LXXXVIII.

His leisure hours with classic 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.

LXXXIX.

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 steam-boat of the Vice President's,
To Staten-Island once-for fifty cents.

XC.

And he had din'd, by special invitation,
On turtle, with the party at Hoboken
And thank'd them for his card, in an oration,
Declar'd 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.

XCI.

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 smil'd
Upon a lovelier scene, than the full eye
Of the enthusiast revels on-when high,

XCII.

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,

XCIII.

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.

XCIV.

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.

XCV.

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 shore, are blended there,
In wild reality. When life is old,

And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold

XCVI.

Its memory of this; nor lives there one

Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood's days

Of happiness, were pass'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.

XCVII.

"This may be poetry for aught I know,"

Said an old, worthy friend of mine, while leaning Over my shoulder as I wrote, "altho'

"I can't exactly comprehend its meaning.

"For my part, I have long been a petitioner

66

To Mr. John M'Caib, the street commissioner,

XCVIII.

"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 the rocks, and sell the wood for fuel ;up ""Twould save us many a dollar, and a duel."

-

XCIX.

The devil take you and John M'Caib, said I;
Lang, in its praise, has penn'd one paragraph,
And promised me another. I defy,

With such assistance, yours and the world's laugh;
And half believe that Paulding, on this theme,
Might be a poet-strange as it may seem.

C.

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 rhyming mood;"
And with a pencil on his knee he wrote
The following flaming lines-to the Horse-Boat:

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.

Yet-far in the west, where the day's faded roses,
Touch'd by the moon-beam, are withering fast;

Where the half-seen spirit of twilight reposes,
Hymning the dirge of the hours that are past.