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t LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
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 If UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
A POEM 
 
 DELIVERED AT THE 
 
 (ffi0mptwwtat:5j fynmxt U (^m. Wdm. Wmtw, 
 
 ON THE OCCASION OF THE 
 
 OPENraG OF TWEDDLE HALL, 
 
 JUNE 28th, 1860. 
 
 BY WILLIAM D. MOEANGE. 
 
 vC;: 
 
 ALBANY: 
 MUNSELL & ROWLAND, ^8 S^ATE STREET. 
 
 1860. 
 
 A. 
 
 ^ ^_ 
 

POEM 
 
 The Age we live in, hath, from time to time, 
 
 Earned various titles, both in prose .and rhyme : 
 
 The Age of Telegraphs and Women's Rights — 
 
 Of Rifles, Rowdies and Convention fights ; 
 
 The Age of Hoops, Divorces and dissensions — 
 
 The Age of Lightning, Steam and bold inventions j 
 
 The age of Speculation, Fraud and Crime, 
 
 Too deep and dismal to be told in rhyme ; 
 
 But call the Age by any name you please. 
 
 In any language — save the Japanese; 
 
 Here, in this town, it surely seems to be 
 
 The Age of Progress, Light and Energy. 
 
 Not many years have 'lapsed since drowsy Fame, 
 
 Snored through the trumpet which pronounced our 
 
 name, 
 And flung such stupor round it, that, when seen. 
 It stood for laudanum, opium or morphine. 
 Now, modern Progress works such magic change. 
 
Each year develops something new and strange. 
 
 Could some round Dutchman, of the vanished time, 
 
 That saw our ancient city in its prime, 
 
 Emerge from long repose, and view it now. 
 
 The startling sight would wrinkle up his brow. 
 
 And make him utter, as he came to view it, 
 
 " Why, how der tuyvil did dey ever do it ? " 
 
 The solemn pumps, the chain of frequent posts. 
 
 That stood oif curb, or carriage-way, like ghosts, 
 
 Are swept forever by advancing time — 
 
 Their presence now, forsooth, a civic crime. 
 
 The swinging doors, not framed for burglar's tricks, 
 
 The portly gables, with their Holland bricks. 
 
 By modern arts and architects o'erthrown. 
 
 Have yielded place to palaces of stone. 
 
 The crooked cow-paths by the river-side. 
 
 Whereon he moved and smoked in civic pride, 
 
 Meander yet, but flanked with towering walls. 
 
 With stately freestone fronts, and marble halls. 
 
 But if that sturdy man's dilated eyes 
 
 At other change would twinkle with surprise. 
 
 What would he think, when his astonished view 
 
 Took in the wonders of Pearl Avenue ? 
 
 That street where flourished Old Uranian Hall, 
 
 And divers structures, peaked, queer and small ; 
 
POEM. 
 
 Where Yaist Derheyden Palace stood sublime, 
 
 And seemed to dare the ravages of time. 
 
 There must be hundreds, in whose memories now 
 
 The Pearl Street of not many years ago. 
 
 Is still so vivid, that its modern scheme. 
 
 Is like the presence of a wondrous dream. 
 
 Change, marvelous change, hath scattered and erased 
 
 The lingering monuments of ancient taste ; 
 
 Or turned the relics that could charm and please. 
 
 To baker shops and corner groceries ; 
 
 Where Pemberton's smoked beef regales the eyes. 
 
 Or, till of late, McCafferty sold pies. 
 
 What matter — 'tis the instinct of the Age, 
 
 On such old relics constant war to Avage, 
 
 And if progressive moderns every day 
 
 Make like returns for what they sweep away. 
 
 All hail ! the reign of hodmen, lime, and water. 
 
 Of pickaxe, trowel, shovels, bricks and mortar, 
 
 Uranian Hall is mouldering with the past, 
 
 And numbered with forgotten things at last ; 
 
 That building where O'Shaughnessy taught school. 
 
 And made the ancients know his potent rule ; 
 
 Time hath pulled down its walls of sombre lead. 
 
 But grandly rising in their place and stead, 
 
 A marble home of learning towers high. 
 
Where children still pursue their destiny j 
 And Music scatters yet her fairest pearls. 
 As Sherwin teaches singing to the girls. 
 The Van Derheyden Palace, whose renown 
 Amazed the quiet people of the town ; 
 Whose pictured splendor in the days of old 
 Adorned the copy-books that Webster sold, 
 Itself, through vanished years a picture seems, 
 Lit with the moonlight of remembered dreams ; 
 But where its quaint, fantastic front appeared. 
 Now, modern art a giant pile has reared. 
 Where pranced its iron horse upon his perch, 
 Now soars the steeple of the Baptist Church. 
 The Webster Corner ! May its memory live 
 While printing presses have a word to give ! 
 The ancient home of letters, and the press, 
 Where the Gazette assumed its early dress, 
 Spent sixty years in making people wiser, 
 And died at length the Daily Advertiser — 
 The Elm Tree Corner, that familiar nook. 
 Whence issued Webster's famous spelling book. 
 Bound up in gorgeous blue, at moderate price, 
 And full of splendid plates, and good advice — 
 Remorseless Progress has denounced the pile 
 That reared its homely form for such a while ; 
 
Irwevitable Fate has deemed it good 
 Tic smite at length its honored frame of wood; 
 But Public Spirit, as the ruins fell, 
 Rushed to the spot Old Time had loved so well, 
 And conjured up this strong and splendid hall, 
 The noblest, grandest modern of them all ! 
 Finished, substantial, firm and elegant. 
 Superb with all that knowledge can invent. 
 Strong from its lowest to its topmost reach, 
 Secured by all mechanic art can teach. 
 With bolt and beam, and bar and masonry. 
 Fast knit and fixed for ages yet to be ; 
 A fabric worthy of the stout old day 
 When ponderous castles lined the travelled way ; 
 A triumph for the builder and the town. 
 Despite all rumors that would lie it down. 
 How long, oh ! Time and Progress, have we waited, 
 For something like it to be dedicated ? 
 How long, oh ! Hope and Patience, have we borne 
 With dingy cocklofts, crowded and forlorn, 
 Where who went ia remained in dangerous doubt 
 About the chances of his getting out. 
 And who came out repented of the sin 
 His feet committed when they took him in. 
 At length, uprising, massive, broad and high 
 
With grace and beauty in its symmetry, 1 
 
 At length, we boast a hall that's worth the namv ^ ; 
 Fit to be thundered through the trump of Fame. 
 Below — a field where various trade invites. 
 Or proud professions show their signal lights — 
 Where law, ice cream, gold watches, bonnets, brandy, 
 At once, are so convenient, and so handy; 
 Above — devoted to the charming arts 
 That sway, delight, and cheer most human hearts. 
 To Music, loud or sweet — to Eloquence, 
 And the soft measures of the festive dance. 
 How many crowds will after this appear, 
 To flirt, applaud, be listened to, or hear ! 
 How many gallant men, and ladies fair ! 
 How many spouters here will saw the air ! 
 How many eyes express their rapturous wonder, 
 And roll ecstatic " like a duck's in thunder ! " 
 How many nimble feet the dance explore. 
 How many hoofs will bang the polished floor ! 
 But, above all, oh ! Music and the Nine ! 
 How many splendid strains will here combine 
 And roll in grand harmonious echoes, round . 
 This vast and gorgeous theatre of sound ! 
 Spirit of Progress ! thou whose radiant wings 
 Have shed such lustre over human things — 
 
"Whose rapid feet but touch the barren earth 
 And cities rise like magic into birth — 
 Whose eager voice inflames ambitious hearts, 
 Inspires, invigorates, improves the arts — 
 Lo, here ! the Muses, hand in hand advance, 
 To greet exultant thy approving glance ! 
 Here, in this busy age, when traffic rules. 
 And bards and artists rank as social fools ; 
 When rustling bank notes and the cHnk of gold 
 Are more melodious than the harps of old. 
 When church-committees, men of fat or bones, 
 Lay hands on Music till she shrieks or groans — 
 Here, in this quaint but still progressive town, 
 Where all the arts seem gathering for renown ; 
 Here, in a temple she can call her own, 
 A fitting palace for her glorious throne ; 
 Lo, here, triumphant Music dares to raise 
 Her echoing voice in hymns of grateful praise ; 
 Praise that, at length, thus beautiful appears 
 This cherished hope of long and tedious years ; 
 Praise that, with modern ease and arts and graces, 
 Albanians can beat time Uke other places ; 
 Praise that, while lusty Trade and Commerce, each 
 Have room enough to practice and to preach, 
 
She too can join in the ambitious race ; 
 She too can boast of privilege and place. 
 No longer cabined in a stifling hall, 
 Where clumsy echoes thunder at the wall ; 
 No more to some broad church for refuge sent, 
 Nor like an Arab, driven to a tent ; 
 Here, like a Goddess potent everywhere. 
 She moves divinely through the ample air. 
 Her thanks in anthems, pealing loud and clear 
 To Heaven, to Progress and John Tweddle, here ! 
 Were this the storied age, when Music's power 
 Absorbed, amused, controlled each listening hour ; 
 When bards recorded laws in numbers terse. 
 And wrote decrees and politics in verse ; 
 When verse was history, when the harp or lyre 
 Could soothe a nation's wrongs, or wake its fire, 
 Even then — in such an age, when song was rife — 
 Its dulcet sway supreme o'er human hfe, 
 The generous gift of ample halls like these. 
 Bestowed on kindred arts that charm and please. 
 Had earned sweet tributes from discerning Fame, 
 And made a household word the giver's name. 
 High honor, then, prosperity and health. 
 To him who thus makes blessings of his wealth! 
 
Oh ye ! who laugh our ancient town to scorn, 
 And swear that here was drowsy Dullness born ; 
 Oh ye ! who sigh for foreign homes and graces, 
 And reckon this among the country places ; 
 Ye men of pocket, who have earned your gold, 
 In this old town, by what you bought and sold. 
 And yet do nothing for the public weal. 
 Except exhibiting how grand you feel, — 
 Wake up ! and hear the people, one and all. 
 Thank good John Tweddle for this glorious hall ! 
 Ye men of banks, and capital, and pride. 
 Who really love the place where ye abide. 
 Wake up ! and show what civic pride can do. 
 Give to the city something it gave you ! 
 Ye merchant princes, solid men of trade. 
 Who heap up coin on heaps already made, 
 Let dry goods, hardware, mackerel, hides and tallow. 
 That gave your bank account its tinge of yellow. 
 Assume new shapes, and grace with new renown 
 The blooming pathways of this pleasant town. 
 Build us a temple where the tragic Muse 
 Will pay the actors for the lungs they use ; 
 Give us a fountain where the fish can play. 
 And not be penstocked in the present way. 
 Enroll your names among that worthy clan — 
 
KiDD, Learned, Tweddle, Ore, and Delavan — 
 Who cultivate our city like a daughter, 
 And mark our progress with their bricks and mortar ! 
 Such men as these have given the place momentum, 
 And whether English, Dutch, or Yankee sent 'em, 
 Their doings ought to shine in civic story. 
 As part and parcel of Albanian glory. 
 Albanian glory, let me proudly say. 
 Means something even in this raj)id day. 
 Our Past is brilliant with the good and great 
 Who bled in battle or controlled the State. 
 Here armies gathered 'ere the fight begun j 
 Here warriors rested when the fight was done ; 
 Here dwelt at times the magnates of the age. 
 The orator, the soldier and the sage. 
 Here for the first time Franklin promulgates 
 The plan which makes us now United States ; 
 Here, like the planets circling round the sun. 
 Old Chivalry took light from Washington, 
 And gallant Schuyler, ardent Lafayette, 
 And kindred souls, familiar moved and met. 
 Our civic past is luminous with mind. 
 With learning, wisdom, eloquence combined ! 
 Kent, Spencer, Beck, Van Buren, Marcy, here, 
 With hundreds more, in radiant ranks appear. 
 
And fling their glory, witli a light incessant, 
 
 Upon the rapid, busy, bustling Present. 
 
 Our Present, with that light upon its brow, 
 
 Moves on majestic to new glories now ! 
 
 Arts flourish. Progress laughs, and all the world 
 
 Begins to know our banner is unfurled. 
 
 Here Palmer first divulged his splendid gifts, 
 
 Till now the sceptre of high art he lifts — 
 
 Till now his native genius, power and grace, 
 
 Make an art Mecca of Columbia Place. 
 
 Here Thompson, Boughton, Hart, reflect their fame. 
 
 And give new pride and glory to our name ; 
 
 Here Homer Martin, Parks and Smith and Gay, 
 
 Prepare art triumphs for the coming day. 
 
 Here Warren — gifted George, the child of art, 
 
 The genial artist, with the mammoth heart — 
 
 Whose soul all music, when his boyish hand 
 
 Tinkled the triangle in Joe Burke's band, 
 
 Is brimming o'er with jolly music now, 
 
 When artist laurels deck his manly brow — 
 
 Here Warren lives, whom all the world admires. 
 
 Whose very presence pleases and inspires. 
 
 The children love him for his happy face. 
 
 The " sex " aidmires him for his social grace ; 
 
The world respects the spotless name he bears ; 
 The starving poor have blessed him with their 
 
 prayers : 
 His life defines, if aught that's hmnan can, 
 The noble title of a gentleman. 
 Long way he wave ! till time and fate compel 
 His genial soul to bid its last farewell. 
 Bright be the hopes that lure to stranger places, 
 His native worth, his genius, and his graces ; 
 May brighter laurels, clust'ring round his name. 
 Reflect new honor on our future fame. 
 
 That Future with the Present shall contrast 
 As does the rapid present with the Past, 
 Till, on the brightest pages of renown 
 Posterity shall write our glory down. 
 
 The land we live in is a blessed land. 
 Rich with the gifts of an Almighty hand. 
 Yet scarce a Nation, if the truth be told; 
 Not that to be such we must needs be old — 
 Not that ancestral palaces and towers. 
 And knightly memories must needs be ours — 
 Not that we shrink from any foreign foe. 
 Or dare not give aggression blow for blow, 
 
 \ 
 
Or stand unawed by all the loud alarms, 
 Might thundering issue from a world in arms — 
 But that no real true vigorous unity 
 
 Of heart, thought, feehng, yet binds race to race, 
 Gives us one spirit and one destiny, 
 
 And bids us hence assume a nation's place. 
 Composed of various bloods and various races, 
 Some bearing Christian names and Pagan faces, 
 Some owning Pagan blood and Pagan name, 
 All claiming all that freemen dare to claim — 
 We're builded of a thousand elements, 
 Yet lack that something, thrilling and intense. 
 Which lives in feature, attitude and eye, 
 Floats through a music and a poesy; 
 Which seems to hover in the very air, 
 And makes a national spirit everywhere. 
 
 If aught but time that spirit can invite, 
 'Tis Music — and to Music, then, to night. 
 We dedicate this grand and spacious Hall, 
 Each plank, each rafter, and each sturdy wall.