Fanny Part 4

He had a little of the "nasal tw.a.n.g 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.

For he had been, it seems, the bosom friend Of England's prettiest bard, Anacreon Moore.

They met when he, the bard, came here to lend His mirth and music to this favourite sh.o.r.e; For, as the proverb saith, "birds of a feather Instinctively will flock and fly together."

LXXV.

The winds that wave thy cedar boughs are breathing, "Lake of the Dismal Swamp!" that poet's name; And the spray-showers their noonday halos wreathing Around "Cohoes," are brighten'd by his fame.

And bright its sunbeam o'er St. Lawrence smiles, Her million lilies, and her thousand isles.

LXXVI.

We hear his music in her oarsmen's lay, 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.

Together oft they wander'd--many a spot 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 flow'd in mutual speech, 'Twere vain to tell how much each taught to each.

LXXVIII.

But, from the following song, it would appear 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 segar, 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 wither'd that hung o'er the wave, But some blossoms were gather'd while freshly they shone; And a dew was distill'd 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.

For many months my hero ne'er neglected 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 learn'd the party countersigns by rote, And when to clap his hands, and how to vote.

Lx.x.x.

He learn'd that Clinton became Governor 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.

Lx.x.xI.

That he was a mere puppet made to play A thousand tricks, while Spencer touch'd 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.

Lx.x.xII.

And that he'd set the people at defiance, 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 h.e.l.l than serve in heaven."

Lx.x.xIII.

To these authentic facts each bucktail swore; But Clinton's friends averr'd, 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.

Lx.x.xIV.

And they declared that Tompkins was no better Than he should be; that he had borrow'd 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. M'Intyre.

Lx.x.xV.

In short, each one with whom in conversation He join'd, contrived to give him different views Of men and measures; and the information Which he obtain'd, but aided to confuse His brain. At best, 'twas never very clear; And now 'twas turn'd with politics and beer.

Lx.x.xVI.

And he was puff'd, and flatter'd, and caress'd By all, till he sincerely thought that nature Had form'd him for an alderman at least-- Perhaps, a member of the legislature; And that he had the talents, ten times over, Of H*n*y M**gs, or P*t*r H. W*nd*ver.

Lx.x.xVII.