatham and Cherry, And when he's been absent full oft has the "best Society" ceased to be merry.

And nothing has darken'd a sky so serene, Nor disorder'd his beaus.h.i.+p's Elysium, Till this season among our _elite_ there has been What is call'd by the clergy "a schism."

'Tis all about eating and drinking--one set Gives sponge-cake, a few "kisses" or so, And is cool'd after dancing with cla.s.sic sherbet, "Sublimed" (see Lord Byron) "with snow."

Another insists upon punch and _perdrix_, Lobster-salad, Champagne, and, by way Of a novelty only, those pearls of our sea, Stew'd oysters from Lynn-Haven bay.

Miss Flounce, the young milliner, blue-eyed and bright, In the front parlour over her shop, "Entertains," as the phrase is, a party to-night, Upon peanuts and ginger-pop.

And Miss Fleece, who's a hosier, and not quite as young, But is wealthier far than Miss Flounce, She "entertains" also to-night with cold tongue, Smoked herring, and cherry-bounce.

In praise of cold water the Theban bard spoke, He of Teos sang sweetly of wine; Miss Flounce is a Pindar in cashmere and cloak, Miss Fleece an Anacreon divine.

The Montagues carry the day in Swamp Place; In Pike-street the Capulets reign; A _limonadiere_ is the badge of one race, Of the other a flask of Champagne.

Now as each the same evening her soiree announces, What better, he asks, can be done, Than drink water from eight until ten with the Flounces, And then wine with the Fleeces till one!

SONG.

BY MISS * * * *.

_Air_, "To ladies eyes a round, boy."

MOORE.

The winds of March are humming Their parting song, their parting song, And summer's skies are coming, And days grow long, and days grow long.

I watch, but not in gladness, Our garden tree, our garden tree; It buds, in sober sadness, Too soon for me, too soon for me.

My second winter's over, Alas! and I, alas! and I Have no accepted lover: Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.

'Tis not asleep or idle That love has been, that love has been; For many a happy bridal The year has seen, the year has seen; I've done a bridemaid's duty, At three or four, at three or four; My best bouquet had beauty, Its donor more, its donor more.

My second winter's over, Alas! and I, alas! and I Have no accepted lover: Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.

His flowers my bosom shaded One sunny day, one sunny day; The next, they fled and faded, Beau and bouquet, beau and bouquet.

In vain, at ball and parties, I've thrown my net, I've thrown my net; This waltzing, watching heart is Unchosen yet, unchosen yet.

My second winter's over, Alas! and I, alas! and I Have no accepted lover: Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.

They tell me there's no hurry For Hymen's ring, for Hymen's ring; And I'm too young to marry: 'Tis no such thing, 'tis no such thing.

The next spring tides will dash on My eighteenth year, my eighteenth year; It puts me in a pa.s.sion, Oh dear, oh dear! oh dear, oh dear!

My second winter's over, Alas! and I, alas! and I Have no accepted lover: Don't ask me why, don't ask me why.

SONG.

FOR THE DRAMA OF "THE SPY."

The harp of love, when first I heard Its song beneath the moonlight tree, Was echoed by his plighted word, And ah, how dear its song to me; But wail'd the hour will ever be When to the air the bugle gave, To hush love's gentle minstrelsy, The wild war music of the brave.

For he hath heard its song, and now Its voice is sweeter than mine own; And he hath broke the plighted vow He breathed to me and love alone.

That harp hath lost its wonted tone, No more its strings his fingers move, Oh would that he had only known The music of the harp of love.

1822.

ADDRESS,

AT THE OPENING OF A NEW THEATRE.

November, 1831.

Where dwells the Drama's spirit? not alone Beneath the palace roof, beside the throne, In learning's cloisters, friends.h.i.+p's festal bowers, Art's pictured halls, or triumph's laurel'd towers, Where'er man's pulses beat or pa.s.sions play, She joys to smile or sigh his thoughts away: Crowd times and scenes within her ring of power, And teach a life's experience in an hour.

To-night she greets, for the first time, our dome, Her latest, may it prove her lasting home; And we her messengers delighted stand, The summon'd Ariels of her mystic wand, To ask your welcome. Be it yours to give Bliss to her coming hours, and bid her live Within these walls new hallow'd in her cause, Long in the nurturing warmth of your applause.

'Tis in the public smiles, the public loves, His dearest home, the actor breathes and moves, Your plaudits are to us and to our art As is the life-blood to the human heart: And every power that bids the leaf be green, In nature acts on this her mimic scene.

Our sunbeams are the sparklings of glad eyes, Our winds the whisper of applause, that flies From lip to lip, the heart-born laugh of glee, And sounds of cordial hands that ring out merrily, And heaven's own dew falls on us in the tear That woman weeps o'er sorrows pictured here, When crowded feelings have no words to tell The might, the magic of the actor's spell.

These have been ours; and do we hope in vain Here, oft and deep, to feel them ours again?

No! while the weary heart can find repose From its own pains in fiction's joys or woes; While there are open lips and dimpled cheeks, When music breathes, or wit or humour speaks; While Shakspeare's master spirit can call up n.o.blest and worthiest thoughts, and brim the cup Of life with bubbles bright as happiness, Cheating the willing bosom into bliss; So long will those who, in their spring of youth, Have listen'd to the Drama's voice of truth, Mark'd in her scenes the manners of their age, And gather'd knowledge for a wider stage, Come here to speed with smiles life's summer years, And melt its winter snow with pleasant tears; And younger hearts, when ours are hushed and cold, Be happy here as we have been of old.

Friends of the stage, who hail it as the shrine Where music, painting, poetry entwine Their kindred garlands, whence their blended power Refines, exalts, enn.o.bles hour by hour The spirit of the land, and, like the wind, Unseen but felt, bears on the bark of mind; To you the hour that consecrates this dome, Will call up dreams of prouder hours to come, When some creating poet, born your own, May waken here the drama's loftiest tone, Through after years to echo loud and long, A Shakspeare of the West, a star of song, Bright'ning your own blue skies with living fire, All times to gladden and all tongues inspire, Far as beneath the heaven by sea-winds fann'd, Floats the free banner of your native land.

THE RHYME

OF

THE ANCIENT COASTER.

_Written while sailing in an open boat on the Hudson River, between Stony Point and the Highlands, on seeing the wreck of an old sloop, June, 1821._