386 
GRAHAM S MAGAZINE 
/Then the proud tulip lights her beacon blaze. 
Hot clustering curls the hyacinth displays, 
O’exher tall Ldades the crested fleur-de-lis, 
Like'itlue-eyed Pallas, towers erect and free; 
With yellower flames the lengthened sunshine glows, 
And lofy lays bare the passion-breathing rose ; 
Queen of the lake, along its reedy verge 
The rival'lily hastens to emerge, 
Her snowjKshoulders glistening as she strips 
Till morn i&^ultan of her parted lips. 
We have not Space for what follows in celebration of 
the birds, though\ye cannot resist the temptation to ex¬ 
tract four intoxicating couplets: 
The thrush, poor wgnderer, drooping meekly down, 
Clad in his remnanfbf autumnal brown ; 
The oriole, drifting l%e a flake of fire 
Rent by the whirlwind; from a blazing spire. 
The robin, jerking his spasmodic throat, 
Repeats, staccato , his pefemptory note; 
The crack-brained bobolin\ courts his crazy mate, 
Poised on a bulrush tipsy wjth his weight. 
The satirical part of the poerfyis introduced with a few 
lines on the danger of meddling, with popular delusions 
and foibles; and after speaking ofvthe “ earthquake of a 
nation’s hiss,” he concludes with tMs saucy salutation to 
the newspapers: \ 
And oh, remember the indignant pre^; 
Honey is bitter to its fond caress, \ 
But the black venom that its hate lets fall 
Would shame to sweetness the hyena’s gall. 
The gem of this portion of the poem is the representation 
of the Moral Bully, a picture worthy of Pope *t>r Young : 
Yon whey-faced brother, who delights to \Vfar 
A weedy flux of ill-conditioned hair, \ 
Seems of the sort that in a crowded place \ 
One elbows freely into smallest space; \ 
A timid creature, lax of knee and hip, Y 
Whom small disturbance whitens round the lip ; \ 
One of those harmless, spectacled machines, 
Ignored by waiters when they call for greens, \ 
Whom schoolboys question if their walk transcends 
The last advices of maternal friends, 
Whom John , obedient to his master's sign , 
Conducts , laborious , up to ninety-nine , 
While Peter, glistening with luxurious scorn, 
Husks his white ivories like an ear of corn; 
Dark in the brow and bilious in the cheek, 
Whose yellowish linen flowers but once a week, 
Conspicuous, annual, in their threadbare'suits, 
And the laced high-lows which they call their tfoots. 
Well may’st thou shun that dingy front severaq 
But him, O stranger, him thou canst not fear/' 
Be slow to judge, and slower to despise,^ 
Man of broad shoulders and heroic size! 
The tiger, writhing from the boa’s rings 
Drops at the fountain where the cobra stings. 
In that lean phantom, whose extendecj/glove 
Points to the text of universal love, 
Behold the master that can tame the£ down 
To crouch, the vassal of his Sunday frown ; 
His velvet throat against thy corded wrist, 
His loosened tongue against thyyBoubled fist! 
The Moral Btjlly, thouglnne never swears, 
Nor kicks intruders down hi/entry stairs, 
Though meekness plants hifirmckward sloping hat, 
And non-resistance ties liijr white cravat, 
Though his black broadcloath glories to be seen 
In the same plight Avith ishylock’s gaberdine, 
Hugs the same passioimo his namrw breast, 
That heaves the cuirass on the trooper’s chest. 
Heaven keep us p^l! Is eA r ery rascal clown, 
Whose arm is stronger, free to knock us down? 
Has e\ T ery scareuroAV, whose cachetic soul 
Seems fresh from Bedlam, airing on parole, 
Who, though )te carries but a doubtful trace 
Of angel visits on his hungry face, 
From lack q t marrow or the coins to pay, 
Has dodged some vices in a shabby way, 
The righfito stick us Avith his cut-throat terms, 
And baitfhis homilies with his brother worms ? 
If gqnerous fortune give me leave to choose 
My saucy neighbors barefoot or in shoes, 
I lefive the hero blustering Avhile he dares 
On platforms furnished Avith posterior stairs, 
Till prudence drives him to his “ earnest” legs 
With large bequest of disappointed eggs, 
And take the brawler Avhose unstudied dress 
Becomes him better, and protects him less; 
Give me the bullying of the scoundrel creAA', 
If swaggering virtue wont insult me too ! 
Leaving, with this impersonation, “ The nois£ tribe in 
panta-loons or -lets,” the poet drives direq^y at the 
august cities of Boston and NeAV York, aqd ruthlessly 
smashes all the literary crockery in those two emporiums 
of letters. Here is his gird at the modern Athens : 
/ 
The pseudo-critic-editorial race / 
Owns no allegiance but the law of plfice ; 
Each to his region sticks through thick and thin, 
Stiff as a beetle spiked upon a pin/ 
Plant him in Boston, and his sheet he fills 
With all the slipslop of his threefold hills, 
Talks as if nature kept her choicest smiles 
Within his radius of a dozen/hiles, 
And nations waited till his n4xt Review 
Had made it plain what Prpvidence must do. 
Would you believe him, water is not damp 
Except in buckets Avith the Hingham stamp, 
And Heaven should buffd the Avails of Paradise 
Of Quincy granite lirj^d Avith Wenham ice. 
Now this would giwe “ wondrous great contentment” 
to the denizens of Manhattan, did not the satirist pounce 
down upon them Ayjah even more ironical fury. We have 
only space for tile conclusion, and Avould particularly 
emphasize the l^t at the scholars. It must be borne in 
mind that thef poem was originally delivered at Yale 
College, the,head-quarters of Websterism in spelling. 
When Aur first Soldiers’ swords of honor gild 
The staj&ly mansions that her tradesmen build ; 
When our first Statesmen take the Broadway track, 
Our first Historians following at their back ; 
When our first Painters, dying, leave behind 
er proud Avails the shadows of their mind ; 
’When our first Poets flock from farthest scenes 
p o take in hand her pictured Magazines ; 
Then our first Scholars are content to dwell 
Where their own printers teach them how to spell; 
When world-known Science crowds toward her gates, 
Then shall the children of our hundred States 
\Hail her a true Metropolis of men, 
*fhe nation’s centre. Then, and not till then ! 
Nb one can read this poem without Avishing, AA r ith more 
earnestness than the wish originally came from the throat 
of Macfieth, that the author would throAV “ physic to the 
dogs,” afyl devote himself exclusively to literature. He 
is noAV but, an “ occasional” poet, though every piece he 
produces eA^idences that his mind is a Fortunatus’ purse, 
from Avhich atj endless succession of treasures might be 
drawn, with little effort on his OAvn part, but Avith 
great delight to She public and great profit to his oavii 
reputation. His Wit, Avhether expressed in prose or 
verse, is ever the pointed expression of sound sense, 
of accurate observathm, of searching, subtle thought, 
and has, therefore, a, permanent flavor, sharp and 
sweet, which improves rather than deteriorates with 
familiar acquaintance. Every thing he Avrites, AA T hether 
he reasons, observes, or creates, is distinguished pre¬ 
eminently by vigor—a vigor \vhich goes directly to its 
object, and always succeeds ifftaastering and expressing 
it. We wish he Avould not only'Write more poems, but 
that he Avould invade the domain oftaromance, and bring us 
back a novel. It would certainly bA as original as any 
ever produced by an American, and wd^ld exhibit to great 
advantage his peculiar vein of sentimenl^—a vein as pecu¬ 
liar as that of Tennyson, and capable of Toeing embodied 
in character with more perfection than he\has yet suc¬ 
ceeded in expressing it in couplets. 
\ 
Pictorial Field Book of the Revolution. By Jenson J. 
Lossing. New York : Harper Brothers. No: 
We again call attention to this delightful serial'Work, 
containing illustrations, by pen and pencil, of the history, 
scenery, biography, relics, and traditions of the 
tion. It is elegantly and compactly printed, is full of ei 
