Classic Poem

XLVI.

We owe the ancients something. You have read
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 candour, be confess'd,
They were an ignorant set of men at best.

XLVII.

'Twas their misfortune to be born too soon
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.

In short, in every thing we far outshine them, —
Art, science, taste, and talent; and a stroll
Through this enlighten'd 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.

In sculpture, we've a grace the Grecian master,
Blushing, had own'd 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.

And on our City Hall a Justice stands;
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.

In painting, we have Trumbull's proud chef d'aeuvre ,
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.

In architecture, our unrivall'd skill
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.

In physic, we have Francis and M'Neven,
Famed for long heads, short lectures, and long bills;
And Quackenboss and others, who from heaven
Were rain'd upon us in a shower of pills;
They'd beat the deathless Esculapius hollow,
And make a starveling druggist of Apollo.

LIV.

And who, that ever slumber'd at the Forum,
But owns the first of orators we claim;
Cicero would have bow'd 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.

For purity and chastity of style,
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.

Oxonian Bristed! many a foolscap page
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.

I beg Great Britain's pardon; 'tis not meant
To claim this Oxford scholar as our own:
That he was shipp'd 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

We fondly hope that he will be respected
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.

But to return. — The Heliconian waters
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 polish'd lines

LX.

Of Woodworth, Doctor Farmer, Moses Scott —
Names hallow'd 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.

Alas! for Paulding — I regret to see
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.

The wreath he fought for he has bravely won,
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 damn'd him — let him damn the muse.

LXIII.

But to return once more: the ancients fought
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, unmatch'd Thermopylae.

LXIV.

And there were spirited troops in other days —
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 undismay'd;
Yet what were these to General Laight's brigade

LXV.

Of veterans? nursed in that Free School of glory,
The New-York State Militia. From Bellevue,
E'en to the Battery flagstaff, the proud story
Of their manaeuvres at the last review
Has rang; and Clinton's " order " told afar
He never led a better corps to war.

LXVI.

What, Egypt, was thy magic, to the tricks
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.

I might say much about our letter'd men,
Those " grave and reverend seigniors, " who compose
Our learn'd societies — but here my pen
Stops short; for they themselves, the rumour goes,
The exclusive privilege by patent claim,
Of trumpeting (as the phrase is) their own fame.

LXVIII.

And, therefore, I am silent. It remains
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.