But, come what may, the man's in luck Who turns it all to glee, And laughing, cries, with honest Puck, "Good Lord! what fools yo be." JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE ODE TO FORTUNE FAIR lady with the bandaged eye! Alike thy kisses and thy kicks: Have cash to keep my duns at bay, Can choose between beefsteaks and ham, And drink Madeira every day. My station is the middle rank, My fortune - just a competence – Ten thousand in the Franklin Bank, And twenty in the six per cents; No amorous chains my heart enthrall, I neither borrow, lend, nor sell; Fearless I roam the City Hall, And bite my thumb at Sheriff Bell. The horse that twice a week I ride My country-seat is Weehawk hill; And Jennings makes my whiskey-punch. When merry, I the hours amuse By squibbing Bucktails, Guards, and And when I'm troubled with the blues Lydia Huntley Sigourney COLUMBUS ST. STEPHEN's cloistered hall was proud In learning's pomp that day, HALLECK And Drake For there a robed and stately crowd A mariner with simple chart While strong ambition stirs his heart, And burning thoughts of wonder part From lip and sparkling eye. When sudden from the forest wide A red-browed chieftain came, With towering form, and haughty stride, And eye like kindling flame: What hath he said? With frowning face, No wrath he breathed, no conflict sought, In whispered tones they speak, And lines upon their tablets trace, Which flush each ashen cheek; The Inquisition's mystic doom Sits on their brows severe, And bursting forth in visioned gloom, Groans on the startled ear. Courage, thou Genoese! Old Time Courage, World-finder! Thou hast need! Dark woes and ingrate wrongs I read, Then drink thy cup of scorn, To no dark ambush drew, But simply to the Old World brought The welcome of the New. Ho! City of the gay ! Paris! what festal rite Doth call thy thronging million forth, All eager for the sight? Thy soldiers line the streets In fixed and stern array, With buckled helm and bayonet, As on the battle-day. By square, and fountain side, Heads in dense masses rise, The Arc de Triomphe glows! Behold, in glittering show, The white-plumed steeds, in cloth of gold, Bow down beneath its weight; Seems fiercely for his lord to ask, Who rideth on yon car? The incense flameth high,- See, yes, to listen see even madam deign, When the smug seamstress pours her ready strain; This wings the lie that malice breeds in fear, No tongue so vile but finds a kindred ear; Swift flies each tale of laughter, shame, or folly, Caught by Paul Pry and carried home to On this each foul calumniator leans, To track a secret, half the town has trod. O thou, from whose rank breath nor sex can save, Nor sacred virtue, nor the powerless grave, Felon unwhipped! than whom in yonder cells Full many a groaning wretch less guilty dwells, Blush if of honest blood a drop remains To steal its lonely way along thy veins, Blush if the bronze, long hardened on thy cheek, Has left a spot where that poor drop can speak; Blush to be branded with the slanderer's name, And, though thou dreadst not sin, at least dread shame. We hear, indeed, but shudder while we hear The insidious falsehood and the heartless jeer; For each dark libel that thou lickest to shape, Thou mayest from law but not from scorn escape; The pointed finger, cold, averted eye, Insulted virtue's hiss- thou canst not fly. FICTION Look now, directed by yon candle's blaze, Where the false shutter half its trust betrays Mark that fair girl reclining in her bed, Its curtain round her polished shoulders spread: Dark midnight reigns, the storm is up in |