Classic Poem

Not to the celebrated devil,
Not Nick , thou big, hope-blasting weevil,
Embodying all we know of evil; —
No! Goodness bless me!
Thou 'lt have to use me far more civil,
Ere I address thee.

But thou who dwell'st in Gotham city,
The MAN , warm-hearted, wise, and witty,
Thou who first read my rustic ditty,
First called me BARD !
(The holy truth will sure acquit thee
In that regard.)

Tho' not thy namesake's kin or pet,
There 's something weird about you, yet;
What Editor before could set
So rich a " Table? "
Where could mere human body get
The wherewith-able?

Oh, had I but thy facile pen!
Thy fancy to direct it! — then
I'd hope to win from fellow men
A lofty name;
And leave life's mediocral fen
For " braes o' fame!"

I'm coming out an author, now,
In book yclept " The Harp and Plow."
Hopes, fears; fears, hopes; around my brow,
Weeds twine, or bays:
But, hit or miss, I 'll make my bow
One of these days.

My book! with trembling I shall show it,
Lest you annihilate the poet;
But should you any praise bestow it,
Content I am,
Tho' every other critic blow it
To Rotterd — m.

But by thy worth, and fancy fine,
By that small share which may be mine,
By all the favors of the N INE ,
In store, or given,
I wish thee, C LARK , for thee and thine,
The smiles of Heaven.