jfny Knrvcs, JRaxors, or Scis- sors to Grind. " Bu tier- Mil- leek. fcx iCtbrts SEYMOUR DURST When you leave, please leave this hook Because it has heen said "Ever thing comes t him who waits Except a loaned hook. Avlry Architectural and Fink Arts Library (in i oi Si uuh r H. I)i rsi ()i n York Library Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2013 http://archive.org/details/bookofnewyorkverOOarms_0 Latest Idea for Riding in Crowded City Cars From Harper's Weekly, January 12, 1861 Book of New York Verse , Edited T>y If-AMiLTOw Fish Armstrong ■ Illustrated "TV&y do Hove JVewYorJk, my dear? J Jknotu 220 f. Were zny \falJier Aere— And Ais ~ and His — fAe fhree $Z Afo(?A£,j)er/iaps, make you some reply" ffOBunner* 1917 G P Putnam's Sons-Neu/York- PS m ,m AS Hi H v Copyright, 19 17 BY HAMILTON FISH ARMSTRONG Ubc ftntcfeerbocfter preae, Hew Korfe A Professional View of it Policeman {off duty) — "Just to think of it ! Seven lives lost at the Prince of Wales's wedding ! That comes of living in a place where there ain't no Broadway Squad I " From Harper's Weekly, April n, 1863 INTRODUCTION The last generation would likely enough have looked upon a book in honour of New York as a vain under- taking for almost unworthy ends. So much do fancies change. The affection which many of us feel for the city, the affection which day by day it is becoming more the fashion to cultivate, would have met with slight comprehension and considerable ridicule fifty years ago. With our lately-regained admiration for New York, from the newest skyscraper's silhouette to the latest mushroom variation on ''The Black Cat," we are fond of thinking that the city daily grows more ex- traordinary, more thrilling. Relatively, it does not. We have caught up with it, that's all, and while we grumble as much as did our forefathers at its short- comings they no longer entirely eclipse its glories. As a matter of fact, the opening of the subway was relatively not at all more exciting than that memorable occasion when Croton Water first flowed through pipes into the city, amid the huzzas and fusilades of parad- ing citizens. Trinity's spire seemed quite as impres- sive — actually was quite as impressive and remarkable — to New Yorkers of the past as the Woolworth Tower is to those of the present. The fashionable events which took place at the Battery, or on Second Avenue, or on Broadway in the years when all the town walked iii iv Introduction there (only on the west side, of course), or along Colon- nade Row, or on Stuyvesant or Washington Square, or in any other of the neighbourhoods which in successive generations have had aristocratic approval, were no less gay than are our machine-made functions to-day. Politics remains the same sort of a game, though probably never again to be played with the complete abandon of a Tweed. The stranger who remarks platitudinously that there isn't a "home" left in New York is, as is the way of strangers, wrong. Only the scavenger pigs have disappeared, along with the omni- buses and sleighs from Broadway and the Indians from the tobacconists. New York is still here, and little changed inside. Poetry about both old and new New York is in- cluded in this collection. Many will be able to fill in from pleasant recollection or tradition some of the gaps necessarily left between the scenes in the follow- ing pages. In this connection it is well to mention that the dates are merely approximate. The poems in the first part of the book are arranged in order of events, those in the latter half more or less according to locality. The notes not in parentheses which appear at the head of some of the poems are the authors*. The choice of poems has not been nearly so limited as might be imagined. My sister, Margaret Arm- strong, has helped me with every part of the book. And as a result of our interest in obscure library top- shelves the dust shrouds have been brushed away from many volumes of verse, and many forgotten bits about the old town have been brought to light. We have been, as a rule, successful in including only poems which measure up to quite respectable standards both Introduction v of poesy and general interest. But in one or two cases either the exceptional interest of the subject or the quaintness of the telling has seemed more than to counterbalance a lack of poetical merit. I am not able to mention individually all the authors who, besides giving permission for the use of their work, have helped me by suggestions and by allowing me to see poems not yet in print; without exception my many requests and questions met with pleasant and generous attention. I am especially indebted to Mr. Clinton Scollard, an author who is also an author- ity; to Mr. Alfred Noyes, to Mrs. Frederick Gore King, of the New York Society Library; to Mr. Ferris Lock- wood, a Director of the New York Public Library, and to many willing employees of that institution. At the moment New York and its libraries are far away. That this also was'the case during the correc- tion of much of the proof must be my excuse if re- vision has not been as minute as would have been possible in less topsy- turvy times. Hamilton Fish Armstrong. September ist., 1917 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS All rights on poems in this volume are reserved by holders of the copyright. Thanks are due to the publishers and others named in the following list for express permission to include poems from the volumes mentioned. Messrs. D. Appleton & Co. — From "Bryant's Poems" by William Cullen Bryant. Mr. Richard G. Badger— From "The Electric Spirit, "by Marion Couthoy Smith; from "The Guest at the Gate" and "Poems" by Edith M. Thomas; from "Poems" by Seldon L. Whitcomb. The Bobbs-Merrill Co. — From "Poems" (cop. 1906) by Mere- dith Nicholson. Mr. E. F. Bonaventure — From "Poems of Men and Events" by George Alfred Townsend. The Cameo Press — From "The Cup of Comus" by Madison Cawein. The Century Co. — From "Songs for the New Age" by James Oppenheim; from "Challenge" by Louis Untermeyer. From the Century Magazine, "The Night Court" by Ruth Comfort Mitchell. Concord Printing Co. — From "Legends of the Netherlands" by Gideon J. Tucker. Mr. B. W. Dodge— From "The Quiet Singer" by Charles Hanson Towne. Messrs. Doubleday Page & Co. — From "By and Large" and "Tobogganing on Parnassus" by Franklin P. Adams; from "Shoes of Happiness" by Edwin Markham. Messrs. E. P. Dutton & Co.— From "Collected Poems" by Austin Dobson. The Funk and Wagnalls Co.— From "The Buntling Ball" by Edgar Fawcett. vfi viii Acknowledgments Messrs. Harper & Brothers — From "Poems" by Dana Burnet; from "Nothing to Wear, and Other Poems" by William Allen Butler; from "The Laughing Muse" by Arthur Guiterman; from "Dreams and Dust" by Don Marquis; from "Sun and Shade" by Louise Morgan Sill. Messrs. Henry Holt & Co. — From "The Blue and The Gray" by Marion Sibley Finch. The Houghton Mifflin Co. — The selections from Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Anna Hempstead Branch, Florence Earle Coates, Flor- ence Wilkinson Evans, Richard Watson Gilder, Emma Lazarus, William Vaughn Moody, Robert Haven Schauffler, Clinton Scollard, Edmund Clarence Stedman, and John Greenleaf Whittier are used by permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Co., authorized publishers of their works. Mr. B. W. Huebsch— From "The Vaunt of Man, and Other Poems" by William Ellery Leonard. Mr. Mitchell Kennerley — From "Verse" by Vance Thompson; from "Manhattan" by Charles Hanson Towne. The John Lane Co. — From "New Poems" by Richard Le Gallienne; from "Herbs and Apples" by Helen Hay Whitney. The J. P. Lippincott Co. — From "Poems" by Andrew E. Watrous. The Macmillan Co. — From "The Overture, and Other Poems" by Jefferson Butler Fletcher; from "The Congo" by Vachel Lindsay; from "The Sistine Eve, and Other Poems" by Percy MacKaye; from "The Man Against the Sky" and "The Town Down the River" by Edwin Arlington Robinson; from "Dorian Days" by Wendell Phillips Stafford; from "Rivers to the Sea" by Sara Teasdale; from "Poems" by Mrs. Schuyler Van Rens- selaer; from "Lyrical Recreations" by Samuel Ward. The McClure Co. — From "Lincoln" by Edwin Markham. Mr. David MacKaye — From Walt Whitman's poetical works. Mr. Thomas Bird Mosher — From "The Rose- Jar" by Thomas S. Jones, Jr. Oxford University Press — From "Towards the Uplands" by Lloyd Mifflin. The Page Company — From "Poems" by Charles G. D. Roberts. Princeton University Press — From "A Book of Princeton Verse." Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons — From "The Garden of Years" Acknowledgments ix by Guy Wetmore Carry 11; from "The Breath of the World" by Starr Hoyt Nichols; from "Ballads" by George Lansing Ray- mond; from "Helen of Troy, and Other Poems" by Sara Teas- dale; from "The Iron Muse" by George Curtis Underwood. Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons — From "Poems of H. C. Bun- ner" (cop. 1884, 1889); from "Poems of Henry Van Dyke" (cop. 1 9 1 1 ) ; from ' ' Bramble Brae ' ' by Robert Bridges ; from ' ' Hesperus, and Other Poems " by Charles de Kay; from "Dreams and Days " by George Parsons Lathrop. From Scribner's Magazine, "The Towers of Manhattan" by Don Marquis, "The Shadowy City Looms " by Lloyd Mifflin, "Three O'Clock " by Ridgely Torrence, "Le Grenier" by Robertson Trowbridge. Messrs. Sherman, French & Co. — From "Poems" by Chester Firkins; from "The Prison Ships" by Thomas Walsh; from "Love and Liberation" and "The Human Fantasy" by John Hall Wheelock. Messrs. Smith and Sale — From "Manhattan" by John Myers O'Hara. Messrs. Sturgis and Walton — From "Monday Morning" (cop. 1909) by James Oppenheim. The Harr Wagner Publishing Co. of San Francisco — From "Complete Poems of Joaquin Miller." The John C. Winston Co.— From "The Wife of Potiphar, with other Poems" by Harvey Maitland Watts; from "The Factories, and Other Lyrics" by Margaret Widdemer. Yale University Press — From."Poerns" by Brian Hooker. Also to The American Magazine for "At Ellis Island" by Mar- garet Chanler Aldrich, "Washington Square, North" by Walter Prichard Eaton, "Youth" by Samuel McCoy, " New York from a Skyscraper" by James Oppenheim, "In New York" by John Hall Wheelock; to The Atlantic Monthly for "On a Subway Ex- press" by Chester Firkins; to The Broadway Maga?ine for "When Broadway Was a Country Road" by Charles Coleman Stoddard; to Harper's Weekly for "Madison Square: Christmas" by Brian Hooker; to Life for " Intercessional " by M'Cready Sykes; to the N. Y. Tribune for poems by the compiler. In addition to the above the editor begs to acknowledge express permission from the following authors for the privilege of using such of their poems as appear in this volume : X Acknowledgments Zoe Akins, Margaret Chanler Aldrich, Eunice Watrous Brown (for Andrew E. Watrous), Dana Burnet, Howard Russell Butler (for William Allen Butler), Keith Clark (for Arthur Upson), Helen Gray Cone, Robert Grier Cooke (for Mildred McNeal- Sweeney), Charles de Kay, Walter Prichard Eaton, Mary Sib- ley Finch (for Francis Miles Finch), Ina Firkins( for Chester Firkins), Daniel Frohman (for A. E. Lancaster) , Rodman de Kay Gilder (for Richard Watson Gilder), Robert Grant, Arthur Guiter- man, Brian Hooker, Thomas S. Jones, Jr., Ella Malone (for Walter Malone), George Macdonald Major, Edwin Markham, Don Mar- quis, Samuel McCoy, Lloyd Mifflin, Abbie Leland Miller (for Joaquin Miller), Ruth Comfort Mitchell, Malcolm Munkittrick (for Richard K. Munkittrick), James Oppenheim, John Myers O'Hara, Shaemus O'Sheel, Clinton Scollard, Louise Morgan Sill, Chauncey C. Starkweather, M'Cready Sykes, Ridgely Torrence, Charles Hanson Towne, Louis Untermeyer, George Sylvester Yiereck (for himself and for W. G. Ballantine), Thomas Walsh, John Hall Wheelock. CONTENTS PAGE Mannahatta — Walt Whitman i Verrazano in New York Harbour — Clinton Scollard ...... 2 Hudson's Last Voyage {abridged) — Henry van Dyke ....... 6 Manhattan — Edwin Markham ... 9 Knickerbocker — A ustin Dobson . . .11 The "Goed Vrow" and the Dutch Pilgrim Fathers (abridged) — Edward Hopper . 13 Wouter Van Twiller — Clinton Scollard . 15 To the Patrons of New Netherland — Evert Nieuwenhof . . . . . .17 Peter Stuyvesant's New Year's Call — Edmund Clarence Stedman . . .18 Epitaph for Peter Stuyvesant — Henricus Selyns ....... 25 The Knickerbocker's Address to the Stuy- vesant Pear Tree (abridged) — Henry Webb Dunshee ...... 26 The Dutch Patrol — Edmund Clarence Stedman 30 A Legend of Hell Gate — Gideon J. Tucker . 34 Maiden Lane — Louise Morgan Sill . . 35 xi xii Contents PAGE The Stamp Act in New York (abridged)— George Lansing Raymond ... 36 When Broadway Was a Country Road — Charles Coleman Stoddard ... 40 Nathan Hale (abridged) — John Mac Mullen 42 Nathan Hale — Francis Miles Finch . . 47 Bowling Green — Louise Morgan Sill . 50 The Congratulation (abridged) — Jonathan Odell 53 The Wallabout Martyrs — Walt Whitman 54 The Tomb of the Patriots — Philip Freneau . 55 The Prison Ships (abridged) — Thomas Walsh . 57 Sea-Gulls of Manhattan — Henry van Dyke . 60 Song for a Venison Dinner at Mr. Bunyan's (abridged) — Joseph Stansbury ... 62 Evacuation of New York by the British (abridged) — Anonymous .... 64 The Ball — H. C. Bunner .... 65 The Vow of Washington — John Greenleaf Whittier. ...... 68 Stanzas Occasioned by Lord Bellamont's, Lady Hay's, and Other Skeletons Being Dug up in Fort George (abridged) — Philip Freneau ..... 69 On the Demolition of Fort George — Philip Freneau . . . . -7° The Sieur de Rochefontaine — Clinton Scollard . . . . . . .72 Contents xiii PAGE Old St. Paul's — Arthur Upson ... 74 Nabby, the New York Housekeeper — Philip Freneau ...... 76 Columbia College (abridged) — Josiah Shippey 78 An Evening Walk — Clinton Scollard . . 81 On the City Encroachments on the River Hudson (abridged) — Philip Freneau . . 83 The Old Brevoort Farm — Gideon J. Tucker . 84 An Ivory Miniature — Helen Gray Cone . 87 The Fashions — L. Beach .... 90 At Trinity — Andrew E. Watrous . . .91 Lawrence and Ludlow — Anonymous . . 95 The Grave of Lawrence — Clinton Scollard . 96 Descriptive View of New York (abridged) — Thomas Eaton ..... 98 On the British Blockade (abridged) — Philip Freneau . . . . . .102 On the Prospect of Returning to New York after the War — Josiah Shippey . .105 Bronx — Joseph Rodman Drake . . .106 Tammany Hall — Fitz-Greene Halleck . .109 Election Returns at Tammany Hall (extract from The State Triumvirate) — Gulian Crom- melin Verplanck . . . . .110 To Simon — Drake and Halleck . . .111 The Balloon (abridged) — Moses Y. Scott . 114 xiv Contents PAGE Ode to Fortune — Drake and Halleck . .117 Weehawken — Fitz-Greene Halleck . .119 Burlesque Address on the Opening of the New Park Theatre (abridged) — Fitz- Greene Halleck .... On a Forgotten By-Way — Andrew E. Wat- rous ....... Lafayette en Amerique (abridged) — Pierre Jean de Beranger .... First of May in New York — Robert Steven- son Coffin ..... Hoboken — Robert Stevenson Coffin . An Ode for the Grand Canal Celebration (abridged) — Samuel Woodworth Winter (extract from The Seasons) — Samuel Woodworth ..... The Sweep's Carol — George P. Morris . Harlem Mary — Samuel Woodworth New York in 1826 (abridged) — George P Morris ...... Their Wedding Journey — H. C. Bunner Delicti Novi Eboraci — Jedediah Hunting ton ...... The Pity of the Park Fountain — Nathaniel P. Willis . . . Unseen Spirits — Nathaniel P. Willis Five Points (extract from The Vision of Rub eta) — Laughton Osborn . . . . .146 Contents xv PAGE Fanny Elssler (extract from An Elssleratic Romance) — Anonymous .... 147 City Lyrics — Nathaniel P. Willis . . .150 The Croton Ode (abridged) — George P. Morris . . . . . . .152 To the Lady in the Chemisette with Black Buttons. — Nathaniel P. Willis . .154 The City (extract) — John G. Saxe . . .156 Spring in Town — William Cullen Bryant . 157 Hymn of the City — William Cullen Bryant . 160 The Dog-Star Rages — George P. Morris . 162 Emporium versus New York (abridged) — Jacob Bigelow. . . . . .165 The Wedded Flags — George Washington Doane ....... 169 The Prince's Ball (abridged) — Edmund Clarence Stedman . . . . .170 First Songs for a Prelude — Walt Whit- man . . . . . . .179 The March of the Regiment — H. H. Brownell . . . . . .183 To the Tenth Legion — Ruth N. Cromwell . 185 The Draft Riot — Charles deKay . . .187 Le Grenier — Robertson Trowbridge . .189 Siro Delmonico — Samuel Ward . . .191 Brown of Grace Church — Peter Marie . 192 The Tweed Ring — Anonymous . . .194 xvi Contents The Streets (extract from The Royal Decrees of Scanderoon) — W. 0. Stoddard . .195 Dawn in the City— Charles deKay . .197 Fitz-Greene Halleck (abridged)— John Green- leaf Whittier . . . . . .199 The "Stay at Home's" Plaint— George A. Baker, Jr 201 Ballade of Barristers — C. C. Starkweather . 203 A Summer Summary — Franklin P. Adams . 205 Hymn Sung at the Presentation of the Obelisk — Richard Watson Gilder . . 207 The Buntling Ball (extracts) — Edgar Fawcett ....... 209 The Burial of Grant — Richard Watson Gilder . . . . . . .212 A Ballad of Claremont Hill — Henry van Dyke . . . . . . 214 Riverside — John Myers O'Hara . . .217 The Last of the New Year's Callers — H. C. Bunner . . . . . . .218 The Columbus Parade — Starr Hoyt Nichols . 220 When the Great Gray Ships Come in — Guy Wetmore Carryll . . . . .221 Intercessional — McCready Sykes . . . 224 The Old Lyceum (abridged) — A. E. Lancaster . 226 The Regiment — John Curtis Underwood . 228 Consecrated Ground — Edwin Markham . 230 Contents xvii PAGE New York Harbor — Park Benjamin . . 233 New York in Sunset — William Ellery Leonard ...... 234 New York Bay at Dusk — Mildred L. McNeal- Sweeney. ...... 235 On the Bay — Richard Watson Gilder . . 236 Return to New York — John Hall Wheelock . 237 The New Colossus — Emma Lazarus . . 239 Bartholdi's Pharos — George Alfred Town- send ....... 240 At Ellis Island — Margaret Chanter Aldrich . 243 "Scum o' the Earth" — Robert Haven Schauf- fler 245 The Hudson — Starr Hoyt Nichols . . . 249 The Shadowy City Looms — Lloyd Mifflin . 250 The City — Marion Couthouy Smith . .252 New York — Don Marquis .... 254 Brooklyn Bridge Towers — George Alfred Townsend ...... 256 Brooklyn Bridge at Dawn — Richard Le Gallienne . . . . . .259 The Towers of Manhattan — Don Mar- quis ....... 260 The Moraine — John Curtis Underwood . . 264 That Dear Coney (abridged) — Chester Firkins 265 City of Ships — Walt Whitman . . . 266 xviii Contents PAGE The India Wharf {abridged) — Sara Teasdale . 268 New York — Wendell Phillips Stafford . . 270 The East River Bridge Market — James Oppenheim . . . . . .271 Lower New York — A Storm — Don Marquis . 274 In Trinity Churchyard at Sunset — Thomas S. Jones, Jr. . . . . . . 275 The Wall Street Pit— Edwin Markham . 276 Pan in Wall Street — Edmund Clarence Stedman ...... 278 A Faun in Wall Street — John Myers O'Hara 282 The Curb - Brokers — Florence Wilkinson Evans ....... 283 In Lower New York — Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer . . . . . .284 When Betsy Comes Down-Town — Louise Morgan Sill . . . . . .285 In New York — John Hall Wheelock . .286 Monody on the Astor House — Franklin P. Adams ....... 287 A Forgotten Bard — Clinton Scollard . .289 Nathan Hale — Chester Firkins . . .291 Digging Foundations at Night — Harvey Maitland Watts ..... 293 The Angel of the Cornice — Florence Wilkin- son Evans ...... 294 The Woolworth Building — Madison Cawein 296 Contents xix PAGE From the Woolworth Tower — Sara Teas- dale ....... 298 New York — Florence Earle Coates . .301 A Dream Temple — Edith M. Thomas . . 304 The Empire City — George Sylvester Viereck . 305 New York, from a Sky-Scraper — James Oppenheim ...... 306 The Red Box at Vesey Street — H. C. Bunner ....... 308 On Cedar Street, New York — Helen Hay Whitney . . . . . .310 Isaak Walton in Maiden Lane — Percy MacKaye . . . . . . 311 At the Shrine — Richard Kendall Munkittrick . 313 The Factories — Margaret Widdemer . .314 The Children — John Hall Wheelock . .316 Chinatown Unvisited — George Macdonald Major 317 Chinatown Visited — George Macdonald Major 318 The Greek Quarter — John Myers O'Hara . 320 Ballad of Dead Girls — Dana Burnet . .321 Bowery Gals — Anonymous .... 324 Romaios — W. G. Ballantine . . . .326 A Sweetheart: Thompson Street — Samuel McCoy 328 Washington Square — Richard Watson Gilder . 330 Washington Square — James Oppenheim . 331 XX Contents On Sick Leave — Hamilton Fish Armstrong Washington Square, North — Walter Prichard Eaton ..... Old Trails — Edwin Arlington Robinson Old Saws and See-Saws — Andrew E rous ..... The Menu — Thomas Bailey Aldrich Grace Chimes — Meredith Nicholson At Half-Past Five — Andrew E. Watrous Youth — Samuel McCoy. Macaroni — Arthur Guiterman Twilight on Sixth Avenue — Charles Roberts ..... Wat G. D The Night Court — Ruth Comfort Mitchell Union Square (abridged) — Walter Malone Gramercy Park — Sara Teasdale . Chelsea — Arthur Cleveland Coxe The Parks — Charles Hanson Towne Nothing to Wear (abridged) — William Allen Butler ...... Madison Square: Christmas — Brian Hooker The Clock in the Air — John Curtis Under- wood ....... The Metropolitan Tower — Sara Teasdale At the Farragut Statue — Robert Bridges PAGE 333 334 335 339 340 34i 342 344 347 348 349 352 354 355 357 358 362 363 364 365 Contents xxi PAGE The Little Church Around the Corner — John Myers O'Hara .... 366 Quality Hill — Clinton Scollard . . 367 The Gateway — Harvey Maitland Watts . . 369 The Switch Yard — John Curtis Underwood . 370 Herald Square — John Curtis Underwood . 372 Three O'Clock — Ridgely Torrance . . 373 Night in New York — George Parsons Lathrop 375 Rainy Sunday — John Hall Wheelock . . 378 Broadway — Walt Whitman . . . -379 The City — Richard Watson Gilder . . . 380 Lilacs in the City — Brian Hooker . .381 The Little Fruit-Shop — Florence Wilkinson Evans ....... 383 New York — Richard Hovey . . .384 To a New York Shop-Girl Dressed for Sunday — Anna Hempstead Branch . . 385 On Broadway — George Sylvester Viereck . . 388 In Broadway — Vance Thompson . . . 389 The White Lights — Edward Arlington Robin- son ....... 390 After the Play — Hamilton Fish Armstrong . 392 A Rhyme about an Electrical Advertis- ing Sign — Vachel Lindsay . . . 394 Seven Sandwichmen on Broadway — Jefferson Butler Fletcher ..... 396 xxii Contents PAGE In New York — William Vaughn Moody . 397 To Fifth Avenue (extract from The Baroness of New York) — Joaquin Miller . . . 400 Fifth Avenue — Spring Afternoon — Louis Untermeyer . . . . . .402 May Day — Sara Teasdale .... 404 Fifth Avenue at Night — Charles Hanson Towne ....... 405 Rondeau a La New York — Robert Grant . 406 On the Plaza — Bliss Carman .... 407 Morning in Central Park — James Oppen- heim ...... Central Park — John Myers O'Hara The May Party — James Oppenheim The Pines, Sixty-seventh Street — Harvey Maitland Watts .... Central Park at Dusk — Sara Teasdale Twilight by the Mall — Seldon L. Whitcomb Spring Night — Sara Teasdale Whistles at Night — John Hall Wheelock The Flat-Hunter's Way — Franklin P. Adams ...... The Metropolitan Museum of Art — Lloyd Mifflin ...... The City — Edith M. Thomas On a Subway Express — Chester Firkins 410 412 413 415 416 417 418 419 421 422 423 425 Contents xxiii PAGE Subway Track- Walkers — Dana Burnet . 427 Roses in the Subway — Dana Burnet . .428 N. Y. — Ezra Pound 429 Of City Flowers — Shaemus 0' Sheet . . 430 New York Days — William Ellery Leonard . 431 Poe ' s Cottage at Fordham — Walter M alone . 434 The Fleet — Chester Firkins .... 436 Manhattan — Charles Hanson Towne . .438 VlLLANELLE OF ClTY AND COUNTRY — Zoe Akins ....... 439 The Enchanted Island — Edith M. Thomas . 440 New York — Florence Wilkinson Evans . . 442 Golden Hill — Hamilton Fish Armstrong . 443 The Statue of Liberty, a. d. 2900 — Arthur Upson ....... 445 Mannahatta — Walt Whitman . . 446 ILLUSTRATIONS The Knife Grinder and the Buttermilk Man ...... End-papers Cries of New York, 1809. A Crowded Car . . . Half-title Harper s Weekly, 1861. The Battery in 1830 . . Frontispiece From a drawing by Charles Burton. Ornament Adapted from Ratzer Map, 1766 ..... Title-page Kind permission of N. Y. Society Library. A Broadway Policeman . Copyright page Harper's Weekly, 1863. FACING PAGE Landing of Hudson 8 From Bacon's Hudson River. Dutch Cottage in Beaver Street, 1679 . 12 Valentine's Manual, 1853. New Amsterdam . . . . .18 From an engraving by J. E. Gavit in Documentary History of New York, copied from the plate in Montanus Nieuwe en Onbekende Weereld in State Library. The Old Pear-tree 26 Valentine's Manual, 1861. xxv xxvi Illustrations FACING PAGE Hell Gate, 1775 34 From an etching by W. A. Williams. London Magazine, April, 1778. Pulling down the Statue of George III . 42 From an old print. Procession in Honour of the Federal Constitution ..... 64 From Wilson's Memorial History. Broadway Stages at St. Paul's, 1861 . 72 Valentine's Manual, 1861. Columbia College, 1768 . . . .78 Drawn by Thomas Howdell and engraved by Gavit and Duthie. Documentary History of New York, after an engraving by P. Canot. Fashionable Dresses, about 1806 . . 90 From an old fashion plate. New York from Governor's Island, 1816 . 102 Valentine's Manual, i860. Tammany Hall in 1830 . . . .110 Valentine's Manual. Balloon in Park Place, 1835 . . .116 From a drawing by Charles Burton. The New York Historical Society. New York from Weehawken, 1839 . .120 From a drawing by W. H. Bartlett, engraved by R. Wallis. American Scenery. The Elysian Fields, Hoboken . . .126 Sleighs in Wall Street, 1825 . . . 136 From a print by Maverick. Kind permission of Mr. Henry Collins Brown. Illustrations xxvii FACING PAGE The Park Fountain and City Hall . .144 From an engraving by James D. Smillie. Graham's Magazine. Five Points, 1827 146 Valentine's Manual, 1855. The Croton Water Celebration, 1842 . 152 From Wilson's Memorial History of New York. Franconi's Hippodrome . . . .156 From a wood cut of a drawing by McLenan. Brooks's Clothing Store, Catharine Street, 1845 162 Valentine's Manual, 1864 Fireman's Procession, Atlantic Cable Celebration, 1858 . . . .168 Valentine's Manual, 1861. Departure of the Seventh Regiment, 1861 180 Valentine's Manual, 1862. Hanging a Negro at Clarkson Street. The Draft Riots . . . . .188 Harper's Weekly, 1863. The Tweed Ring, 1871 . . . .194 From a caricature by Nast. Harper's Weekly, 1871. Broadway, 1881 204 From New York Illustrated. Appleton. Riverside Drive, 1881 . . . .216 From New York Illustrated. Appleton. City Hall Park, about 1830 . . . 230 From a drawing by W. H. Bartlett, engraved by S. Lacy. American Scenery. xxviii Illustrations FACING PAGE The Bay from the Telegraph Station, 1839 . 238 From a drawing by W. H. Bartlett, engraved by R. Wallis. American Scenery. On a Brooklyn Ferryboat, 1820 . . 256 From the picture by E. L. Henry. Kind permission of Mr. Henry. Steamboat Landing. Pier No. I. North River 266 From a drawing by Wade, engraved by Dougal. Disturnell's Views in New York. Banks in Wall Street, 1830 . . . 278 From a drawing by Charles Burton. Lincoln at the Astor House, 1861 . . 288 Harper's Weekly, February, 1861. The Woolworth Tower, 191 5 . . . 298 From an etching by Henri de Ville, Gothic Arch. Permission of the A rchitectural Record. The Fly Market. Front Street and Maiden Lane, 1816 312 Valentine's Manual, 1857. Towers of Manhattan, 191 5 . . . 342 From an etching by Henri de Ville, East River. Permission of the Architectural Record. Union Square, 1849 352 Valentine's Manual, 1849. St. John's Park, 1829 35 6 From the Mirror, 1829. Corporal Thompson's Road House, 1856 . 362 From an advertising card of Corporal Thompson. Kind permission of Mr. Henry Collins Brown. Illustrations xxix FACING PAGE Murray Hill, 1858 368 Valentine's Manual, 1859. Snow-storm in New York. A Harlem Train at the Tombs, i860 .... 370 Harper's Weekly, i860. Broadway and the Bowling Green, 1828 . 380 Valentine's Manual, 1854. Broadway in 1850 ..... 396 From the Greatest Street in the World, by Stephen Jenkins. Coaching Day. Fifth Avenue, 1881 . . 400 From New York Illustrated. Appleton. Skating Pond. Central Park, 1861 . . 410 Valentine's Manual, 1861. Central Park, 1881 . . . . . 416 From New York Illustrated. Appleton. Proposed Subway in Broadway, 1870 . 426 Kind permission of Mr. Henry Collins Brown. Poe's Cottage at Fordham, 191 7 . . 434 From a photograph by Charles W. Stoughton. Glimpse of New York .... 442 From an etching by Henri de Ville. Permission of the Architectural Record. Dust Storm in Broadway . . . Finis Harper's Weekly, 1861. The Clam Man and the Orange Man. End-papers Cries of New York, 1809. The Book of New York Verse MANNAHATTA Walt Whitman My city's fit and noble name resume, Choice aboriginal name, with marvellous beauty, meaning, A rocky founded island— shores where ever gayly dash the coming, going, hurrying sea waves. i VERRAZANO IN NEW YORK HARBOUR, 1524. Clinton Scollard Verrazano, Verrazano, child of Arno's golden vale, Wooer of life's great adventure, master of the stream- ing sail, O'er the chartless seas of silence from a fellow voyager, hail! I can view you as the morning lit your peak with windy flame, On the day the West beguiled you with the glamour of its name, When the dauntless Dolphin ventured on the peril- path of Fame! Osprey-like above the spindrift, through your brain fair dreams had play, Flushed with all the hues of sunset, iridescent as the spray, Visions of the wonder-islands and the treasures of Cathay Verrazano, Verrazano, I can mark the heavy hours, — Striding winds upon the waters, and tumultuous tropic showers, And the strange bright stars at midnight, ere you neared the Land of Flowers. 2 Verrazano in New York Harbour 3 I can picture its allurement, — bloom as of eternal spring, Attar from the jasmine blossoms in the palms and pines a-swing, What it meant to worn sea-rovers spent with weary wandering ! But now oped no halcyon haven, this was not the far- sought goal. Though it might be hung with garlands like a radiant aureole ; Here was not the crown's attainment for a virile sea- man soul! Verrazano, Verrazano, then it was the North be- guiled With the magic of its trumpets blDwing loud and blowing wild; And you listed to its summons like an outcast long exiled. In the purple drift of twilight dappled dune and wood slipped by; Reedy cove and barren headland rocked beneath a cloud-tossed sky; While the taut breeze through the cordage chanted sagas clear and high. Cliffs that bore no blazing beacon save the flare of savage flames, Capes that ne'er had heard a greeting save the sea- mew's shrill acclaims. How you cried them salutation with your sweet Italian names! 4 Verrazano in New York Harbour Verrazano, Verrazano, — Chesapeake and Delaware, They to you were soft Santanna linked with Palam- sina fair, Then you sighted San Germano in the crimson evening air. San Germano! — our Manhattan, virginal with vernal shores, Its incomparable harbour opening as do silvern doors Swinging to the sound of music that from blended viols pours. While in liquid under-ether at repose your anchor hung, And the thrush's vesper anthem from the slopes about you rung, Did you breast the tides of slumber amid dreams that closed and clung? Verrazano, Verrazano, in the mazes of that night Did some prophecy enfold you, did some prescience clothe your sight With today's still-growing marvels, height upon triumphant height? Pendant Babylonian gardens, Ninevean temples tall, Climbing Carthaginian ramparts, Susan dome and Tyrian wall, All that Rome revealed of splendour — had not this majestic thrall! — Had not this imperious import; — Commerce in exult- ant sway; Affluence of every nation moored within one match- less bay; From the calyx of the ages a miraculous Cathay! Verrazano in New York Harbour 5 Yours by virtue of brave questing, yours, by right of primal law, The discoverer's chrism of glory, that omnipotence of awe Such as Moses knew on Pisgah when he raised his eyes — and saw! Verrazano, Verrazano, howso'er you trim your sail, Seeking still the great adventure far beyond our mortal pale, O'er the chartless seas of silence from a fellow voyager, hail! HUDSON'S LAST VOYAGE, 1611 Henry Van Dyke Son, have you forgot Those mellow autumn days, two years ago, When first we sent our little ship Half- Moon, — The flag of Holland floating at her peak, — Across a sandy bar, and sounded in Among the channels, to a goodly bay Where all the navies of the world could ride? A fertile island that the redmen called Manhattan, lay above the bay: the land Around was bountiful and friendly fair. But never land was fair enough to hold The seaman from the calling of the sea. And so we bore to westward of the isle, Along a mighty inlet, where the tide Was troubled by a downward-flowing flood That seemed to come from far away, — perhaps From some mysterious gulf of Tartary? Inland we held our course; by palisades Of naked rock where giants might have built Their fortress ; and by rolling hills adorned With forests rich in timber for great ships ; Through narrows where the mountains shut us in With frowning cliffs that seemed to bar the stream ; 6 Hudson's Last Voyage And then through open reaches where the banks Sloped to the water gently, with .their fields Of corn and lentils smiling in the sun. Ten days we voyaged through that placid land, Until we came to shoals, and sent a boat Upstream to find, — what I already knew, — We travelled on a river, not a strait. But what a river! God has never poured A stream more royal through a land more rich. Even now I see it flowing in my dream, While coming ages people it with men Of manhood equal to the river's pride. I see the wigwams of the redmen changed To ample houses, and the tiny plots Of maize and green tobacco broadened out To prosperous farms, that spread o'er hill and dale The many-coloured mantle of their crops; I see the terraced vineyard on the slope Where now the fox-grape loops its tangled vine ; And cattle feeding where the red deer roam ; And wild-bees gathered into busy hives, To store the silver comb with golden sweet ; And all the promised land begins to flow With milk and honey. Stately manors rise Along the banks, and castles top the hills, And little villages grow populous with trade, Until the river runs as proudly as the Rhine, — The thread that links a hundred towns and towers And looking deeper in my dream, I see A mighty city covering the isle They call Manhattan, equal in her state To all the older capitals of earth, — The gateway city of a golden world, — 8 Hudson's Last Voyage A city girt with masts, and crowned with spires, And swarming with a host of busy men, While to her open door across the bay The ships of all the nations flock like doves. My name will be remembered there, for men Will say, "This river and this isle were found By Henry Hudson, on his way to seek The Northwest Passage into Farthest Inde. " MANHATTAN, 1609 Edwin Markham Where now the bells of Trinity are heard, Once in the willows sang a hidden bird, Where sits Columbia upon the height, A stag pressed ferny hollows all the night. Where now the Tombs disturbs the dark with sighs, A lilied pond looked up to happy skies. Where now behind a Doric colonnade The busy pens compute the nation's trade, There on the rippling river's reedy edge A beaver built his lodge along the ledge: And down Broadway, where now the millions pass, Once ran a crest of flowers in seas of grass. Manhattan, like a kneeling camel, lay, Humped with her ridges, looking toward the Bay, A hundred springs, a hundred hasty rills Ran silverly among the little hills. The world was hushed ; September's windy gold Was edging all the boughs with beauty old ; And far-blown shreds of smoke Went bluely winding over the woods of oak, Or lifted whirls that lived their little span Above the wigwams of Sapponikan. IO Manhattan A dusky hunter lurking on a ledge Looked to the south, out to the ocean's edge And suddenly a sea-thing with white wings Came like a moth the wind of evening brings. What could the wonder be? What shape of earth, what spirit of the sea? A look, a cry, a leap, And he went plunging down the rocky steep, Flaring through tangled vines a sudden trail, Crushing wild mints to scent the tender gale — ■ Down the long ridges ran, Bearing the tidings to Sapponikan. A great white weary ship came drifting in. Upon her stern a painted moon she bore, Upon her poop the starry heaven she wore ; While strange, grave men with beards upon the chin Looked out with wondering eyes and alien speech, Hailing the plumed men upon the beach, Down plunged an anchor, then with loud acclaim Up went the flag of Holland like a flame! KNICKERBOCKER Austin Dobson Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker, Help me sing of Knickerbocker! Boughton, had you bid me chant Hymns to Peter Stuyvesant, Had you bid me sing of Wouter, (He! the Onion-head! the Doubter!) But to rhyme of this one — Mocker! Who shall rhyme to Knickerbocker? Nay, but where my hand shall fail, There the more shall yours avail : You shall take your brush and paint All that ring of figures quaint, — All those Rip Van Winkle jokers, All those solid-looking smokers, Pulling at their pipes of amber, In the dark-beamed Council Chamber. Only art like yours can touch Shapes so dignified — and Dutch; Only art like yours can show How the pine logs gleam and glow, Till the firelight laughs and passes 'Twixt the tankards and the glasses, Knickerbocker Touching with responsive graces All|those grave Batavian faces, Making bland and beatific All that session soporific. Then I come and write beneath : Boughton, he deserves the wreath He can give us form and hue — This the Muse can never do ! THE " GOED VROW" AND THE DUTCH PILGRIM FATHERS, May 4, 1626 Edward Hopper The old Dutch Pilgrims were a solid race, A mixture of good French and Holland blood; Honest enough to look in any face, Fearless to brave all things to serve their God. Such lineage may good Knickerbockers trace — To noble men as earth have ever trod; And yet how few, with ready pen or tongue, Have writ their virtues or their praises sung. Rich was the freight of virtues stowed aboard The old Goed Vrow along with baser stuff — The things to trade with, to increase their hoard, And little Holland's, should the way prove rough; They brought no bigot's thongs, nor tyrant's sword — Of these already they had had enough, And never thought that others might be found To need such helps to keep their conscience sound. They brought the spirit of Van Tromp, the brave Dutch Admiral, whose ships once cast such gloom On English shores, and made the mad bull rave, When at mast-head he nailed the symbol broom To show he swept the seas from wave to wave, As careful housewife sweeps a dirty room ; 13 14 "Goed Vrow" and the Pilgrim Fathers Hence New York masts stand thick like forest trees, And hence our conquering navy sweeps the seas I would delight to tell if I had time, How Santa Claus came with them o'er the deep To mollify the rigours of our clime, To teach good Dutchmen how to eat and sleep, To toast each other without harm or crime, Their wagon- wheels in well-worn ruts to keep, And guide them in the good old ways of yore, In which our fathers' wagons went before. And how he instituted New- Year's calls To tie the knot of Friendship once a year, And mend its breaches, rent by windy squalls, With sweetened pastry and such dainty gear; To feed true love, until the palate palls, With kruller, olekook, and doughnut cheer, And make the whole town stagger with the joys Of jocund youth and jolly older boys. " Ren dracht maakt niacht, " — In Union there is might — Was our Dutch Pilgrims' motto. Heart and hand United in the cause of God and right Shall bind the nation with a granite band, Entwined with purest flowers and wreaths of light ; Divided we shall fall, united stand ! — God bless our fathers' memories forever For those strong words that bind our States together WOUTER VAN TWILLER, 1633 Clinton Scollard When Wouter Van T wilier sailed over the sea, A shrewd store of wit in his noodle had he; And while he was sent as the Company's son, His eye was alert to enrich number one; It was his pocket foremost — that busy old filler, — Very aldermanlike was good Wouter Van Twiller! A fine strip of land if he chanced to divine He straightway bethought him "that farm shall be mine! " And worthily working this excellent plan, Erelong he annexed all Sapponikan ; He pinched like a mercer, took toll like a miller; Truly aldermanlike was good Wouter Van Twiller! In Minetta Water, when noontides were blue, He trouted from Fifth through to Sixth Avenue ; And when (it was frequent) he'd mornings to spare, He hunted the duck over Washington Square. "Times are ill, " groaned the traders the times might be iller," Replied, with a wink, crafty Wouter Van Twiller. Gone Wouter Van Twiller, but not all his kind, At least by the knowing it thus is opined; 15 16 Wouter Van Twiller While chiefly his own, he was every man's friend; His imagewe're likely to view to the end ; You may see it today, — 'tis our pride and our pillar, — The image of grasping old Wouter Van Twiller. TO THE PATRONS OF NEW NETHERLAND, 1656 For an engraving by Adrian vander Donck, who died in 1655, leaving to his wife the colony of Colen-Donck, or Yonkers.) Evert Nieuwenhof Still Amstel's ancient burghers live, And East and West extend their care; To all the lands wise laws they give, And to the beast-like savage there. New Holland's gardens still they till With unforgotten old-time skill. Why mourn Brazil, full of base Portuguese, When vander Donck points out such pleasant lands — Where corn swells golden ears, and from the trees Hang rosy grapes, ready for eager hands? Men mourn a loss, and then in vain their voice; But when their loss brings gain, doubly rejoice. 17 PETER STUYVESANT'S NEW YEAR'S CALL i Jan. A. C. 1661. Edmund Clarence Stedman Where nowadays the Battery lies, New York had just begun, A new-born babe, to rub its eyes, In Sixteen Sixty-One. They christen'd it Nieuw Amsterdam, Those burghers grave and stately, And so, with schnapps and smoke and psalm, Lived out their lives sedately. Two windmills topp'd their wooden wall, On Stadthuys gazing down, On fort, and cabbage-plots, and all The quaintly-gabled town ; These flapp'd their wings and shifted backs, As ancient scrolls determine, To scare the savage Hackensacks, Paumanks, and other vermin. At night the loyal settlers lay Betwixt their feather-beds; In hose and breeches walk'd by day, And smoked, and wagg'd their heads; No changeful fashions came from France, The vrouwleins to bewilder; Peter Stuyvesant's New Year's Call 19 No broad-brimm'd burgher spent for pants His every other guilder. In petticoats of linsey-red, And jackets neatly kept, The vrouws their knitting-needles sped And deftly spun and swept; Few modern -school flirtations there Set wheels of scandal trundling, But youths and maidens did their share Of staid, old-fashion'd bundling. — The New Year opened clear and cold ; The snow, a Flemish ell In depth, lay over Beeckman's Wold And Wolfert's frozen well; Each burgher shook his kitchen doors, Drew on his Holland leather, Then stamp'd thro' drifts to do the chores, Beshrewing all such weather. But — after herring, ham, and kraut — To all the gather' d town The Dominie preach'd the morning out, In Calvinistic gown; While tough old Peter Stuyvesant Sat pew'd in foremost station; The potent, sage, and valiant Third Governor of the nation. Prayer over, at his mansion hall, With cake and courtly smile, He met the people, one and all, In gubernatorial style; Peter Stuyvesant's New Year's Call Yet miss'd, though now the day was old, An ancient f ellow-f easter : Heer Govert Loockermans, that bold Brewer and burgomeester ; Who, in his farm-house, close without The picket's eastern end, Sat growling at the twinge of gout That kept him from his friend. But Peter strapp'd his wooden peg, When tea and cake were ended, (Meanwhile the sound remaining leg Its high jack-boot defended), A woolsey cloak about him threw, And swore, by wind and limb, Since Govert kept from Peter's view, Peter would visit him ; Then sallied forth, thro' snow and blast, While many a humble greeter vStood wondering whereaway so fast Strode bluff Hardkoppig Pieter. Past quay and cowpath, through a lane Of vats and mounded tans, He puff 'd along, with might and main, To Govert Loockermans; Once there, his right of entry took, And hail'd his ancient crony: "Myn Gott! in dese Manhattoes, Loock, Ve gets more snow as money!" To which, till after whiffs profound, The other answer'd not; Peter Stuyvesant's New Year's Call At last there came responsive sound: "Yah, Peter: yah, Myn Gott!" Then goedevrouw Marie sat her guest Beneath the chimney-gable, And courtesied, bustling at her best To spread the New Year's table. She brought the pure and genial schnapps, That years before had come — In the Nieuw Nederlandts, perhaps — To cheer the settlers' home ; The long-stemm'd pipes; the fragrant roll Of press'd and crispy Spanish; Then placed the earthen mugs and bowl, Nor long delay'd to vanish* Thereat, with cheery nod and wink, And honours of the day, The trader mix'd the Governor's drink As evening sped away. That ancient room! I see it now: The carven nutwood dresser; The drawers, that many a burgher's vrouw Begrudged their rich possessor; The brace of high-back'd, leathern chairs, Brass-nail'd at every seam; Six others, ranged in equal pairs; The bacon hung a-beam; The chimney-front, with porcelain shelf; The hearty wooden fire ; The picture, on the steaming delft, Of David and Goliah. Peter Stuyvesant*s New Year's Call I see the two old Dutchmen sit Like Magog and his mate, And hear them, when their pipes are lit, Discuss affairs of state; The clique that would their sway demean ; The pestilent importation Of wooden nutmegs, from the lean And losel Yankee nation. But when the subtle juniper Assumed its sure command, They drank the buxom loves that were — They drank the Motherland; They drank the famous Swedish wars, Stout Peter's special glory, While Govert proudly show'd the scars Of Indian contests gory. Ere long, the berry's power awoke Some music in their brains, And, trumpet-like, through rolling smoke, Rang long-forgotten strains; Old Flemish snatches, full of blood, Of Phantom ships and battle; And Peter, with his leg of wood, Made floor and casement rattle. Then round and round the dresser pranced, The chairs began to wheel, And on the board the punch-bowl danced A Netherlandish reel; Till midnight o'er the farmhouse spread Her New-Year's skirts of sable, Peter Stuyvesant's New Year's Call And, inch by inch, each puzzled head Dropt down upon the table. But still to Peter, as he dream'd, That table spread and turn'd; The chimney-log blazed high, and seem'd To circle as it burn'd; The town into the vision grew From ending to beginning; Fort, wall, and windmill met his view, All widening and spinning. The cowpaths, leading to the docks, Grew broader, whirling past, And checker'd into shining blocks A city fair and vast ; Stores, churches, mansions, overspread The metamorphosed island, While not a beaver show'd his head From Swamp to Kalchhook highland. Eftsoons the picture pass'd away; Hours after, Peter woke To see a spectral streak of day Gleam in thro' fading smoke; Still slept old Govert, snoring on In most melodious numbers; No dreams of Eighteen Sixty-One Commingled with his slumbers. But Peter, from the farmhouse-door, Gazed doubtfully around, Rejoiced to find himself once more On sure and solid ground. Peter Stuyvesant's New Year's Call The sky was somewhat dark ahead: Wind East, and morning lowery: But on he push'd, a two-miles' tread, To breakfast at his Bouwery. EPITAPH FOR PETER STUYVESANT, 1682 late general of new netherland Henricus Selyns Here lieth Stuy vesant — stir not too deep the sand ' — He who commander was of all New Netherland . Unto the foe perforce he gave the country o'er; If grief and sorrow ever burden hearts, his heart Did die a thousand deaths and did endure a smart Insufferable. At first too rich ; at last too poor. 25 THE KNICKERBOCKER'S ADDRESS TO THE STUYVESANT PEAR TREE, 1647-1857 Henry Webb Dunshee Fam'd Relic of the Ancient Time, as on thy form I gaze, My mind reverts to former scenes, to spirit-stirring days : Guarding their sacred memories, as ashes in an urn, I muse upon those good old times, and sigh for their return. The scenes by which thou'rt compass'd now, have little charm for me; They speak not of the ancient time, as thou, time- honoured tree; I, therefore, close my eyes against these forms of brick and stone; Then, boldly, to my mental eye, thou loomest up alone. And far and wide, on ev'ry side, as on some knoll I stand, I view a beautiful expanse of rich productive land, Dotted or margin'd pleasantly with shady tree or grove, Enliven'd by the songs of birds, which 'mid their branches rove. 26 The Old Pear-tree Planted by Governor Stuyvesant at the Corner of Third Avenue and Thirteenth Street From Valentine's Manual The Stuyvesant Pear Tree 27 From yonder dustless mansion comes its lord, whose heart is seen Portray'd upon his countenance; of firm, majestic mien; Laden with Nature's precious gifts, he scans each orchard tree, And slowly treads the well-worn path that leads direct to thee. With joyous eye, while grateful thoughts his noble heart expand, He looks on thee, his favourite tree, brought from the Fatherland And lives again in former scenes, when life was in its prime, And finds the memories of his youth still undestroy'd by time. Anon, a group of happy youth, from school restraint set free, Comes shouting round him merrily, in wild and joyous glee; One, by consent, thy trunk ascends, thy burden'd boughs to shake, While all of thy delicious fruit most eagerly par- take. Hoboocken now, their tutor, comes devoid of frown and rod, And with the Governor reclines upon the velvet sod; Together they enjoy the sport, again are young in heart, Till, warn'd by day's decline, they each for happy home depart: 28 The Stuyvesant Pear Tree For in a gorgeous couch the sun has calmly sunk to rest, Behind Wiehacken's tree-crowned hills, with gemm'd and crimson crest! And night, o'er forest, glade and stream, her dusky mantel throws, While silence, beckoning to Fatigue, invites to sweet repose. Thou saw'st when the Usurper came, the nation to despoil, Of the dominion exercised upon her rightful soil : Thou saw'st the throng that gather'd round to carry to the grave, Thy lord, the last Dutch Governor — the honest and the brave: When Leisler ruled, who died by fraud — when Kidd the Rover sail'd; And when the Negroes at the stake in direful accents wail'd; When infant Liberty assay'd to seek her just re- dress, And Zenger gain'd for aftertimes the Freedom of the Press : When the bold Sons of Liberty the people's cause espous'd, Destroy'd the tea, contemned the stamps, and patriot zeal arous'd; When Tories fled clandestinely, suspicious of the day; And laurels crown'd the Hundred on the shores of Deutel Bay. The Stuyvesant Pear Tree 29 Perchance thou saw'st the patriot band, with daunt- less Captain Sears, Who, with his lead, triumphant rode, among the people's cheers; Or gav'st thy fruit to please the taste of Clinton and his corps, Who ruled, where British power will rule triumphant never more. For 'twas thy glory to behold (the conflict nobly won), The entry of that noble band, led on by Washington ; When the sad sighs from Wallabout were hush'd by the applause Which fill'd the sky above the land where triumphed Freedom's cause. Thus to thy shrine, thou ancient tree, will Knicker- bockers hie; And standing on their native soil, beneath their native sky, In contemplative mood recall, those Names of sterling worth, Through whom they trace their ancestry — the Noble Men of earth. O ! may thy boughs with blossoms white and living fruit be grac'd, While Knickerbocker blood can be by Knickerbockers trac'd; Yea, may'st thou from thy mother earth by time nor man be torn, Till light no more shall bless the land where Liberty was born. THE DUTCH PATROL Edmund Clarence Stedman When Christmas-Eve is ended, Just at the noon of night, Rare things are seen by mortal een That have the second sight. In St. Mark's church-yard then They see the shape arise Of him who ruled Nieuw Amsterdam And here in slumber lies. His face, beneath the close black cap, Has a martial look and grim; On either side his locks fall wide To the broad collar's rim; His sleeves are slashed; the velvet coat Is fashioned Hollandese Above his fustian breeches, trimmed With scarf-knots at the knees. His leg of flesh is hosed in silk; His wooden leg is bound, As well befits a conqueror's, With silver bands around. He reads the lines that mark His tablet on the wall, 30 The Dutch Patrol Where boldly Petrus Stuyvesant Stands out beyond them all. "'Tis well! " he says, and sternly smiles, "They hold our memory dear; Nor rust nor moss hath crept across; 'Twill last this many a year." Then down the path he strides, And through the iron gate, Where the sage Nine Men, his councillors, Their Governor await. Here are Van der Donck and Van Cortlandt, A triplet more of Vans, And Hendrick Kip of the haughty lip, And Govert Loockermans. Jan Jansen Dam, and Jansen, Of whom our annals tell, — All risen this night their lord to greet At sound of the Christmas bell. Nine lusty forms in linsey coats, Puffed sleeves and ample hose! Each burgher smokes a Flemish pipe To warm his ancient nose; The smoke-wreaths rise like mist, The smokers all are mute, Yet all, with pipes thrice waving slow, Brave Stuyvesant salute. Then into ranks they fall, And step out three by three, And he of the wooden leg and staff In front walks solemnly. The Dutch Patrol Along their wonted course The phantom troop patrol, To see how fares Nieuw Amsterdam, And what the years unroll. Street after street and mile on mile, From river bound to bound, From old St. Mark's to Whitehall Point, They foot the limits round; From Maiden Lane to Corlaer's Hook The Dutchmen's pipjen glow, But never a word from their lips is heard, And none their passing know. Ere the first streak of dawn St. Mark's again they near, And by a vault the Nine Men halt, Their Governor's voice to hear. "Mynheeren, " he says, "ye see Each year our borders spread! Lo, one by one, the landmarks gone, And marvels come instead. "Not even a windmill left, Nor a garden-plot we knew, And but a paling marks the spot Where erst my pear-tree grew. Our walks are wearier still, Perchance and it were best, So little of worth is left on earth, To break no more our rest?" Thus speaks old Petrus doubtfully And shakes his valiant head, The Dutch Patrol When — on the roofs a sound of hoofs, A rattling, pattering tread! The bells of reindeer tinkle, The Dutchmen plainly spy St. Nicholas, who drives his team Across the roof-tops nigh. "Beshrew me for a craven! " Cries Petrus — "All goes well! Our patron saint still makes his round At sound of the Christmas bell. So long as stanch St. Nicholas Shall guard these houses tall, There shall come no harm from hostile No evil chance befall! "The yon gens and the meisjes Shall have their hosen filled ; The butcher and the baker, And every honest guild, Shall merrily thrive and flourish; Good-night, and be of cheer; We may safely lay us down again To sleep another year!" Once more the pipes are waved, Stout Petrus gives the sign, The misty smoke enfolds them round, Him and his burghers nine. All, when the cloud has lifted, Have vanished quite away. And the crowing cock and steeple clock Proclaim 'tis Christmas Day. A LEGEND OF HELL GATE A. D. 1675 Gideon J. Tucker A saucy boat was the Annetje Block Periauga-built was the craft ; She carried at masthead a crowing cock, And an Orange streamer abaft. Her gay young skipper was Hans van Loon, From the Wallabout shore he hailed, And all eyes followed his bounding boat As up the East River she sailed. Who was there, among the Breukelen girls, As fair as Lisbet van Pelt, With her blooming cheeks and her yellow curls, And her waist in a wampum belt? With her lover, Hans, she fled from her home, And they gained the river's side, Where the Annetje Block with her streamers set, Swung on the restless tide. With the southerly breeze that briskly blew, Up the East River they bore, Past Gouanes Kill and Point Bellevue, And the rocky Manhattan shore; But a squall swooped down on the dancing boat, And the whirlpool raged about; You may see the reef where they met their death, When the Hell Gate tide is out. 34 MAIDEN LANE Louise Morgan Sill Down Maiden Lane, where clover grew, Sweet-scented in the early air, Where sparkling rills went shining through Their grassy banks, so green, so fair, Blithe little maids from Holland land Went tripping, laughing each to each, To bathe the flax, or spread a band Of linen in the sun to bleach. More than two centuries ago They wore this path — a maiden's lane — Where now such waves of commerce flow As never dazed a burgher's brain. Two hundred years ago and more Those thrifty damsels, one by one, With plump, round arms their linen bore To dry in Mana-ha-ta's sun. But now! Behold the altered view; No tender sward, no bubbling stream, No laughter, — was it really true, Or but the fancy of a dream? Were these harsh walls a byway sweet, This floor of stone a grassy plain? Pray vanish, modern city street, And let us stroll down Maiden Lane. 35 THE STAMP ACT IN NEW YORK, 1765 George Lansing Raymond The night before the Stamp-Act Should rule the colony, We slept not much ; we melted lead ; We whetted steel; we plann'd ahead, We "Sons of Liberty." Then, when the morn was breaking, On every hill and plain, In all the towns, we toll'd the bells, That all began with doleful knells, As though for Freedom slain. Anon, they rang out madly What might have peal'd to be The land's alarm-bell — only now They peal 'd to hail the new-born vow Of men that would be free. New York went wild to hear them. Men flooded every way: They left their shops ; they stopt their mills ; And farmers flock'd from all the hills, And sailors from the bay. 36 The Stamp Act in New York Now who would buy a stamp here? Was ask'd in all the ways, But not a shop was not shut to ; For all had wiser work to do On this, our day of days. "We would not, and we will not Submit, " said Isaac Sears. The governor said: "You fill the street, But here a fort and there a fleet May yet awake your fears. " Then from the fort the cannon Were turn'd upon the town, But "If you fire, " the people cried, "We hang the governor here outside, Or burn your quarters down. " At night, the boys with torches Came trooping out for sport. They sought the house of James, and took The army flags his fear forsook, And march 'd them round the fort. The governor own'd his coaches, And one a coach of state. They burst his barn-door in with cries And dragg'd them off before his eyes, As trophies of their hate. An image of the devil, And of the governor too They made, and made them both careen, While, side by side, through Bowling Green, They wheel'd them into view. The Stamp Act in New York At last, of all the coaches They form'd a funeral pyre; And, full in face of all the town, Who only roar'd its roar to drown, They set the whole on fire. The governor begg'd the army, The army begg'd the fleet, To take the stamps and save the fort; But neither cared to brave the sport Of those who fhTd the street. The courage of the courtiers Had bow'd to wisdom higher; The power of right that ruled the street Had overawed the fort and fleet — They did not dare to fire. So nothing now was left them Except to yield us all. Our mayor took the stamps, at last, And bore* them off, and lock'd them fast Within the City Hall. And loud the people shouted ; They felt that right was done ; Cried "Liberty and Property! No stamps to curse the Colony!" And parted, one by one. The next day all the papers Without the stamps appear'd. Men took no notes, but trusted men. Our ships were off to sea again ; And none the navy fear'd. The Stamp Act in New York And none had bought a stamp there, Or seal'd himself a slave; And half of England, trust my word, Were thrill'd with joy, when they had heard How we ourselves could save. At last there came a daybreak When all the thankful kneel'd; And bells were rung, and banners hung; And England's weal was drunk and sung — The Stamp Act was repeal' d. WHEN BROADWAY WAS A COUNTRY ROAD Charles Coleman Stoddard No rushing cars, nor tramping feet Disturbed the peaceful summer days That shone as now upon the street That knows our busy noisy ways. And blushing girls and awkward jays Strolled slowly home, and cattle lowed As fell the purple twilight haze, When Broadway was a country road. No tailored dandies, trim and neat; No damsels of the latest craze Of form and fashion ; no conceit To catch the fancy or amaze, No buildings met the skyward gaze; Nor myriad lights that nightly glowed To set the midnight hour ablaze — When Broadway was a country road. Then shady lanes with blossoms sweet Led gently down to quiet bays Or to the sheltered, hedged retreat Some falling mansion now betrays. The stage-coach here no longer pays Its daily call, nor farmer's goad 40 When Broadway Was a Country Road 41 Their oxen, as in olden days When Broadway was a country road. Little indeed to meet the praise Of modern times the picture showed. And yet the fancy fondly strays To Broadway as a country road. NATHAN HALE September 22, 1776 Delivered before the Alumni of Columbia College, October 1858 John MacMullen, A.M. Come all Alumni gather round; I tell of courage high ; Of Nathan Hale, a college boy, One not afraid to die. His father a stout yeoman was ; In Coventry his birth; And never shone the golden sun On one of loftier worth. When he entered the halls of Mother Yale, And trod beneath her elm, He seemed some heaven-sent Mercury, With winged feet and helm; For he was tall, well-knit and strong; No goodlier youth was seen; And in after years men proudly showed His leap on the College Green. The war cry to New London came, Where Hale sat in his school. 42 Nathan Hale 43 Then straightway rose the hero up ; Left copy-book and rule. "I've passed among you pleasant days; But those pleasant days are o'er. My country calls; I leave my books, And gird me up for war. " Hale took the guise of schoolmaster, Wandering in search of work, 'Neath plain brown clothes and broad-brimmed hat His purposes must lurk. He crossed the Sound at Norwalk When all was still and dark And safely trod on hostile ground Ere rising of the lark. Through English, Hessians, Waldeckers, He passed in safety on, Striving their numbers all to note, And all their works to con. From Brooklyn he crossed over here And passed along our streets; Though every soldier was his foe, Yet all he calmly meets. 'Twas early morn, when on the shore At Huntington he stood, He waited but the appointed boat To bear him o'er the flood, 'Twas close by Jesse Fleet's. The leaves Were fluttering on the trees ; The rippling waves in changing curves, Obeyed the wandering breeze. Nathan Hale His task was done ; the risk was run ; His knowledge all secure. He'd but to cross the Sound again, And all would then be sure. A boat comes round the point — Tis she, The bark to bear him o'er. He stands to wait, in careless ease, Her progress from the shore. Too late! too late! he sees his fault. — The British uniform Is in the boat ; and near must float Some ship where red-coats swarm. He turns too late ! the sheltering trees He never more may gain. "Stand or you die!" He yields perforce, And in the boat is ta'en. Right close they guarded him, and led, To where, on Murray Hill, Sir William Howe's headquarters were, In Beekman's mansion still. Its owner, a true patriot, Had to Esopus fled. They seized his house ; his halls they ran< To the hated Briton's tread. A greenhouse in the garden stood ; They brought the captive there ; The place was shorn of all its flowers, The tiled floor was bare. Bound, but undaunted, waiting doom, The youthful Captain stood, Nathan Hale Whate'er he felt, his manly front Betrayed no changing mood. Short was his trial, sharp his doom — At daybreak he must die; They lead him forth to hold secure Till dawning tints the sky. Close guarded to his prison cell, The doors upon him close, And he is left to think all night, Or seek disturbed repose. But see! the first grey streaks of dawn Come stealing o'er the sky; Hale leaves his restless couch that he May dress himself to die. They come — with calm he meets them, And walks with firmest tread; Upright his graceful, manly form, Uplifted is his head. In Chambers Street they halted; The brutal Cunningham, With negro Dick, his hangman foul, Their cursed work began. There was a graveyard to the north, And from a branching tree The fatal noose hangs ready That's to set his spirit free. "My sole regret is that I have Only one life to give. " The furious brute laid hands on him, That he might not longer live. — Nathan Hale We know not where they buried him, Belike beneath the tree; But patriot memories cluster there, Where'er the spot may be. And still when comes September, The month that saw his death, And the forest leaves begin to change Beneath the frost-king's breath, In cottage and in college hall, Throughout our native land Let each faithful heart recall thy part Amidst the patriot band. NATHAN HALE Francis Miles Finch To drum-beat and heart-beat, A soldier marches by: There is colour in his cheek, There is courage in his eye, Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat In a moment he must die. By starlight and moonlight, He seeks the Briton's camp; He hears the rustling flag, And the armed sentry's tramp; And the starlight and moonlight His silent wanderings lamp. With slow tread and still tread, He scans the tented line; And he counts the battery guns By the gaunt and shadowy pine; And his slow tread and still tread Gives no warning sign. The dark wave, the plumed wave, It meets his eager glance ; And it sparkles 'neath the stars, 47 Nathan Hale Like the glimmer of a lance — A dark wave, a plumed wave, On an emerald expanse. A sharp clang, a steel clang, And terror in the sound! For the sentry, falcon-eyed, In the camp a spy hath found; With a sharp clang, a steel clang, The patriot is bound. With calm brow, steady brow, He listens to his doom; In his look there is no fear, Nor a shadow-trace of gloom ; But with calm brow and steady brow He robes him for the tomb. In the long night, the still night, He kneels upon the sod; And the brutal guards withhold E'en the solemn Word of God! In the long night, the still night, He walks where Christ hath trod. 'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn, He dies upon the tree; And he mourns that he can lose But one life for Liberty; And in the blue morn, the sunny morn, His spirit-wings are free. But his last words, his message- words, They burn, lest friendly eye Should read how proud and calm Nathan Hale 49 A patriot could die, With his last words, his dying words, A soldier's battle-cry From the Fame-leaf and Angel -leaf, From monument and urn, The sad of earth, the glad of heaven, His tragic fate shall learn ; And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf The name of Hale shall burn ! BOWLING GREEN Louise Morgan Sill Where the city's rushing throng Beats its burly way along Whitehall Street, Up where giant buildings frown On the pygmy people, down At their feet, Lies a modest bit of park That the people seldom mark In their haste, As they scatter to and fro, And like winds of heaven go, Fury-paced. But within this green enclosed — Where the burghers, once reposed At their ease, Or at bowls displayed their skill Summer afternoons to kill, If you please — Reigns some magic of the past That, amid the noisy blast All around, 50 Bowling Green Sets a charm upon your ear As you enter, and you hear Not a sound; Not a murmur, save the tone Of a Dutchman, or the drone Of a bee ; Or the laughter of a child As he scampers free and wild On the lea. You can see the Maying-time, When the maidens' voices chime Joyous notes; When the Neltjies and the rest Are arrayed in all their best Petticoats. And they dance with such a grace, And they blush with such a face — Rose-and-cream — As they curtsey, sweet and shy, That you wonder why you sigh As you dream. For they've vanished long ago, Burgher, goede vrow and beau, Damsel fair; And the smile that meets your eye, And the steps that patter by Are but air. Bowling Green Yet, 'tis said that every night When the moon is shining bright On the scene, Still the Dutchmen's placid souls Play their solemn game of bowls On the Green. THE CONGRATULATION Written on occasion of the failure of the great expectations entertained by the Americans from the presence in our waters of D'Estaing's fleet during the years 1778 and 1779. Dr. Jonathan Odell Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred fold : The grand cajolers are themselves cajol'd! In vain has Franklin's artifice been tried, And Louis swell'd with treachery and pride: Who reigns supreme in heav'n deception spurns, And on the author's head the mischief turns. What pains were taken to procure D'Estaing! His fleet's dispersed, and Congress may go hang. Joy to great Congress, joy an hundred fold : The grand cajolers are themselves cajol'd! Heav'n's King sends forth the hurricane and strips Of all their glory the perfidious ships. His Ministers of Wrath the storm direct; Nor can the Prince of Air his French protect. Saint George, Saint David show'd themselves true hearts; Saint Andrew and Saint Patrick topped their parts With right Eolian puffs the wind they blew; Crack went the masts; the sails to shivers flew. Such honest Saints shall never be forgot; Saint Denis and Saint Tammany, go rot. 53 THE WALLABOUT MARTYRS In Brooklyn, in an old vault, mark'd by no special recognition, lie huddled at this moment the undoubtedly authentic remains of the stanchest and earliest Revolutionary patriots from the British prison ships and prisons of the times of 1776-83, in and around New York, and from all over Long Island; originally buried — many thousands of them — in trenches in the Wallabout sands. Walt Whitman Greater than memory of Achilles or Ulysses, More, more by far to thee than tomb of Alexander, Those cart loads of old charnel ashes, scales and splints of mouldy bones, Once living men — once resolute courage, aspiration, strength, The stepping stones to thee today and here, Amer- ica. 54 THE TOMB OF THE PATRIOTS Occasioned by the general procession of many thousands of the citizens of New York on the 26th of May, 1808, to inter the bones and skeletons of American prisoners who perished in the old Jer- sey, and other prison ships, during the Revolutionary War; and which were now first discovered by the wasting of the shores and banks on Long Island, where they had been left. Philip Freneau Britain! we cite you to our bar, once more; What but ambition urged you to our shore?— To abridge our native rights, seven years you strove; Seven years were ours your arm of death to prove, To find, that conquest was your sovereign view; Your aims, to fetter, humble, and subdue, To seize a soil which not your labour till'd When the rude native scarcely we repell'd. When, with unbounded rage, their nations swore To hurl the out-law' d stranger from their shore, Or swell the torrent with their thousands slain. No more to approach them, or molest their reign. — What did we ask? — what right but reason owns? Yet even the mild petition met your frowns. Submission only to a monarch's will Could calm your rage, or bid your storm be still. 55 56 The Tomb of the Patriots Before our eyes the angry shades appear Of those, whose relics we this day inter : They live, they speak, reproach you, and complain Their lives were shorten' d by your galling chain: They aim their shafts, directed to your breast, — Let rage, and fierce resentment tell the rest. These coffins, tokens of our last regard These mouldering bones your vengeance might have spared. — If once, in life, they met you on the main, If to your arms they yielded on the plain,— Man, once a captive, all respect should claim That Britain gave, before her days of shame. How changed their lot! in floating dungeons thrown, They sigh'd unpitied, and relieved by none: In want of all that nature's wants demand, They met destruction from some traitor's hand, Who treated all with death or poison here, Or the last groan, with ridicule severe. A sickening languor to the soul returns And kindling passion at the motive spurns: The murders here, did we at length display Would more than paint an indian tyrant's sway: Then hush the theme, and to the dust restore These, once so wretched near Manhattan's shore. THE PRISON SHIPS, 1776 Ode read at the Dedicatory exercises of the Prison Ship Mar- tyrs' Monument on Fort Greene, Washington Park, Brooklyn, New York, November 14, 1908. Thomas Walsh O martyrdom of hope ! — to lie In youth and strength — and die 'Mid rotting hulks that once by every sea And star swung carelessly — To die becalmed in war's black hell, Where in the noon's wide blaze your hearts could soar With gull and eagle by each cherished shore Of home — where ye had sworn to dwell The fathers of the free. Blessed and radiant now! — look down In consecration of the solemn deed Which here commemorates this iron breed Of martyrs nameless in the clay As the true heroes of our newer day — World heroes — patterned not on king and demi-god Of charioted splendor or of crown Blood crusted — but on toilers in the sod, On reapers of the sea, on lovers of mankind, 57 58 The Prison Ships Whose bruised shoulders bear The lumbering wain of progress — all who share The crust and sorrows of our mortal lot — Lamps of the soul The Christ hath left behind To light the path whereon He faltered not. And ye, O sailors faring buoyant forth, Bear ye the tidings of this joy-swept main Where round the coasts of Celt or Dane Ye brave the sleet-mouthed north Or track the moon on some Sicilian wave Or lonely cape of Spain ; Take ye the story of these comrades true Whose prison hulks sank here Where now such tides of men are poured As never surged o'er crag or fiord To stay the gulls with fear — Who yet such quest of glory know As never Argonaut of old Seeking the shores of gold — As never knight from wound and vigil pale Tracing o'er sunset worlds his Holy Grail. And lo ! — to all the seas a pharos set In sign memorial ! Through the glooms of Time 'Twill teach a sacrifice of self sublime O'er lash of storms as through corroding calms, Nor e'er alone shall shine Its love-bright parapet ; But every star shall bring a golden alms; — The seething harbour line Glow 'neath its star-fed hives, its swing and flare Of Bridges; — while with pilgrim lamps from sea The Prison Ships 59 Shall grope the Dreadnought fleets; — while endless prayer Of dawns and sunsets floods the faces far Uplifted, tear-stained, to this Martyr shrine — Whose sister torch shall greet what Liberty Holds back to God, — earth's brightest answering star. SEA-GULLS OF MANHATTAN Henry Van Dyke Children of the elemental mother, Born upon some lonely island shore Where the wrinkled ripples run and whisper, Where the crested billows plunge and roar ; Long- winged, tireless roamers and adventurers, Fearless breasters of the wind and sea, In the far-off solitary places I have seen you floating wild and free! Here the high-built cities rise around you; Here the cliffs that tower east and west, Honeycombed with human habitations, Have no hiding for the sea-bird's nest: Here the river flows begrimed and troubled; Here the hurrying, panting vessels fume, Restless, up and down the watery highway, While a thousand chimneys vomit gloom. Toil and tumult, conflict and confusion, Clank and clamour of the vast machine Human hands have built for human bondage — Yet amid it all you float serene; Circling, soaring, sailing, swooping lightly Down to glean your harvest from the wave ; 60 Sea-Gulls of Manhattan 61 In your heritage of air and water, You have kept the freedom Nature gave. Even so the wild-woods of Manhattan Saw your wheeling flocks of white and grey; Even so you fluttered, followed, floated, Round the Half -Moon creeping up the bay; Even so your voices creaked and chattered, Laughing shrilly o'er the tidal rips, While your black and beady eyes were glistening Round the sullen British prison-ships. Children of the elemental mother, Fearless floaters 'mid the double blue, From the crowded boats that cross the ferries Many a longing heart goes out to you. Though the cities climb and close around us, Something tells us that our souls are free, While the sea-gulls fly above the harbour, While the river flows to meet the sea ! SONG FOR A VENISON DINNER AT MR. BUNYAN'S New York, 1781 Joseph Stansbury Friends, push 'round the bottle, and let us be drink- ing, While Washington up in his mountains is slinking. Good faith, if he's wise he'll not leave them behind him, For he knows he's safe nowhere where Britons can find him. When he and Fayette talk of taking this city, Their vaunting moves only our mirth and our pity. But though near our lines they're too cautious to tarty, What courage they shew when a hen-roost they harry ! Who can wonder that Poultry and Oxen and Swine Seek shelter in York from such Valour divine ; While Washington's jaws and the Frenchman's are aching The spoil they have lost to be boiling and baking. Let Clinton and Arnold bring both to subjection, And send us more geese here to seek our Protection. 62 Song for a Venison Dinner 63 Their flesh and their feathers shall meet a kind greet- ing: A fat Rebel Turkey is excellent eating: A Lamb fat as butter, and white as a Chicken — Those sorts of tame Rebels are excellent picking. Today a wild Rebel has smoaked on the Table : You've cut him and slic'd him as long as you're able. He bounded like Congo, and bade you defiance: And plac'd on his running his greatest reliance. But Fate overtook him and brought him before ye, To shew how Rebellion will wind up her story. Then cheer up, my lads, if the Prospect grows rougher, Remember from whence, and for whom 'tis ye suffer: From men whom mild Laws, and too happy condi- tion, Have puffed up with Pride and inflamed with sedi- tion. For George, whose reluctance to punish Offenders Has strengthened the hands of these upstart Pre- tenders. EVACUATION OF NEW YORK BY THE BRITISH, 1783 The following song was composed and sung on the ever-memor- able 25th of November, 1783, when the conquered Britons evacu- ated the City of New York, and thereby finally left the thirteen United States in possession of that freedom, prosperity, and independence for which they had so long and so successfully contended. They come! — they come! — the heroes come With sounding fife, with thundering drum ; Their ranks advance in bright array, — The heroes of America ! He comes! — 'tis mighty Washington, (Words fail to tell all he has done,) Our hero, guardian, father, friend! His fame can never, never end . He comes ! — he comes ! — our Clinton comes ! Justice her ancient seat resumes : From shore to shore let shouts resound, For Justice comes, with Freedom crown 'd. She comes! — the angelic virgin — Peace, And bids stern War his horrors cease ; Oh! blooming virgin with us stay, And bless, oh ! bless America ! 64 THE BALL, 1789 H. C. BUNNER The Town is at the Ball to-night, The Town is at the Ball; From the Battery to Hickory Lane The Beaux come one and all. The French folk up along the Sound Took carriage for the city, And Madge the Belle, from New Rochelle, Will stop with Lady Kitty. And if the Beaux could have their way Their choice would be, in Brief, That Madge the Bell should lead the Ball And open with The Chief. Though Lady Kitty's high estate May give this choice some reason, By Right Divine Madge holds the place — The Toast of all the Season. Behold her as she trips the floor By Lady Kitty's side — How low bows Merit at her glance, And Valour, true and tried ! Each hand that late the sword-hilt grasped Would fain her hand be pressing — The Ball But, ah! fair Madge, who'll wear your badge Is past all wooer's guessing. The Colonel bows his powdered head Well-nigh unto her feet ; Fame's Trump rings dull unto his ears, That wait her Accents sweet. The young Leftenant, Trig and Trim, Who lately won his spurs, Casts love-sick glances in her way, And wins no glance of hers. Before her bows the Admiral, Whose head was never bowed Before the foamy-crested wave That wet the straining shroud. And all his pretty midshipmen, They stand there in a line, Saluting this Fair Craft that sails With no surrendering sign. And so she trips across the floor On Lady Kitty's arm, And grizzled pates and frizzled pates All bow before her charm. And she will dance the minuet, A-facing Lady Kitty, Nor miss The Chief — she hath, in brief, Her choice of all the city. But in the minuet a hand Shall touch her finger-tips, And almost to a Kiss shall turn The Smile upon her lips; The Ball And he is but a midship boy, And she is Madge the Belle; But never to Chief nor to Admiral Such a tale her lips shall tell. The Town is at the Ball to-night, The Town is at the Ball, And the Town shall talk as never before Ere another night shall fall ; And men shall rave in Rector street, And men shall swear in Pine, And hearts shall break for Madge's sake From Bay to City Line. And Lady Kit shall wring her hands, And write the tale to tell (To that much dreaded Maiden Aunt Who lives at New Rochelle) All of a gallant Midshipman Who wooed in April weather The Fairest of All at the Chieftain's Ball— And they ran away together. THE VOW OF WASHINGTON New York, April 30, 1789 John Greenleaf Whittier O City sitting by the Sea! How proud the day that dawned on thee, When the new era, long desired, began, And, in its need, the nation found the man ! One thought the cannon salvos spoke, The resonant bell-towers' vibrant stroke, The voiceful streets, the plaudit-echoing halls, And prayer and hymn borne heavenward from St. Paul's! How felt the land in every part The strong throb of a nation's heart, As its great leader gave, with reverent awe, His pledge to Union, Liberty, and Law! And still we trust the years to be Shall prove his hope was destiny, Leaving our flag, with all its added stars, Unrent by faction and unstained by wars. Lo ! where with patient toil he nursed And trained the new- set plant at first, The widening branches of a stately tree Stretch from the sunrise to the sunset sea. 68 STANZAS occasioned by lord bellamont's, lady hay's, and other skeletons being dug up in fort george, n. y., i79o Philip Freneau To sleep in peace when life is fled Where shall our mouldering bones be laid — What care can shun — (I ask with tears) The shovels of succeeding years ! Alas! What griefs must man endure! Not even in forts he rests secure: — Time dims the splendours of a crown, And brings the loftiest rampart down. Those teeth, dear girls — so much your care — (With which no ivory can compare) Like these (that once were Lady Hay's) May serve the belles of future days. The breath once gone no art recalls! Away we haste to vaulted walls : Some future whim inverts the plain, And stars behold our bones again. 69 ON THE DEMOLITION OF FORT GEORGE, 1790 Philip Freneau As giants once, in hopes to rise, Heaped up their mountains to the skies ; With Pelion piled on Ossa, strove To reach the eternal throne of Jove ; So here the hands of ancient days Their fortress from the earth did raise, On whose proud heights, proud man to please, They mounted guns and planted trees. Those trees to lofty stature grown — All is not right! — they must come down, Nor longer waste their wonted shade Where Colden slept, or Tryon strayed. Where Dutchmen once, in ages past, Huge walls and ramparts round them cast New fabrics raised, on new design, Gay streets and palaces shall shine. Another George shall here reside, While Hudson's bold, unfettered tide Well pleased to see his chief so nigh, With livelier aspect passes by. 70 The Demolition of Fort George Along his margin, fresh and clean, Ere long shall belles and beaux be seen, Through moon-light shades, delighted, stray, To view the islands and the bay. To barren hills far southward shoved, These noisy guns shall be removed, No longer here a vain expense, Where time has proved them no defense. — Advance, bright days! make haste to crown With such fair scenes this honoured town, — Freedom shall find her charter clear, And plant her seat of commerce here. THE SIEUR DE ROCHEFONTAINE St. Paul's Churchyard Clinton Scollard Picardy, Provence, Touraine — Never the fair home land again, For the Sieur de Rochefontaine! Never to lie among his own With the soft south breezes o'er him blown Where his stately noble name is known ! But ever and evermore to rest, With the alien marble above his breast, In the clime of his youthful soldier quest. In the tyrannous time of war and woe, The ancient foe of his folk our foe, Hither he came with Rochambeau. Lace and ruffle and epaulet, Grace and a courtier bearing, yet A soul as valiant as Lafayette. A valiant soul that burned to be In the fore of the fight for liberty With the dauntless men who would fain be free. 72 The Sieur de Rochefontaine Just another who caught the gleam Of the sun of Freedom's rising beam, Who saw the vision, who dreamed the dream. Daily Broadway's clamours and calls Sweep by the chapel of old St. Paul's, Its levelled graves and its ivied walls. Here he sleeps ; may his slumbers be Sweet with the great felicity That waits, 'tis said, beyond Death's dark sea. Never the fair home land ! — and still What matters it for a noble will That smites for right, 'gainst a giant ill? Ours the freedom he helped to gain ; So a plot of our free domaine For the Sieur de Rochefontaine. OLD ST. PAUL'S Arthur Upson Park Row and Broadway — rush and din, Turmoil of men in their strong, brief years, Conquest, honour, failure and sin! — Rest for a moment the eyes and the ears ; Step through this gate for a while with me Where struggles pause, and thought is free. Look at the words on this little stone Under the trees of old St. Paul's. Ninety summers have flowered and flown, Round these ivied Georgian walls, Since they cut in the headstone grey The name of "Antipass Hathaway." Only fourteen ! Boy-gladness, his, Touched — would you say? — by the lips of joy Into eternal youthfulness — Spirit abiding forever boy! "March 29th, " — so they brought him here In the very bud of the welling year. Across the walk, quaint-carven French, Line after line in martial row, Hinting at bivouac, storm, and trench 74 Old St. Paul's 75 Under the Comte de Rochambeau: Valiant indeed, from far Champagne Adventured the "Sieur de Rochefontaine. " Follow me over this stretch of sod ; Mark the shaft with its moral urn; There, where the red rose-bushes bud, A few spent petals, you notice, burn Against the letters chiselled plain : "Of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane." And a name now vague to you and me, An actor renowned in his day, forsooth; See how they loved his memory : "Repaired by" . . . "Sothern," "Kean," and "Booth," "And by The Players. " — Such fame's enough! "Dreams" made his life: We are all "such stuff!" Oh, but the schoolboy rolling hoops Over the grasses of Bowling Green, And the brave young captain with his troops Charging into the battle-scene, And the actor accomplished, praised by all — Who gathered them here 'neath the churchyard wall? NABBY, THE NEW YORK HOUSEKEEPER To Nanny, her Friend in Philadelphia, after the Departure of Congress from New York, 1790 Philip Freneau Well, Nanny, I am sorry to find, since you writ us, The Congress at last has determined to quit us; You now may begin with your dish-clouts and brooms, To be scouring your knockers and scrubbing your rooms ; As for us, my dear Nanny, we're much in a pet, And hundreds of houses will be to be let; Our streets, that were just in a way to look clever, Will now be neglected and nasty as ever; Again we must fret at the Dutchified gutters And pebble-stone pavements that wear out our trotters. My master looks dull, and his spirits are sinking, From morning to night he is smoking and thinking, Laments the expense of destroying the fort, And says, your great people are all of a sort — He hopes and prays they may die in a stall If they leave us in debt — for Federal Hall — And Strap has declared, he has so much regards, 76 Nabby, the New York Housekeeper 77 He will go, if they go, for the sake of their beards. Miss Letty, poor lady, is so in the pouts, She values no longer our dances and routs, And sits in a corner, dejected and pale, As dull as a cat, and as lean as a rail! — Poor thing, I'm certain she's in a decay, And all — because Congress resolve — not to stay! This Congress unsettled is, sure, a sad thing, Seven years, my dear Nanny, they've been on the wing; My master would rather saw timber, or dig, Than see them removing to Conegocheague, Where the houses and kitchens are yet to be framed, The trees to be felled, and the streets to be named; Of the two we had rather your town should receive 'em — So here, my dear Nanny, in haste I must leave 'em, I'm a dunce at inditing — and as I'm a sinner, The beefe is half raw — and the bell rings for dinner! COLUMBIA COLLEGE, 1796 "Antiquam exquisite matrem. " Josiah Shippey, A.B. Columbia College! Alma Mater! well Do I remember, and the time could tell, When first escaped from pedagogic rule, To thee I came fresh from a grammar school From five long years well stored, at all events, With English, Greek, and Latin rudiments. And how I profited thy books can show, Placed number four with twenty-eight below. What change to freedom from tyrannic sway! No time can chase the pleasing thought away. No more our minds with six tail'd strap appall'd, Blockheads no more, but generosi call'd. And then, at home, our studies to pursue, 'Twas charming sure, for it was something new! And now thou view'st us scattered o'er thy green Here are the gay, and there the thoughtful seen. 'Neath spreading trees we either stand or sit, And on each other exercise our wit ; Or some are conning o'er the task assign'd, To keep it fresh, when call'd for in their mind. While some their fellow on swift foot pursue, With noise and shouting make a vast ado. 78 Columbia College 79 But hark ! the lecture bell ! when all at once Rush up the stoop, the scholar and the dunce, Enter the room, in silence take our seats, Then each vicissim, the word "Here" repeats; The roll is call'd, the absentees are fined, Lecture commences, all composed each mind; Our every eye on the professor darts, Each ear drinks in the learning he imparts. But some distrustful of their mem'ry power, On paper pen the teaching of the hour. The lecture ended, all rush down the stairs, And each to his own dwelling place repairs. Morning and evening found the students all, For prayers assembled, in the common hall. Our good old Pres. in pulpit mounted high, With specks on nose, and on his book each eye, He reads, while he a cheerful aspect wears, In solemn tones Episcopalian pray'rs. On the concluding day of ev'ry week, Some compositions bring, some pieces speak. Our intermediate studies to repeat, To some, no doubt, would prove a grateful treat. But to remind thee of some things were vain, So oft transacted o'er and o'er again; From time almost a century ago, Thou know'st them all, and part of them I know. Oh happy College hours! though now ye seem As but the remnant of a f ev'rish dream ; So many sorrows, joys and griefs and fears, Have filled the lapse of nearly fifty years : But let me mention first thy gala day, When all thy train came marching down Broadway, 8o Columbia College It was a show not framed for war or fight, It peaceful was, a real classic sight. Freshmen and Sophs, Juniors and Seniors abreast, Pres., and Professors, Janitor, full dress'd, In long and flowing gowns of sable hue, They look'd like Preachers to the admiring view! Then there arrived, into St. Paul's they press'd, And I, thy joyous son, among the rest; Then up the aisles we pass'd with silent feet, And each located in his proper seat. Fill'd was the House of God, below, above Music — and beauty, beaming looks of love. The music still'd, and now commence by sign, Those acts in which each speaker tries to shine; Speeches in English, some in Latin too, Salute, farewell, sparkling with wit, span new. The speaking o'er, th' assembly wait to see, Each graduate take his separate degree; Conferr'd by Pres. in Latin on the whole, A.B. or A.M. with a parchment roll. Pray'rs ended, now th' assembly all retire To censure some, while some applaud, admire. Among the A.B.'s ranks thy humble son; Mother, these acts in ninety-six were done! AN EVENING WALK Clinton Scollard Beyond the clash and clang of cars, The clamorous rush of trade, One night at earliest peer of stars, Apart alone I strayed. Crossing a little square where eve Descended, pensive-eyed, Lo, a soft touch upon my sleeve, — A slim form at my side! He bowed with old-time courtesy, And words urbane on lip, Craving, in gracious wise, of me A twilight comradeship. His hat was strange; his coat was strange; His mien had subtle grace; Emotions swept in restless change Across his shadowed face. He dwelt upon the lapse of years; His voice, smooth-toned and low, Compassed the ecstasies and tears Of those dead long ago. 81 An Evening Walk His speech with anecdote was fraught Of bygone beau and dame, And evermore the sound I caught Of Blennerhasset's name. At length I shrank as though a-cold ; Methought I heard a moan, And when I turned my eyes, behold, I was once more alone ! My questioning heart within my side Gave sudden startled stir; — I had companioned, stride for stride, The wraith of Aaron Burr! ON THE CITY ENCROACHMENTS ON THE RIVER HUDSON, 1800 Philip Freneau Where Hudson, once, in all his pride In surges burst upon the shore They plant amidst his flowing tide Moles to defy his loudest roar; And lofty mansions grow where late Half Europe might discharge her freight. From northern lakes and wastes of snow The river takes a distant rise, Now marches swift, now marches slow, And now adown some rapid flies Till join'd the Mohawk, in their course They travel with united force. But cease, nor with too daring aim Encroach upon this giant flood ; No rights reserved by nature, claim, Nor on his ancient bed intrude : — The river may in rage awake And time restore him all you take. S3 THE OLD BREVOORT FARM A. D. 1800 Gideon J. Tucker A snug little farm was the Old Brevoort, Where cabbages grew of the choicest sort ; Full-headed and generous, ample and fat, In a queenly way on their stems they sat ; And there was boast of their genuine breed, For from Old Utrecht had come their seed. These cabbages, made into sauerkraut, Were the pride of the country round about, And their flavour was praised at each farmer feast, Among the Stuyvesants, far to the East, Delanceys, that in the South meadows lay, And Strykers, perched up at Stryker's Bay. The Brevoorts had lived, as the record appears, On the farm for almost a hundred years. From Brevoort in Holland at first they came, From that parent village they took their name ; Whence the head of the family — his name was Rip — To New Netherlands came in an Amsterdam ship. The farm itself was by no means great Alongside the Stuyvesants' splendid estate, 84 The Old Brevoort Farm But its pumpkins were golden, its apples round, And buckwheat grew on its upland ground; For a rule of diet the family had — To eat buckwheat cakes from green-corn to shad. Some mulberries, quinces and Dordrecht pears Grew where Grace Church its new steeple rears; Some creeping grape vines on trellis had run Where beckons the statue of Washington; On the spot where Brevoort House proudly towers Were clumps of orange-hued bloempje flowers. The homestead stood at the end of the lands Where Grace Memorial House now stands; In its garden, Dutch tulips of every shade, Their beautiful form and colour displayed; A low-roofed and unpretentious abode, The homestead confronted a dusty road. A merry old Dutchman was Uncle Brevoort, Who had not lived eighty odd years for naught; With abundant waist and laughing blue eye, And nose of a colour a trifle high. A gouty foot, and long silvery hair, And a forehead free as a child's from care. You saw, just through his half-opened door, The well-scoured planks of a sanded floor; And within the cupboard was ranged on a shelf Old-fashioned crockery brought from Delft. The roof o'er his porch for shade was a boon In the heat of a summer afternoon. In front of the spot where his tulips grew Ran the road now known as Fourth Avenue; 86 The Old Brevoort Farm Thence a lane to East River, through fields of wheat — It now goes by the name of Eleventh Street. And as the old gentleman sat in his porch He looked down the lane to the Bouwerie Church. To him, thus enjoying his leisure and cheer, One fine afternoon, some surveyors drew near; He offered a glass of old Holland schnapps, They accepted with thanks, but produced him some maps, Which showed that a project was well under way To open Eleventh Street through, to Broadway. The red lines and blue they duly explained, The land this one owned, the bounds that one claimed ; An assessment put here and there an award, To run curb and gutter through garden and sward. He listened in patience as long as he could, And then he remarked, "He'd be blanked if they should!" He fought all their maps, and he fought their re- ports, Corporations, surveyors, commissioners, courts; He hired his lawyers, well learned in the law; The plans and the projects to fragments they tore. But Uncle Brevoort, ere the law suit, expires, And calmly he sleeps at St. Mark's with his sires. The city abandoned the contest at last; He knew not his triumph, his struggle was past; His cabbage plot's built on, his tulips are gone, Where his old homestead stood is a palace of stone. But this of the old Dutchman's pluck we can say — Eleventh Street's not opened through, to this day! AN IVORY MINIATURE Helen Gray Cone When State Street homes were stately still, When out of town was Murray Hill, In late deceased "old times" Of vast, embowering bonnet shapes And creamy-crinkled Canton crapes And florid annual-rhymes, He owned a small suburban seat Where now you see a modern street, A monochrome of brown : The sad "brown brown" of Dante's dreams, A twilight turned to stone that seems To weight our city down. Through leafy chestnuts whitely showed The pillared front of his abode: A garden girt it 'round, Where pungent box did trim enclose The marigold and cabbage rose, And "pi'ny" heavy-crowned. Yea, whatso sweets the changing years, He most affected. Gone! but here's His face who loved them so 87 An Ivory Miniature Old eyes like sherry, warm and mild ; A clear-hued cheek as cheek of child; Sleek head, a sphere of snow. His mouth was pious, and his nose Patrician ; with which mould there goes A disaffected view. In those sublime, be-oratored, Spread-eagle days, his soul deplored So much red-white-and-blue ! In umber ink, with S's long, He left behind him censure strong, In stiff est phrases clothed! But time — a pleasant jest enough ! — Has turned the tory leaves to buff, The liberal hue he loathed! Of many a gentle deed he made Brief simple record. Never fade Those everlasting flowers That spring up wild in good men's walks; Opinions wither on their stalks, And sere grow Fashion's bowers. Erect, befrilled, in neckcloth tall, His semblance sits, removed from all Our needs and noises new ; Released from all the rent we pay As tenants of the large To-day, Cool, in a background blue. And he beneath a cherub chipped Plump, squamous-pinioned, pouting-lipped, Sleeps calm where Trinity An Ivory Miniature Points fingers dark to clouds that fleet; A warning, seen from surging street, A welcome seen from sea. There fall, ghost glorified of tears Shed for the dead in buried years, The silver notes of chimes ; And there, with not unreverent hand Though light, I lay this " green e garland," This woven wreath of rhymes. THE FASHIONS, 1806 L. Beach A lad came down from our town, To view this woundy city, And take a peep at all the tips, Who look so mighty pretty. Yankee Doodle, mind the dance, Step it off so neatly, To the pretty girls advance, Smack their lippees sweetly. He saw the pretty girls, I vags, As Broadway street he stood in, Tied up as tight in cotton bags As mother's Indian pudding. Yankee Doodle — music strike, Dancing now our trade is; Did you ever see the like, Pudding-bags on ladies. He saw the pretty gentlemen, You'll see them every street in, With little jackets o'er their coats, And leather bags their feet in. Yankee Doodle — pantaloons Grow so high before, sir, They've quarrel 'd with the waistcoats all, And turn'd them out of door, sir. 90 AT TRINITY Andrew E. Watrous Where Wall Street's head from full Broadway Takes portions of the surge and spray, By silent night, and roaring day, Its graves it guardeth. The jetsam of the swollen stream, Profounder far their peace doth seem, For tossing drift that from their dream, The still close wardeth. In days when Bleecker Street was rus, And Murray Hill as is to us Champlain, Au Sable; when this fuss And fret were quiet ; When ladies yet might think it queer To date in 18 — ; when all here, In brief, was up-town — in the year, Say '08, — I spy it. Perchance, in there among the pews, Turned down his Sunday buckled shoes, Knight Lawrence — ere that latest cruise — The stainless sinner! 91 At Trinity Trite wonder, where his tomb doth stand. Had he a thought ? The rector's hand He pressed, most like. Just back to land, And drove to dinner. Yet, haply, here from me a span, Some stopped to chat of the new man In Portugal, and his great plan For Boney brewing. How Burr'd turned up again, some said, Young Irving made abroad great head, And how of Gallic power the spread We'd all be ruing. Splash, splash! the midnight's fresh laid dust The swift aids churn the mud — needs must, The troops, from off Long Island thrust, Are marching nor'ward. Lord Sterling's taken, and his men All slain — the field was but a pen Of slaughter: we're the King's again From this time forward. It buffets back the lines-men's drum, Steel-fringed the scarlet ribbons come, Strong silence through the sullen hum St. George back bringing. Even the gliding of their files, In step that tells upon the miles, They wheel — cling, clang, upon the aisles Their muskets ringing. At Trinity Strain pipe and bellows! Belfry sway! Roar street and slip ! We greet to-day Primmest of patres patrice, Great George! — it endeth. Scant gleaner I amid the dead; The reaper closely harvested ; A gesture here, a word there said, Are all he lendeth. What point or purpose had their fate? They lived, and unlived ; like a slate Their old place is — our names the late Their places borrow. Rubbed out, writ in ; it seemeth strange To me, and plain to you — we'll change; The old thought and the new will range This time to-morrow. And, silent ones, if what one saith, You hear, and comforts life in death As death in life, you'll wish for breath To make me know it. For, somehow, when first seen the place, It seemed to nourish more the grace Of kinship than did all the space Above, below it. Come on, friend — here we may not lie; Our place is taken, yet may I, And you, find some day time to die — A rest remaineth. At Trinity Some spot is ours — a quiet nook, Where shade and shine make pipe and To idlers pleasant : thither look, Where peace sole reigneth. LAWRENCE AND LUDLOW On the arrival of the remains of Capt. Lawrence and Lieut. Ludlow, which are to rest forever in Trinity Churchyard Relics of the fallen brave! Tenants of an honour'd tomb ! Conscious pride exalts the wave Whose swelling bosom bears you home. Ocean hails you, gallant souls! Now once more his realm you cross ; And each billow as it rolls Moans an anthem for your loss. Sons of Glory! Mighty Dead! Welcome to your parent land; Softly here shall rest your head, Pillow'd by your brother's hand. Lawrence! ludlow! Sons of Fame! Here shall rise the sculptur'd stone; NOBLE IS THE HERO'S NAME, GLORY CLAIMS IT AS HER OWN ! 95 THE GRAVE OF LAWRENCE Trinity Churchyard Clinton Scollard Morn and noon of day and even, human ebb and flow; Overhead, the stars of midnight, — scarce the faintest glow- Shrunken into misty marsh-fires by the city's glare; Here he sleeps, our sailor hero, — pause and hail him fair! Here he sleeps where jostling Wall Street merges in Broadway, And the roar is as a legion leaping to the fray. Out from Trinity's dim portal floats the chanting choir ; Matchless midst the girdling granite lifts the graceful spire. Many si umber ers around him, men of church and state; Here he sleeps, our sailor hero, great among the great ! Simple lines to mark his slumber; how the letters speak ! "Lawrence" (hark, ye money-getters!) "of the Chesapeake!" 96 The Grave of Lawrence 97 Stone may call in clearer accents than the loudest ii P . Just a name ! What does it cry you ? ' ' Don't give up the ship!" Aye, there's something more than millions, — a far nobler aim! Here he sleeps, our sailor hero, nothing but a name! Yet (and who can pierce the future?) this may one day be As a burning inspiration both on land and sea. 7 DESCRIPTIVE VIEW OF NEW YORK, 1813 Thomas Eaton The Lord supreme the basis laid For science, commerce, and for trade; And sent a wise and chosen race, To build and beautify the place. Huge fabrics rising into view, With shops of trade, and temples too, Betray the enterprise and zeal The emulous projectors feel. On either bay a street is laid, And commons into parks are made; While num'rous shorter streets and lanes Divide and check the bushy plains. Anon the builder stops and views The rising village as it grows — The shores are fring'd with docks and slips And boast their sev'ral thousand ships, With schooners, sloops, and brigs and boats, And ev'ry kind of thing that floats, From ev'ry nation on the globe, That makes a pin, a book, or robe. And here the southern merchant hies, With fancy goods the place supplies, While Ireland her grocers sends, With rum to treat her Yankee friends; 98 Descriptive View of New York And England, France, and humbler Wales Send here to see what trade prevails, And try if any chance there be To undermine our liberty. A transatlantic pride they bring, With follies, fashions, every thing. Now leaving out the idle scene At gov'ment-house and bowling-green, The southern park, now batt'ry call'd, The stone and turf with which it's wall'd, Its forts and guns and drinking-place — To eastward Chatham street we'll trace. But, passing Tammany, we come Directly to the Museum. A stately house, completely full Of mammoth bones, or bones of bull, With birds and beasts, and min'ral ore, And things that ne'er were known before. It is no mark of knave or fool, To visit oft this nat'ral school, For good and wise men have been in, And yet come out as wise again. But longer here we may not be, As we have other things to see; And to observe how Chatham street Has suff er'd from the fire of late. Near sixty houses laid in dust, And this of evils not the worst; For families two hundred more Were robb'd of home in one short hour. On lofty house high mounted up, E'en tiptoe on the very top, I view the wide extended block, Where goats and sheep commingled flock. ioo Descriptive View of New York Broadway the first that takes the eye, The noblest street I here espy, The new-swept side-walks neat and clean, With poplars shaded sweet and green, And sev'ral thousand stylish folks Are seen repassing on the walks. Here side by side close converse hold, A mincing pair, till each has told, Perhaps, the whole she thinks or knows About her prospects and her beaux. And there a gentleman complete, In fashion all, from head to feet, With hugest seal and ruffles wide, Now strutting in the height of pride, And in his heart a want of sense, His long-neglected judgment hence; For so the fashion is, and he, For fashion-sake, must shallow be. For miles around we now behold New objects, and new scenes unfold; The num'rous steeples, tow'ring high, Seen best from ships when passing by, And next the thousand streets appear, Some fill'd with carts and others clear, Extending now the pow'r of sight, We view the spreads of canvas white Which press the oval hulks along, As swift as horses, twice as strong. With eagle-eye we now can see Where all the public houses be: And leaving churches unobserv'd, And places where the devil's serv'd, We prospect have of Fed'ral Hall, Of hotels and of taverns small ! Descriptive View of New York 101 And tow'ring high above the rest, From Jersey bank observ'd the best, Or when descending Hudson bold, The City Hotel we behold; And next to that Mechanic Hall, High built, though narrow made and small; Now Washington and Tammany Which own'd by politicians be; Commercial next, and old Tontine, Whose earthen roofs, sun-beaten shine, And Phoenix new, and num'rous banks, Where wealth plays off her shaving pranks. Now turning here and there we see Where all the public auctions be; What motley crowds assemble there; Or loss or benefit to share — The country folks, an honest set, Here cheaply buy, but nothing get. And there the market glutted stands That ev'ry class of men commands, For rich and poor commingle here, And buy they must, or cheap or dear — They have no choice, for all must eat, And butchers always sell their meat. Now round and round we turn to see All kind of folks, or bond or free, Or black, or white, or brown, or grey, Blasphemers, or the folks that pray, With carriages that go and come, Some Quaker-like, and glit'ring some. But weary grown, at length, of vain Review, we straight descend again, To where the sudden change of scene Makes us forget where we have been . ON THE BRITISH BLOCKADE, AND EXPECTED ATTACK ON NEW YORK— i Philip Freneau Old Neversink, with bonnet blue, The present times may surely rue When told what England means to do. Where from the deep his head he rears The din of war salutes his ears, That teased him not for thirty years. With tents I see his mountain spread, The soldier to the summit led, And cannon planted on his head: From Shrewsbury beach to Sandy Hook The country has a martial look, And Quakers skulk in every nook. — What shall be done in such a case? — We ask again with woeful face, To save the trade and guard the place? Where mounted guns the porte secure, The cannon at the embrasure, Will British fleets attempt to moor? 102 On the British Blockade Their feelings are alive and sore For what they got at Baltimore, When, with disgrace, they left the shore, And will revenge it, if they can, On town and country, maid and man — And all they fear is Fulton's plan; Torpedoes planted in the deep, Whose blast may put them all to sleep, Or ghostify them at a sweep. Another scheme, entirely new, Is hammering on his anvil too, That frightens Christian, Turk, and Jew. A frigate meant to sail by steam ! — How can she else but torture them, Be proof to all their fire and flame. A feast she cooks for England's sons Of scalded heads and broken bones Discharged from iron -hearted guns. Black Sam himself, before he died, Such suppers never did provide: — Such dinners roasted, boil'd, and fry'd. To make a brief of all I said — If to attack they change blockade Their godships will be well repaid With water, scalding from the pot, With melted lead and flaming shot, With vollies of — I know not what, On the British Blockade The British lads will be so treated: Their wooden walls will be so heated, Their ruin will be soon completed. Our citizens shall stare and wonder — The Neversink repel their thunder And Cockburn miss a handsome plunder. ON THE PROSPECT OF RETURNING TO NEW YORK, AFTER THE WAR, IN 1815 JOSIAH SHIPPEY For thee, New York, my much-loved home I sigh, There let me live, O Heaven, there let me die. 105 BRONX, 1818 Joseph Rodman Drake I sat me down upon a green bank-side, Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river, Whose waters seem'd unwillingly to glide, Like parting friends, who linger while they sever; Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready, Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy. Grey o'er my head the yellow-vested willow Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes, Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow, Or the fine frostwork which young winter freezes; When first his power in infant pastime trying, Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches lying. From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling, And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green, Bright ising-stars the little beach was spangling, The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screen Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded, Left on some morn, when light flash'd in their eyes unheeded. 106 Bronx 107 The humbird shook his sun-touch 'd wings around, The bluefinch caroll'd in the still retreat; The antic squirrel caper 'd on the ground Where lichens made a carpet for his feet ; Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkle Shot up in glimmering sparks his red fin's tiny twinkle. There were dark cedars, with loose, mossy tresses, White-powder'd dog-trees, and stiff hollies flaunt- ing Gaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses, Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden Shining beneath dropp'd lids the evening of her wedding. The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn, Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em, The winding of the merry locust's horn, The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom : Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling, O! 'twas a ravishing spot, form'd for a poet's dwell- ing. And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand Again in the dull world of earthly blindness? Pain'd with the pressure of unfriendly hands, Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness? Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude, To prison wandering thought and mar sweet soli- tude? io8 Bronx Yet I will look upon thy face again, My own romantic Bronx, and it will be A face more pleasant than the face of men. Thy waves are old companions, I shall see A well-remember' d form in each old tree, And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy. TAMMANY HALL, 1819 Fitz-Greene Halleck There's a barrel of porter at Tammany Hall, And the bucktails are swigging it all the night long; In the time of my boyhood 'twas pleasant to call For a seat and cigar, 'mid the jovial throng. That beer and those bucktails I'll never forget; But oft, when alone, and unnoticed by all, I think, is the porter-cask foaming there yet? Are the bucktails still swigging at Tammany Hall? No! the porter was out long before it was stale, But some blossoms on many a nose brightly shone, And the speeches inspired by the fumes of the ale, Had the fragrance of porter when porter was gone. How much Cozzens will draw of such beer ere he dies Is a question of moment to me and to all ; For still dear to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that barrel of porter at Tammany Hall. 109 ELECTION RETURNS AT TAMMANY HALL 1819 Gulian Crommelin Verplanck The time next May — the place, suppose Where, when in town, his saintship goes; Bad news flows in — a sullen gloom O'erspreads each face that crowds the room. While sure forebodings fill the breast, In vain, they strive to hope the best; Before them spread, returns are seen, Of votes from Ulster, Orange, Greene. Numbers in each, before unknown, Of public feeling, mark the tone — Gilbert and Miller look, and groan. But one whose hopes not yet are fled, Will know how other counties sped; "Queens? Richmond? — gone! — nay, ask no more! "And Rockland? — worse than e'er before! "Westchester? — all our hopes has crossed! "But Dutchess? — Dutchess too is lost!!" O-k-y had said it promised well , But some are bought who cannot sell ! Now marks the muse in ev'ry face. What varied tunes the passions trace; Some sink in sullen mute despair, Some bite the lip, or rend the hair — One raves aloud, or curses flings On Rockland, Putnam, Orange, Kings. no TO SIMON The Omnipotent and Omnipresent Caterer for Fashionable Supper-parties. Fitz-Greene Halleck AND Joseph Rodman Drake Dear Simon! Prince of pastry-cooks, Oysters, and ham, and cold neat's tongue, Pupil of Mitchill's cookery-books, And bosom friend of. old and young! Sure from some higher, brighter sphere In showers of gravy thou wert hurled, To aid our routs and parties here, And grace the fashionable world! Taught by thy art, we closely follow And ape the English lords and misses; For Music, we've the Black Apollo, And Mrs. Poppleton for kisses. We borrow all the rest, you know, Our glass from Christie for the time, Plate from our friends to make a show, And cash, to pay small bills from Prime. What though old Squaretoes will not bless thee — He fears your power and dreads your bill ; in 112 To Simon Mother and her dear girls caress thee, And pat thy cheek, and praise thee still. Oh, Simon! how we envy thee, When belles that long have frowned on all, Greet thee with smiles, and bend the knee, To beg you'll help them "give a ball!" Though it is ungenteel to think, For thought affects the nerves and brain! Yet oft we think of thee, and drink Thy health in Lynch's best champagne. 'Tis pity that thy signal merit Should slumber in so low a station ; Act, Simon, like a lad of spirit, And thou, in time, mayst rule the nation! Break up your Saturdays "at home, " Cut Guinea and your sable clan, Buy a new eye-glass and become A dandy and a gentleman. You must speak French, and make a bow, Ten lessons are enough for that; And Leavenworth will teach you how To wear your corsets and cravat. Knock all your chambers into one, Hire fiddlers, glasses, Barons too, And then invite the whole haul-ton; Ask Hosack, he can tell you who. The great that are, and — wish to be, Within your brilliant rooms will meet, And belles of high and low degree, From Broadway up to Cherry Street. To Simon This will insure you free admission To all our routs, for years to come; And when you die, a long procession Of dandies shall surround your tomb. We'll raise an almond statue where In dust your honoured head reposes; Mothers shall lead their daughters there, And bid them twine your bust with roses. THE BALLOON, 1819 Moses Y. Scott "Huzza! Huzza! clear, clear the way! "Run — the Balloon goes up to-day!" See old and young, black, white, and all Fill every passage to Vauxhall ! Vauxhall, the gold — the flooded shore Where streams from every quarter pour. See the innumerable throng, That in the Bowery crowd along! See dandy coats and bonnets gay, Shawls, ribbons, stream along Broad-way! See carts and coaches dashing on! See men and boys and women run ! They come, they come, from every side, Like bubbles on a rushing tide! They drive with half Niagara's force — Nor ever fleeter was his course. Greece never pour'd to Troja's wall So great a throng, so vast a battle — Call, call your Hector forth, Vauxhall! Their shouts arise! their chariots rattle. Is it revenge, or hate or fear, Or wonder urges their career? It must be Wonder's trumpet loud! Nought else could draw so vast a crowd. 114 The Balloon 115 But soon the driving storm is past — They all have reached the goal at last ! Why, what a squeezing, Virgil's bees Were not so numerous as these! Such multitudes, Communipaw 1 Of evening singers never saw. Nor did a sunbeam ever sprawl Such swarms as Monsieur Guille's ball. Like sheep enclosed that burst their bar — Like locusts darkening Egypt's air, They push and crowd, and squeeze, and — "O, That rascal trod upon my toe!" "Back, back! — there — yonder's the balloon! "We all shall see it moving soon!" The multitude turns all its eyes Right where the flying wonder lies. From cart and window ; coach and door, From wall, and housetop covered o'er, From step and block, and shed and tree, Where boys, like squirrels, climb to see, All gaze, all wonder, all desire To see poor Monsieur Guille higher. 'Tis all attention, save when rise Some false alarm of "there it flies!" Or "Voyez done! le ballon va! — Mon Dieu! J'ai peur qu'il n'ira pas!" Or save when in the crowd there pass Some learned disputes about the gas. One cannot get it in his eye What makes the mighty bladder fly. . 1 It was from Communipaw that the Moschetoes came, which swarmed upon New York this season. i6 The Balloon One fears delay is loss of toil ; And one is sure the gas will spoil. And now to show his depth profound, Some wise man calls an audience round. With arm akimbo, and with brow That says — behold importance now ! "I can expound all to your eyes — "Mark yon circumference e'er it flies! "You see the gas within is brighter "And being twenty-one times lighter "Than" — But a loud shout interposes. And with "She mounts" the harangue closes. "Huzza! huzza!" tongues, hands, and eyes, Shout, clap, and strain to see it rise — All tiptoe stand — "Up! up, Balloon!" But ah! it stops this side the moon. "Friends, you can homeward take your way! "The balloon — don't ascend to-day!" ODE TO FORTUNE Fitz-Greene Halleck AND Joseph Rodman Drake Fair lady with the bandaged eye! I'll pardon all thy scurvy tricks, So thou wilt cut me and deny Alike thy kisses and thy kicks: I'm quite contented as I am, 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, At Mother Dawson's eats his fill; My books at Goodrich's abide, My country-seat is Weehawk hill; My morning lounge is Eastburn's shop, 117 u8 Ode to Fortune At Poppleton's I take my lunch, Niblo prepares my mutton-chop, And Jennings makes my whiskey-punch. When merry, I the hours amuse By squibbing Bucktails, Guards, and Balls, And when I'm troubled with the blues, Damn Clinton and abuse canals: Then, Fortune! since I ask no prize, At least preserve me from thy frown ! The man who don't attempt to rise, 'Twere cruelty to tumble down. WEEHAWKEN, 1820 Fitz-Greene Halleck 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 smiled Upon a lovelier scene, than the full eye Of the enthusiast revels on — when high 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 — 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. 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 — 119 120 Weehawken The city bright below; and far away, Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay 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 Its memory of this ; nor lives there one Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood's days Of happiness were passed 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. BURLESQUE ADDRESS On the opening of the New Park Theatre, after the fire, September I, 1821. Fitz-Greene Halleck Ladies and gentlemen, Enlighten 'd as you are, you all must know Our playhouse was burnt down, some time ago, Without insurance — 'Twas a famous blaze, Fine fun for firemen, but dull sport for plays. The proudest of our whole dramatic corps Such warm reception never met before. It was a woeful night for us and ours ; Worse than dry weather to the fields and flowers. The evening found us gay as summer's lark, Happy as sturgeons in the Tappan Sea ; The morning — like the dove from Noah's Ark, As homeless, houseless, innocent as she, But — thanks to those who ever have been known To love the public interest — when their own ; Thanks to the men of talent and of trade, Who joy in doing well — when they're well paid, Again our fire- worn mansion is rebuilt, Inside and outside, neatly carv'd and gilt, With best of paint and canvas, lath and plaster, The Lord bless Beekman and John Jacob Astor. 121 ON A FORGOTTEN BY-WAY Andrew E. Watrous The shabby street-cars jingling go Where modish coach-wheels rolled and ran And back here from the roaring Row- That leads from Beekman Street to Ann, En route to sup at Philip Hone's And quiz our New World belles and beaux Her feet tripped o'er these very stones — Fair Kemble. And thy magic toes, Thou fairer Fanny, Ellsler named, Twinkled adown the pavement drear, While (for thy lissome sake defamed) Followed — with wraps — thy Chevalier. A gown of white, a girlish form, Footsteps unused that trembling pause! 'Tis Garcia, frightened by the storm Of this, her ddbut night's applause. Again, oh, crinoline and mitts! Oh, blue and brass with ruffles dight ! A decorous mob of worthy cits — The ball to "Boz" is at its height. On a Forgotten By-Way 'Tis Theatre Alley, yet its name They've spared. A squalid place by day, Where wrangling boys for coppers game, Where sottish vagrants snooze or stray. But when the sun shines slant and low O'er Trinity's subduing vane, Vanish these sordid shapes, and so The alley grows itself again. And when the dusk in deeper gloom Is whelmed, and o'er the flag-stones damp, As if the old stage-door to 'lume, Glimmers that lonely, midway lamp. These dear, dead ladies, they that thrilled The gay world of the "old Park's" time, Are with me, and — a vow fulfilled — To their sweet manes this light rhyme. LAFAYETTE EN AMERIQUE. New York, September, 1824. Pierre Jean de Beranger. Republicains, quel cortege s'avance? — Un vieux guerrier debarque parmi nous. — Vient-il d'un roi vous jurer ralliance? — II a des rois allume le courroux. — Est-il puissant? — Seul il franchit les ondes. — Qu'a-t-il done fait? — II a brise des fers. Gloire imortelle a l'homme des deux mondes, Jours de triomphe, eclairez l'univers! Ce vieil ami que tant d'ivresse accueille, Par un heros ce heros adopte, Benit jadis, a sa premiere feuille, L'arbre naissant de notre liberte, Mais, aujourd'hui que l'arbre et son feuillage Bravent en paix la foudre et les hivers, II vient s'asseoir sous son fertile ombrage. Jours de triomphe, eclairez l'univers! Autour de lui vois nos chefs, vois nos sages, Nos vieux soldats se rappelant ses traits; Vois tout un peuple et ces tribus sauvages A son nom seul sortant de leurs forets. L'arbre sacre sur ce concours immense Forme un abri de rameaux toujours verts: Les vents au loin porteront sa semence; Jours de triomphe, Eclairez l'univers! 124 FIRST OF MAY IN NEW YORK Sung with applause at Chatham Garden, 1825. Robert Stevenson Coffin First of May, clear the way! Baskets, Barrows, Trundles; Take good care, mind the Ware! Betty, where's the bundles? Pots and Kettles, Broken Victuals, Feather Beds, Plaster Heads, Looking Glasses, Torn Mattresses, Spoons and Ladles, Babies' Cradles, Cups and Saucers, Salts and Castors, Hurry, scurry — grave and gay, All must trudge the first of May. Now we start, mind the cart! Shovels, Bedclothes, Bedding; On we go, soft and slow, Like a beggar's wedding! Jointed Stools, Domestic Tools, Chairs unbacked, Tables cracked, Gridiron black, Spit and Jack, Trammels, Hooks, Musty Books, Old Potatoes, Ventilators, Hurry, scurry, grave or gay, On we trudge, the First of May. 125 First of May in New York Now we've got, to the spot, Bellows, Bureau, Settee; Rope untie, mind your eye, Pray, be careful Betty; Lord! what's there? Broken Ware; Decanters dash'd, China smash'd, Pickles spoiled, Carpets soiled, Sideboard scratch'd, Cups unmatch'd, Empty Casks, Broken Flasks, Hurry, scurry — grave or gay, Devil take the First of May. HOBOKEN, 1825 This place is opposite New York, on the Jersey shore, and has become notorious as the battle-ground of duellists. Robert Stevenson Coffin To the dark, bloody shore of Hoboken is gliding The skiff of false honour, deep freighted and strong; And the sceptre of murder its helm is bestriding, While the fiends of false friendship propel it along. Lo, their feet press the strand which the billows are laving, Nor heed they the night-bird that screams through the air, And proclaims that e'er long o'er a corse shall be waving The high knotty pine, the thorn, and the briar. The battle is closed, and all ghastly and bleeding, The friend of his murderer hath sunk to the earth; And the skiff from the beach is full quickly receding, While the fate of true friendship's their subject of mirth. Now the spirit of Cain on the steep is reclining, While the daemons of darkness dance light o'er the ground ; And the grim fiends of hell for the murderer are twining The flowers of the nightshade his temples around. 127 AN ODE FOR THE GRAND CANAL CELEBRATION November 4, 1825 Samuel Wood worth 'Tis done, 'tis done! The mighty chain Which joins bright Erie to the Main, For ages shall perpetuate The glory of our native State. 'Tis done! The monarch of the briny tide, Whose giant arm encircles earth, To virgin Erie is allied, A bright-eyed nymph of mountain birth. Rising from their watery cells Tritons sport upon the tide, And gaily blow their trumpet-shells In honour of the bride. Sea-nymphs leave their coral caves, Deep beneath the ocean waves, Where they string with tasteful care Pearls upon their sea-green hair. Thetis' virgin train advances, Mingling in the bridal dances; Jove himself with raptured eye 128 The Grand Canal Celebration Throws his forked thunders by, And bids Apollo seize his golden lyre, A strain of joy to wake; While Fame proclaims that Ocean's Sire Is wedded to the goddess of the Lake. The smiling god of song obeys And heaven re-echoes with his sounding lays WINTER, 1825 Samuel Wood worth Nor is stern Winter's icy sceptre swayed O'er sylvan scenes alone — his shafts invade Our splendid city, too — and every street Is rendered cheerless by his pointed sleet; For every arrow from the centaur's bow, Is tipt with ice, and feathered, too, with snow. The Battery, now, each verdant charm has lost, And e'en the Park is silvered o'er with frost; Vauxhall and Castle-Garden, late so gay, Where night gave place to artificial day, Are now deserted — even Chatham mourns, And all must droop till gentle Spring returns. But Winter's brightest joy, in towns like this, Is yet unsung — I mean that scene of bliss To which our annual holy-days give birth, A foretaste of Elysium here on earth ! That period to generous hearts so dear, That little week of joy that shuts the year, And brings to light the bright auspicious morn, When all unite to hail a New- Year born — In all my wanderings thro' this vale of tears, From infancy, to manhood's riper years, 130 Winter 131 Whatever pains assail 'd, or griefs oppress'd, Christmas and New- Year always saw me blest! A lengthened absence o'er, how pleasant, then, The friends I dearest love to meet again ! Grasp the warm hand, or share the fond embrace, And see new smiles lit up in every face ! 'Twas Christmas eve! the supper board was spread, The fire blazed high, with logs of hickory fed; The candles, too, unusual lustre lent, Candles expressly made for this event. Old tales were told, the cheerful glass went round, While peals of laughter made the cot resound. A thousand welcomes hail'd the truant boy, And swift the moments flew on wings of joy; Till (as they thought, too soon) the hour of prayer Bade the young urchins to their beds repair. But first the stocking, from each little leg, Must be suspended to a hook or peg, That Santa Claus, who travels all the night, Might, in the dark, bestow his favours right; These rites observed, they take a parting kiss, And go to dream of morning's promised bliss! Thus did a week of festive pleasures roll, Till New-Year's happy morning crown'd the whole. THE SWEEP'S CAROL, 1826 George P. Morris Through the streets of New York City, Blithely every morn, I carolled o'er my artless ditty, Cheerly though forlorn! Before the rosy light, my lay Was to the maids begun, Ere winters snows had passed away, Or smiled the summer sun. Carol-O-a-y-e-ol In summer months I'd fondly woo, Those merry dark-eyed girls, With faces of the ebon hue, And teeth like eastern pearls! One vowed my love she would repay — Her heart my song had won — When winter songs had passed away Or smiled the summer sun. Carol-O-Si-y-e-o ! A year, alas ! had scarcely flown — Hope beamed but to deceive — 132 The Sweep's Carol Ere I was left to weep alone, From morn till dewy eve! She died one dreary break of day !- Grief weighs my heart upon ! — In vain the snows may pass away, Or smile the summer sun. Carol-0-a.-y-e-ol HARLEM MARY Samuel Woodworth They sing of blue-eyed Mary, Who gathered flowers to sell, But there's a sweeter fairy In Harlem's flowery dell ; Whose violets, pinks, and roses, Display a richer bloom, 'Twere bliss to gain such posies, And taste their rich perfume. The violet's softest azure Is swimming in her eye; The rose's vermeil treasure On either cheek we spy; The fragrant pink's carnation, Its nectar and perfume, In sweetest combination Have dress'd her lips in bloom. And she has learned to cherish A never-fading flower; When pinks and roses perish 'Twill still adorn her bower; Its tints will never vary, Its fragrance ne'er depart, 'Twill always bloom with Mary, 'Tis planted in her heart. i34 NEW YORK IN 1826 Address of the carrier of the New York Mirror, on the first day of that year. George P. Morris Two years have elapsed since the verse of S. W. Met your bright eyes like a fanciful gem; With that kind of stanza the muse will now trouble you, She often frolicks with one G. P. M. As New Year approaches, she whispers of coaches, And lockets and broaches, without any end. Of sweet rosy pleasure, of joy without measure, And plenty of leisure to share with a friend. Tis useless to speak of the gas-light so beautiful, 1 Shedding its beams through "the mist of the night." Eagles and tigers and elephants, dutiful, Dazzle the vision with columns of light. The lamb and the lion — ask editor Tryon, His word you'll rely on — are seen near the Park, From which such lights flow out, as wind cannot blow out, Yet often they go out, and all's in the dark. 1 Gas-light was introduced into New York at this time and the gas-burners were in the shapes here mentioned. 135 136 New York in 1826 'Tis useless to speak of the many civilities Shown to Fayette in this country of late, Or even to mention the splendid abilities Clinton possesses for ruling the state, The Union of water and Erie's bright daughter, Since Neptune has caught her they'll sever no more; And Greece and her troubles (the rhyme always doubles) Have vanished like bubbles that burst on the shore. 'Tis useless to speak of Broadway and the Bowery; Both are improving and growing so fast ! Who would have thought that old Stuyvesant's dowery Would hold in its precincts a play-house at last ! Well, wonder ne'er ceases, but daily increases, And pulling to pieces, the town to renew, So often engages the thoughts of our sages, That when the fit rages what will they not do? 'Tis useless to speak of the want of propriety In forming our city so crooked and long; Our ancestors, bless them, were fond of variety — 'Tis naughty to say that they ever were wrong ! Tho' strangers may grumble and thro' the street stumble, Take care they don't tumble through crevices small, For trap-doors we've plenty, on side-walks and entry, And no one stands sentry to see they don't fall. New York in 1826 137 'Tis useless to speak of the din that so heavily Fell on our senses as midnight drew near; Trumpets and bugles and conch-shells, so cleverly Sounded the welkin with happy New Year! With jew's-harps and timbrels and musical thimbles, Tin platters for cymbals, and frying-pans too; Dutch-ovens and brasses, and jingles and glasses, With reeds of all classes, together they blew! For holy-day pleasure, why these are the times for it; Pardon me, then, for so trifling a lay ; This stanza shall end, if I can find rhymes for it — May you, dear patrons, be happy to-day ! Tho' life is so fleeting, and pleasure so cheating, That we are oft meeting with accidents here, Should Fate seek to dish you, oh then may the issue Be what I now wish you — a Happy New Year. THEIR WEDDING JOURNEY — 1834 H. C. BUNNER Dear Mother, When the Coach rolled off From dear old Battery Place I hid my face within my hands — That is, I hid my face. Tom says (he's leaning over me!) 'Twas on his shoulder, too; But, oh, I pray you will believe I wept to part from You. And when we rattled up Broadway I wept to leave the Scene Familiar to my happy Youth (I did love Bowling Green). I wept at Slidell's Chandlery To see the smoak arise — 'Twas only at the City Hall Tom bade me wipe my Eyes. By Mr. Niblo's Garden, where You would not let me go, We went, and travell'd up the Hill — So fast, and yet so slow! 138 Their Wedding Journey 139 And so we left behind the Town And ere the Sun had set We reached the Inn at Tubby Hook — We have not left it yet! I know that we are very Wrong — Dear Mother, pray forgive! From Sun to Sun 'tis all so sweet — It seems so sweet to Live! I know the things we meant to do, The road we vowed to go, But Tom and I are here, and — oh, Dear Mother, do you know? We have not gone to Uncle John's, Though Yonkers is so near — We never shall see Cousin Van At Tarry town, I fear. Our Peekskill friends, the Fishkill folk, And all the waiting rest — Tom bids me tell you they may wait — (He says they may be Blest). I know 'tis ill to linger here Hid in this woodland Inn, When all along Queen Anne's broad road Await our Friends and Kin; But, Dear Mama (when I was small You let me call you so), 'T is such Felicity and Joy With Him, Here! Do you know? Your Isabel. P. S. — Tom sends his love. Please write, "I know.'" DELICIAE NOVI EBORACI, 1839 Jedediah Huntington 1 With much the soul that fetters and degrades, In thee, Manhatta! yet are some things seen, That lift to joy and love thy citizen. Refreshing as a dream of forest glades, Not seldom meets his eye whom business jades, In the brick desert an oasis green. St. Luke's low tower has yet its rural screen; St. John's its thick and rose-besprinkled shades; And many spots and sights as fair there be. But one fair sight is prized above the rest; Beheld, when, loitering home at sun-down, we Have frequent glimpses of the crimson west, Tinging the woody shores and glittering breast Of kingly Hudson passing to the sea. II With step that times the pulse's languid beats, Forth to the Battery at the cool of day, Forth to the wave-washed Battery we stray, Glad to exchange the city's central heats, And scorching pavements of unshaded streets, j 40 Deliciae Novi Eboraci 141 For long and gravelled walks, where children play, And the pure breeze, fresh-blowing from the bay, Rifles the perfumed bosom of its sweets. Thence, "loitering home at sun-down," we perceive, Bright streaming up each vistaed street we pass, A flush, from western skies by purple eve Suffused, and from the river smooth as glass, 'Gainst which, and 'gainst the sky, a tangled mass Of masts and spars their blackened lines relieve. THE PITY OF THE PARK FOUNTAIN Nathaniel P. Willis 'Twas a summery day in the last of May — Pleasant in sun or shade ; And the hours went by, as the poets say, Fragrant and fair in their flowery way ; And a hearse crept slowly through Broadway — And the Fountain gaily play'd. The Fountain play'd right merrily, And the world look'd bright and gay; And a youth went by, with a restless eye, Whose heart was sick and whose brain was dry; And he prayed to God that he might die — And the Fountain play'd away. Uprose the spray like a diamond throne, And the drops like music rang — And of those who marvell'd how it shone, Was a proud man, left, in his shame, alone; And he shut his teeth with a smother'd groan — And the Fountain sweetly sang. And a rainbow spann'd it changefully, Like a bright ring broke in twain ; And the pale, fair girl who stopp'd to see, Was sick with the pangs of poverty — 142 The Pity of the Park Fountain And from hunger to guilt she chose to flee As the rainbow smiled again. With as fair a ray, on another day, The morning will have shone; And as little mark'd, in bright Broadway, A hearse will glide among busy and gay, And the bard who sings will have pass'd away- And the Fountain will play on ! UNSEEN SPIRITS Nathaniel P. Willis The shadows lay along Broadway, 'Twas near the twilight-tide — And slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride. Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly, Walked spirits at her side. Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, And Honour charmed the air; And all astir looked kind on her, And call'd her good as fair — For all God ever gave to her, She kept with chary care. She kept with care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true — For her heart was cold to all but gold, And the rich came not to woo — But honour'd well are charms to sell If priests the selling do. Now walking there was one more fair — A slight girl, lily-pale; And she had unseen company 144 Unseen Spirits To make the spirit quail — 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn, And nothing could avail. No mercy now can clear her brow For this world's peace to pray; For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman's heart gave way ! — But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven By man is cursed alway! FIVE POINTS, 1838 Laughton Osborn Fast by the dike, where frown the granite eaves Of the huge dome Manhattan rears for thieves, A range of filthy dwelling houses stood, Fac'd with dull brick, and bridg'd with steps of wood. Here, in chalk'd spaces, seven feet by four, Crowd various families a common floor; The night's straw sack their musty couch by day, While on the loathsome plank their broken victuals lay. Dogs, cats, and children in one litter cry, And mud-cak'd pigs encroach upon the sty. Without, all wreck and nastiness; within, Starvation, sickness, vermin, stench, and sin. Such hives as still are found, with ev'n less room, In Laurens Street, the southern side of Broom. 146 FANNY ELSSLER, 1840 The clock has struck, we mean St. Paul's — And hark! there goes the City Hall's; 'Tis noon, a sunny noon in May, The park is cloth'd in early green, While beauty, floating through Broadway, In dyes of ev'ry shade is seen ! Upon the lofty steps behold, Of the "American" or "Astor, " Groups of the gallant and the bold — Mustached and strapp'd, of fashion's mould; Their glances after beauty cast, or As often turned themselves to view, A set of precious beauties too, From boot to castor! The 'Busses roll by dozens by, The cabs, and hacks, half crazy, rattle; The private carriage solemnly Glides on in dignity of cattle; The City Hall, too, loftily, Above the trees is soaring; see! A glow upon its marble face, Gives it a sort of modest grace, As though it blush 'd for its inferior And unillumined brown posterior! While Justice, perched high in air, i47 148 Fanny Elssler And smiling in the pleasant ray, Seems just as light of conscience there, As if it were not "sentence day. " Three hours — it lacks three hours of dark — What murmur rises on the air — The sound of many voices — hark ! And from the Astor steps, look there! That crowd investing the old "Park," As if half mad they were! And Blake has had a busy time, The "first tier" gone, the boxes private; The "second," "third," yet rings the chime Most welcome — "places" still they strive at. And now the rosy day descends — The Jersey flats, the bay, and islands Are bathed in the rich light it lends; Weehawken too, and Brooklyn highlands; And, lingering, thy lofty spire And ball, St. Paul's, are wreathed in fire — The longing glances of the Sun, That thence, "Old Drury" look upon! But, "La Deesse," thy hour is night, By magic made than day more bright; Go, lagging beams, the struggle vain, Resplendent gas usurps thy reign. Too eager fool ! we find ourselves Scrouged in a corner of the pit ; While carried out by tens and twelves The fainting fair the boxes quit. The overture! — oh, agony Of pressure and of expectation; Hats off — sit down — get up — dear me ! Fanny Elssler Toes — elbows — struggle — suffocation ; The orchestra's invaded, and The stage behold them now a-cramming; While, louder than the music band, Is heard remonstrance, prayer and d — g! But what is this which stills the roar, Which bids the groaning groan no more; Which, like an angel's glance below Into the murky pits of woe Bids sound of sin and blasphemy Subside into an anxious hope That one so rare and heavenly Hath come the fatal gates to ope! What is it? La Deesse! 'tis she! As ne'er before, she smileth now, An angel promise certainly, And she hath still 'd the row! An airy, fairy winged thing ! With drapery, untaught to fling A veil o'er aught so bright, so fair: A film, made of imagining, She seems to wear ! As faintly floating round the moon. By poet seen at starry noon, Or silv'ry mist, a shifting sheen. Frenzy and love each change between, Is seen! In mazy beauty only clad, She moves — we're mad! CITY LYRICS Argument: The poet starts from the Bowling Green to take his sweetheart up to Thompson's for an ice, or (if she is inclined for more) ices. He confines his muse to matters which an every- day man and young woman may see in taking the same pro- menade for the same innocent refreshment. Nathaniel P. Willis Come out, love — the night is enchanting! The moon hangs just over Broadway, The stars are all lighted and panting — (Hot weather up there, I dare say!) 'Tis seldom that "coolness" entices, And love is no better for chilling — But come up to Thompson's for ices, And cool your warm heart for a shilling ! What perfumes come balmily o'er us? Mint juleps from City Hotel ! A loafer. is smoking before us — (A nasty cigar, by the smell !) Oh Woman! thou secret past knowing! Like lilachs that grow by the wall, You breathe every air that is going, Yet gather but sweetness from all! On, on! by St. Paul's and the Astor! Religion seems very ill-plann'd, 150 City Lyrics For one day we list to the pastor, For six days we list to the band! The sermon may dwell on the future, The organ your pulses may calm — When — pest ! — that remembered cachucha Upsets both the sermon and psalm! Oh, pity the love that must utter While goes a swift omnibus by! (Though sweet is ice-cream when the flutter Of fans shows thermometers high) — But if what I bawl, or I mutter, Falls into your ear but to die, Oh, the dew that falls into the gutter Is not more unhappy than I ! THE CROTON ODE Written at the request of the Corporation of the City of New York and sung near the Park Fountain by the members of the New York Sacred Music Society, on the completion of the Croton Aqueduct, celebrated October 14, 1842. George P. Morris Gushing from this living fountain, Music pours a falling strain, As the goddess of the mountain Comes with all her sparkling train. From her grotto-springs advancing, Glittering in her feathery spray, Woodland fays beside her dancing, She pursues her winding way. Gently o'er the rippling water, In her coral-shallop bright, Glides the rock-king's dove-eyed daughter, Decked in robes of virgin white. Nymphs and naiads, sweetly smiling, Urge her back with pearly hand, Merrily the sylph beguiling From the nooks of fairy land. Round the aqueducts of story, As the mists of Lethe" throng, 152 The Croton Ode Croton's waves in all her glory Troop in melody along. Ever sparkling, bright, and single, Will this rock-ribbed stream appear, When posterity shall mingle Like the gathered waters here. TO THE LADY IN THE CHEMISETTE WITH BLACK BUTTONS Nathanifx P. Willis I know not who thou art, oh lovely one! Thine eyes were droop'd, thy lips half sorrowful — Yet thou didst eloquently smile on me While handing up thy sixpence through the hole Of that o'er-freighted omnibus! Ah me! The world is full of meetings such as this— A thrill, a voiceless challenge and reply — And sudden partings after ! We may pass, And know not of each other's nearness now — Thou in the Knickerbocker Line, and I, Lone, in the Waverley! Oh, life of pain! And even should I pass where thou dost dwell — Nay — see thee in the basement taking tea — So cold is this inexorable world, I must glide on ! I dare not feast mine eye ! I dare not make articulate my love, Nor o'er the iron rails that hem thee in Venture to fling to thee my innocent card — Not knowing thy papa ! Hast thou papa? Is thy progenitor alive, fair girl? And what doth he for lucre? Lo again! 154 To the Lady in the Chemisette i A shadow o'er the face of this fair dream! For thou mayst be as beautiful as Love Can make thee, and the ministering hands Of milliners, incapable of more, Be lifted at thy shapeliness and air, And still 'twixt me and thee, invisibly, May rise a wall of adamant. My breath Upon my pale lip freezes as I name Manhattan's orient verge, and eke the west In its far down extremity. Thy sire May be the signer of a temperance pledge, And clad all decently may walk the earth — Nay — may be numbered with that blessed few Who never ask for discount — yet, alas! If, homeward wending from his daily cares, He go by Murphy's Line, thence eastward tending- Or westward from the Line of Kipp & Brown, — My vision is departed ! Harshly falls The doom upon the ear, "She's not genteel! ,, And pitiless is woman who doth keep Of "good society" the golden key! And gentlemen are bound, as are the stars, To stoop not after rising! But farewell, And I shall look for thee in streets where dwell The passengers by Broadway Lines alone! And if my dreams be true, and thou, indeed, Art only not more lovely than genteel — Then, lady of the snow-white chemisette, The heart which vent'rously crossed o'er to thee Upon that bridge of sixpence may remain — And, with up-town devotedness and truth, My love shall hover round theei THE CITY, 1850. John G. Saxe I love the city, and the city's smoke; The smell of gas; the dust of coal and coke; The sound of bells, the tramp of hurrying feet ; The sight of pigs and Paphians in the street; The jostling crowd, the never-ceasing noise Of rattling coaches, and vociferous boys ; The cry of Fire and the exciting scene Of heroes running with their mad "mersheen"; Nay, now I think that I could even stand The direful din of Barnum's brazen band, So much I long to see the town again ! Good-bye! I'm going by the evening train! 156 SPRING IN TOWN William Cullen Bryant The country ever has a lagging Spring, Waiting for May to call its violets forth, And June its roses — showers and sunshine bring, Slowly, the deeping verdure o'er the earth; To put their foliage out, the woods are slack, And one by one the singing-birds come back. Within the city's bounds the time of flowers Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day, Such as full often, for a few bright hours, Breathes through the sky of March the airs of May, Shine on our roofs and chase the wintry gloom — And lo! our borders glow with sudden bloom. For the wide sidewalks of Broadway are then Gorgeous as are a rivulet's banks in June, That overhung with blossoms, through its glen, Slides soft away beneath the sunny noon, And they who search the untrodden wood for flowers Meet in its depths no lovelier ones than ours. For here are eyes that shame the violet, Or the dark drop that on the pansy lies, i57 158 Spring in Town And foreheads, white, as when in clusters set, The anemones by forest mountains rise; And the spring-beauty boasts no tenderer streak Than the soft red on many a youthful cheek. And thick about those lovely temples lie Locks that the lucky Vignardonne has curled, Thrice happy man ! whose trade it is to buy, And bake, and braid those love-knots of the world; Who curls of every glossy colour keepest, And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest. And well thou mayst — for Italy's brown maids Send the dark locks with which their brows are dressed, And Gascon lasses, from their jetty braids, Crop half, to buy a riband for the rest ; But the fresh Norman girls their tresses spare, And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair. Then, henceforth, let no maid nor matron grieve, To see her locks of an unlovely hue, Frouzy or thin, for liberal art shall give Such piles of curls as nature never knew. Eve with her veil of tresses, at the sight Had blushed, outdone, and owned herself a fright. Soft voices and light laughter wake the street, Like notes of woodbirds, and where'er the eye Threads the long way, plumes wave, and twinkling feet Fall light, as hastes that crowd of beauty by. The ostrich, hurrying o'er the desert space, Scarce bore those tossing plumes with fleeter pace. Spring in Town No swimming Juno gait, of languor born, Is theirs, but a light step of freest grace, Light as Camilla's o'er the unbent corn; — A step that speaks the spirit of the place, Since Quiet, meek old dame, was driven away To Sing Sing and the shores of Tappan bay. Ye that dash by in chariots ! who will care For steeds or footmen now? ye cannot show Fair face, and dazzling dress, and graceful air, And last edition of the shape! Ah, no, These sights are for the earth and open sky, And your loud wheels unheeded rattle by. HYMN OF THE CITY William Cullen Bryant Not in the solitude Alone may man commune with heaven, or see, Only in savage wood And sunny vale, the present Deity ; Or only hear His voice Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice. Even here do I behold Thy steps, Almighty ! — here, amidst the crowd, Through the great city rolled, With everlasting murmur deep and loud — Choking the ways that wind 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind. Thy golden sunshine comes From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies, And lights their inner homes; For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies, And givest them the stores Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores. Thy spirit is around, Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along; And this eternal sound — Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng — 1 60 Hymn of the City Like the resounding sea, Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of thee. And when the hours of rest Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, Hushing its billowy breast — The quiet of that moment too is thine; It breathes of Him who keeps The vast and helpless city while it sleeps. THE DOG-STAR RAGES, 1850 George P. Morris Unseal the city fountains, And let the waters flow In coolness from the mountains Unto the plains below. My brain is parched and erring, The- pavement hot and dry, And not a breath is stirring Beneath the burning sky. The belles have all departed — There does not linger one! Of course the mart's deserted By every mother's son. Except the street musician, And men of lesser note, Whose only earthly mission Seems but to toil and vote! A woman — blessings on her ! — Beneath my window see; She's singing — what an honour! — Oh! "Woodman, spare that tree Her "man" the air is killing — His organ's out of tune — The Dog-Star Rages They're gone with my last shilling, To Florence's saloon. New York is most compactly Of brick and mortar made — Thermometer exactly One hundred in the shade! A furnace would be safer Than this my letter-room, Where gleams the sun, a wafer About to seal my doom. The town looks like an ogre, The country like a bride; Wealth hies to Saratoga And Worth to Sunny-Side. While fashion seeks the islands Encircled by the sea, Taste finds the Hudson Highlands More beautiful and free. The omnibuses rumble Along their cobbled way — The "twelve inside" more humble Than he who takes the pay. From morn to midnight stealing, His horses come and go — The only creatures feeling The ' ' luxury of woe ! ' ' A stillness and a sadness Pervade the City Hall, And speculating madness Has left the street of Wall. The Dog-Star Rages The Union Square looks really Both desolate and dark, And that's the case, or nearly, From Battery to Park. Had I a yacht like Miller, That skimmer of the seas — A wheel rigged like a tiller, And a fresh gunwale breeze, A crew of friends well chosen, And all a-tauto, I Would sail for regions frozen — I'd rather freeze than fry. I'm weeping like the willow That droops in leaf and bough — Let Croton's sparkling billow Flow through the city now; And, as becomes her station, The muse will close her prayer; God save the Corporation ! Long live the valiant Mayor ! EMPORIUM VERSUS NEW YORK, 1854 Jacob Bigelow With head erect and stately stride, In Broadway, on the western side, I marched, and viewed, in conscious pride, The splendours of New York. What gorgeous domes confront the sky, What proud hotels are soaring high, What windows lure the passers by, The strangers in New York! All gems are there in sparkling showers, All trophies of barbaric powers, And fabrics wrought for princely dowers, Are gathered in New York. And pilgrims press with eager feet, And curious eyes with wonders meet In Broadway's world-surpassing street, The glory of New York. Tall ships are in from many a shore, And streets and shops are running o'er, And lumbering drays can hold no more The transport of New York. 165 Emporium versus New York I tried in vain to cross the street, Where whirling wheels cut off retreat, And clattering tramp of horses' feet Announced the great New York. I gazed upon the motley throng; The ceaseless current surged along, And sinewy legs and elbows strong Went struggling through New York. Saxons and Celts, and Greeks and Jews, Creoles, Italians and Hindoos, Germans and Franks and Kickapoos, All crowded in New York. I looked ahead and read the fates, I scanned the rise and fall of states, And saw the destiny that waits The future of New York. Not fifty years shall pass when she, Whose commerce floats on every sea, The world's first banking-place shall be, Though then no more "New York." Indignant voices shall proclaim, That she, the first in wealth and fame, No more shall wear the paltry name Of pitiful "New York." When old ^Eneas and his boy From the mast-head cried " Rome, ahoy They did not call the place New Troy, Like fools that named New York. Emporium versus New York When Moses led his wandering Jews To bathe their feet in Canaan's dews, They proved too wise to name and use New Egypt, like New York. New Amsterdam, might fit the Dutch; But when the English got their clutch, Why need they coin another such And dub the town "New York"? I summon poets, one and all, Who help to spin this mundane ball, To rescue from degrading thrall The trodden-down New York. I call on patriots, fierce or tame, To wipe away this burning shame, And kick down hill, with one acclaim, Detestable "New York." Vast continents have changed their name; Cities and ladies do the same, A part for pride and part for shame, Both which should move New York. New Holland is Australia now; Toronto made one "York" to bow; The late Miss Smith is Mrs. Howe; Why don't you change New York? A generous name sounds well in verse, A bad one is a clinging curse; I never heard nor dreamt a worse Than pestilent "New York." Emporium versus New York I ask a bold, descriptive name, Of classic birth and faultless claim, To grow amid the growing fame Of what was once New York. Emporium shall that title be, The empire mart of earth and sea, The central city of the free; EMPORIUM,— not New York! THE WEDDED FLAGS A song of the Atlantic Cable, August 16, 1858. George Washington Doane, D.D. Hang out that glorious old red cross ! Hang out the stripes and stars ! They faced each other fearlessly In two historic wars. But now the ocean circlet binds The bridegroom and the bride: Old England, young America — Display them, side by side. High up, from Trinity's tall spire, We'll fling the banners out; Hear how the world-wide welkin rings With that exulting shout. Was ever sign so beautiful, Hung from the heavens, abroad? Old England, young America For freedom, and for God ! 169 THE PRINCE'S BALL, i860 Edmund Clarence Stedman O, haven't you heard how an English Prince, prince, prince, A genuine royal scion — How an English Prince, not three months since, Came sailing, singing, dancing along, His true American friends among? To him I dedicate this song, By leave of the British Lion. Maidens were saying, long before He came in sight of a Yankee shore, That all the princes of fairy rhyme, Voyaging "once upon a time, " Never compared with this island Prince; His lips were sweeter than sugared quince; His locks as brown As Prince Charming's own; When he spoke, his tone Was nice to be heard, as that of the bird, To which Prince Ruby was cruelly turned By the spell his magical rival learned. For the honour and commerce of the city, 170 The Prince's Ball 171 'Twas plain to see there must be a Committee! So men of means and might were chosen, Score by score and dozen by dozen, In all, four hundred noble names, With General Scott to lead them: So great their fortunes and their fames, That when the Aldermen came to read them, They blessed their luminaries stellar And hid, abashed, in the City Hall cellar. In fine, so stylish and wealthy a set Were never gathered together yet — Full of bankers, clubmen, and scholars; A Herald reporter, who knows how to count, Added up their estate to the gross amount Of Two Hundred Million Dollars! Birds of a feather, they came together, To hold a primal caucus! It don't appear in what mystic hall They met, or whether in daylight at all; Perhaps in the shades of Orcus Wherever it was, the question arose — " How do members to honour the Prince propose? " Some wanted a Dinner, and midnight speeches Along with the wine and brandy-peaches; Others on having a Ball insisted, Which proposition the first resisted, Till quite a dignified contest was raging; But, while gentlemen fiercely the battle were waging, One member, most potent and wealthy, began To speak up for the Terpsichorean plan; For he thought, if "Lord Renfrew" himself were to choose, 172 The Prince's Ball A Ball would exactly accord with his views; That very accomplished and noble young man Could ride, sing, and shoot, and, if need be, eat, In a manner that others found hard to beat. But none of these arts Made him Prince of Hearts, So much as his talent for dancing; Of all the Princes under the sun, There surely never was such an one For frolicking and romancing! Then from their sofas uprose ten Very wealthy and righteous men, With consciences sorely troubled: "They'd dance if they must, but if they could call The thing a Reception, instead of a Ball, They'd see their subscriptions doubled." Four were Presbyterians blue; High-Church Episcopalians two; Low-Church Episcopalian one; Broad-Church Unitarian, none; Three were Baptists, open and close: All pillars in firm position. For two, the Ball was too much of a dose; But the eight resolved, with one accord, That, as David danced before the Lord, They'd foot it once for the royal nonce, Despite the risk of perdition; Yet, the better to wash the sin away, Each secretly vowed to shortly pay Very much more than ever before To the Afghanistan mission. Thereupon the Committee voted, all, The Prince's Ball i That My Lord should have an Academy Ball. Passing the Quaker City's gates, My Lord has left the United States To cross the Jersey peninsula; Has slept once more on American shore: Ridden from Castle Garden, through Three miles of flags — red, white, and blue, Walls of marble, iron, and brick — Roofs and balconies, noisily thick With thousands sprawling after a view, 'Till he's lodged on the handsomest Avenue Of the greatest of cities insular. But now, as October Twelfth drew near, What hurry and bustle, joy and fear; Jealous hatred of those to appear, By those whose hopes were blasted and sere; As if all the life of a hemisphere Were mingled in hocus-pocus, And, through Vanity's lenses flashing hot, Made the Empire City a radiant spot, With Irving Place for its focus ! What costume-trying in visits flying: Days of dress-and- jewelry buying! A hundred mantua-makers were dying Of sheer exhaustion, and half a score Exchanged the smiles they usually wore For a reckless inurbanity; While every tailor, from Fulton to Bond, Declared himself in the Slough of Despond, And solemnly swore that one order more Would drive him into insanity. 174 The Prince's Ball What scintillant splendours found display, In mirrored windows along Broadway ! By the " Vanderbilt " they sent, in advance, For jewels of Florence and silks of France. Homeward she paddled, deeply laden, With stuffs to make a Manhattan maiden A princess, minus the dowry; To make a matron of forty years, As fine as a Dowager Duchess appears In a spectacle-play, at the Bowery. No lady-shopper could ever escape From the robes of every fabric and shape — Satins, taffetas, gauzes, crape; Skirts of tulle embroidered with gold; Watered silks in waves unrolled; Heaviest textures, marvellous hues, Ashes of Roses, buffs and blues; Gros des Indies and rich brocade, In lustrous folds and colours arrayed; Dark Moirees, with silver garniture, Light Moirees, brilliant with gold and cherry — Fabrics costly enough, I'm sure, A queen to wed, or even to bury; Chant illy laces, Valenciennes; Ribbons woven by Lyons men; Fancy fans, with flower and feather, Lavishly piled in heaps together; — What can compare with sights so rare, Save the Paris booth in Vanity Fair ! But the world turns over and over again, With cloud and sunshine, wind and rain, Love and envy and rancour, At last It has come! the crowning night; The Prince's Ball i The ultimatum of all delight ; The hour, when even an anchorite May be pardoned for weighing anchor, Hoisting sails, and bearing away To the rendezvous in Prince's Bay, For which thousands vainly hanker; (You see it is not the Committee's fault That Smith or Jones isn't worth his salt Or wasn't born a banker.) It has come at last ! How bright the sight Of a Grand-Academy gala-night ! The blaze of the whirling calcium rays Lightens the spacious entrance-ways, Flashing on up-turned, glaring faces Of thousands thronging about the squares : Thousands, to whom your jewels and laces Are things for which nobody this night cares. For a sight of the Prince the people crowd; To your simple hearts should be allowed A sight of the Prince, poor people ! since He came to visit us one and all, Asked or not asked to go to the Ball! Scores of policemen will never convince The crowd that it oughtn't to see the Prince. Up to the porch the carriages rumble, By yellow-plushes attended; No wonder the labouring-men feel humble, In the presence of scenes so splendid ! Never before, never before, Such diamonds and dresses entered that door; Into the radiance we glide, As a bayou-voyager follows the tide, i 7 6 The Prince's Ball From mangrove shadows and fallen trees, To the silvery sheen of moonlit seas; Into the glare of countless lights, And the wedding of sweetest sounds and sights Where gilded walls and tapestried halls, Repeat the Music's dying falls, And flowers of multitudinous hues, Their blended, odorous breaths diffuse, But through the glamour we move along To glance at the guests that with us throng, And study the queer variety It takes to fashion that paradox- ical edifice, built on golden "rocks," Entitled "Our Best Society." Enough, you say, of polemical rhyme; And the ladies whisper, 'tis fully time For the Prince to make his appearance; "He's coming ! " "He isn't ! " " Yes, that is h And better for him, to be seen and to see, If the flower of our aristocracy Would give him a better clearance. But as Albert Edward, young and fair, Stood on the canopied dais-stair, And looked, from the circle crowding there, To the length and breadth of the outer scene, Perhaps he thought of his mother, the Queen; (Long may her empery be serene!) But what were his thoughts I can never tell, For sharply, as belle was jostling belle — Each making a Flora-Temple "burst, " For the honour of dancing beside him first — The staging before him fell in with a crash, The Prince's Ball 177 And fifty young ladies, as quick as a flash, Sank down in a kind of ethereal hash, As dainty a dish as a Prince could wish; But he passed to the supper-pavilion, And we saw him no more, till they mended the floor, And opened the primal cotillion. There, gracefully dancing with Mrs. Morgan, He had quite forgotten his thoughts, I suppose, Just as hearers a sermon forget, at its close — When the "Jubilate" is played on the organ; Whatever his fancies were, nobody knows. Now, how strange the feeling that comes to one, When the royal Show is almost done, When the gas for hours has dazzled the eye, And the air grows dense as the flowers die ! How strange to go out, from the crowded rout, To the open street, where to all is given A sight of the clear and infinite Heaven, Out into the cool October night, Where, in place of that garish inner light, Are all those silvery cressets, fed With rays from God's own glory shed. Ah ! if one now might only flee Across that measureless, lucid sea, To lustres — 0, how pure and far! — What, from the spirit's chosen star, Would all this glittering turmoil seem, Save the fantasy of an earthly dream? And even the Man who lives in the Moon — (You'd reach him a million times as soon !) Who, day after day, sees the whole round world Like a map to his curious gaze unfurled — 12 178 The Prince's Ball Would perceive no increase in the polarized ray Thrown of! from this part of our sphere, Though the roof of the Opera House were away, And the lights that illuminate each tier — And all the lamps that make Paris, they say, And London, as cheerful by night as by day, With all in New York, together were burning; To the Man in the Moon they'd be past all discern- ing; So there's one man, at least, will know nothing at all Of the splendour and fame of The Prince's Ball ! FIRvST O SONGS FOR A PRELUDE Walt Whitman First O songs for a prelude, Lightly strike on the stretch'd tympanum pride and joy in my city, How she led the rest to arms, how she gave the cue, How at once with lithe limbs unwaiting a moment she sprang, (O superb ! Manhattan, my own, my peerless ! O strongest you in the hour of danger, in crisis! O truer than steel !) How you sprang — how you threw off the costumes of peace with indifferent hand, How your soft opera-music changed, and the drum and fife were heard in their stead, How you led to the war, (that shall serve for our prelude, songs of soldiers,) How Manhattan drum-taps led. Forty years had I in my city seen soldiers parading, Forty years as a pageant, till unawares the lady of this teeming and turbulent city, Sleepless amid her ships, her houses, her incalculable wealth, With her million children around her, suddenly, 179 180 First O Songs for a Prelude At dead of night, at news from the south, Incens'd struck with clinch'd hand the pavement. A shock electric, the night sustain'd it, Till with ominous hum our hive at daybreak pour'd out its myriads. From the houses then and the workshops, and through all the doorways, Leapt they tumultuous, and lo! Manhattan arming. To the drum-taps prompt, The young men falling in and arming, The mechanics arming (the trowel, the jack-plane, the blacksmith's hammer, tost aside with precipi- tation,) The lawyer leaving his office and arming, the judge leaving the court, The driver deserting his wagon in the street, jumping down, throwing the reins abruptly down on the horses' backs, The salesman leaving the store, the boss, book-keeper, porter, all leaving; Squads gather everywhere by common consent and arm, The new recruits, even boys, the old men show them how to wear their accoutrements, they buckle the straps carefully, Outdoors arming, indoors arming, the flash of the musket barrels, The white tents cluster in camps, the arm'd sen- tries around, the sunrise cannon and again at sunset, Arm'd regiments arrive every day, pass through the city, and embark from the wharves, First O Songs for a Prelude 181 (How good they look as they tramp down to the river, sweaty, with their guns on their shoulders! How I love them! how I could hug them, with their brown faces and their clothes and knapsacks cover'd with dust!) The blood of the city up — arm'd! arm'd! the cry everywhere, The flags flung out from the steeples of churches and from all the public buildings and stores, The tearful parting, the mother kisses her son, the son kisses his mother, (Loth is the mother to part, yet not a word does she speak to detain him,) The tumultuous escort, the ranks of policemen pre- ceding, clearing the way, The unpent enthusiasm, the wild cheers of the crowd for their favourites, The artillery, the silent cannons bright as gold, drawn along, rumble lightly over the stones, (Silent cannons, soon to cease your silence, Soon unlimber'd to begin the red business;) All the mutter of preparation, all the determin'd arming, The hospital service, the lint, bandages and medicines, The women volunteering for nurses, the work begun for in earnest, no mere parade now; War! an arm'd race is advancing! the welcome for battle, no turning away; War! be it weeks, months, or years, an arm'd race is advancing to welcome it. Mannahatta a-march — and it's O to sing it well! It's for a manly life in the camp. 1 82 First O Songs for a Prelude And the sturdy artillery, The guns bright as gold, the work for giants, to serve well the guns, Unlimber them ! (no more as the past forty years for salutes for courtesies merely, Put in something now besides powder and wadding). And you lady of ships, you Mannahatta, Old matron of this proud, friendly turbulent city, Often in peace and wealth you were pensive or covertly frown' d amid all your children, But now you smile with joy exulting old Manna- hatta. THE MARCH OF THE REGIMENT, 1861. H. H. Brownell, U. S. N. Here they come! — 'tis the Twelfth, you know, — The colonel is just at hand; The ranks close up, to the measured flow Of music cheery and grand. Glitter on glitter, row by row, The steady bayonets, on they go For God and the Right to stand; Another thousand to front the foe! And to die — if it must be even so — For the dear old fatherland ! trusty and true! gay warm heart! O manly and earnest brow! Here, in the hurrying street, we part — To meet — ah! when and how? ready and staunch! who, at war's alarm, On lonely hill-side and mountain-farm Have left the axe and the plough ! That every tear were a holy charm, To guard, with honour, some head from harm, And to quit some generous vow! For, of valiant heart and of sturdy arm Was never more need than now. 183 The March of the Regiment Ay! 'tis at hand! — foul lips, be dumb! Our Armageddon is yet to come! But cheery bugle and angry drum, With volleyed rattle and roar, And cannon thunder-throb, shall be drowned That day in a grander, stormier sound; The Land, from mountain to shore, Hurling shackle and scourge and stake Back to their Lender of pit and lake; ('Twas Tophet leased them of yore), — O mighty heart! thou wast long to wake. — 'Tis thine, to-morrow, to win or break In a deadlier close once more, — If but for the dear and glorious sake Of those who have gone before. O Fair and Faithful ! that, sun by sun, Slept on the field, or lost or won, — Children dear of the Holy One! Rest in your wintry sod. Rest, your noble devoir is done, — Done — and forever! Ours, to-day, The dreary drift and the frozen clay By trampling armies trod; The smoky shroud of the War-Simoom, The maddened crime at bay with her Doom, And fighting it, clod by clod. O Calm and Glory! — beyond the gloom, Above the bayonets bend and bloom The lilies and palms of God. TO THE TENTH LEGION, NEW YORK STATE VOLUNTEERS. 1862 That passed down Broadway singing the Refrain: " For God and Our Country, We Are Marching Along " Ruth N. Cromwell Marching along! — marching to the war — I saw them as they passed, a thousand men or more; Their bayonets were gleaming in the sun's burning light, For God and their Country, they were marching to the fight- Marching along — marching along — "For God and our Country, we are marching along." I could not see their banners, for my eyes grew dim; I but thought of my country, and sublime grew their hymn, Till my soul echoed back, oh ! again and again, The song of the battle ! — the soldiers' refrain — Marching along — marching along — "For God and our Country, we are marching along. I have bowed to the song, when love was the theme; I have listened to the chime, when fame was the dream ; 185 To the Tenth Legion Not the psalmodies of life, nor the cadences of art, Were so grand to my ear, or so dear to my heart — Marching along — marching along — "For God and our Country, we are marching along." Loud blew the bugle — God keep them where they roam, For the hearts that are waiting, for the firesides at home — Loud blew the bugle and they answered in their might, For God and our Country, we are marching to the fight. Marching along — marching along — "For God and our Country, we are marching along." Marching along — marching along — Brave were their hearts, and brave was their song. Oh, I know there are leaves on the old bay-tree, That are growing for their brows, in the land of the free, — Marching along — marching along — "For God and their Country, they were marching along." THE DRAFT RIOT July, 1863. In the University Tower Charles deKay Is it the wind, the many-tongued, the weird That cries in sharp distress about the eaves? Is it the wind whose gathering shout is heard With voice of peoples myriad like the leaves ? Is it the wind? Fly to the casement, quick, And when the roar comes thick Fling wide the sash, Await the crash ! Nothing. Some various solitary cries, Some sauntering woman's short hard laugh, Or honester, a dog's bark — these arise From lamplit street up to this free flagstaff. Nothing remains of that low threatening sound ; The wind raves not the eaves around . . . Clasp casement to, You heard not true. Hark there again ! a roar that holds a shriek ! But not without, no, from below it comes: What pulses up from solid earth to wreak A vengeful word on towers and lofty domes? 187 The Draft Riot What angry 'booming doth the trembling ear, Glued to the stone wall, hear — So deep, no air Its weight can bear? Grieve! 'Tis the voice of ignorance and vice, The rage of slaves who fancy they are free, Men who would keep men slaves at any price, Too blind their own black manacles to see. Grieve! 'Tis that grisly spectre with a torch, Riot — that bloodies every porch, ' \ Hurls justice down And burns the town. Hanging a Negro at Clarkson Street. The Draft Riots From Harper's Weekly, August i, 1863 LE GRENIER "Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans. " — Beranger. Robertson Trowbridge Here is the street — the house is standing yet ! Four stories up the little window gleams. The basement still announces "Rooms to Let"; Through the wide door the dusty sunlight streams. But how the place has changed! Across the way A tenement its swarming bulk uprears — 'Twas here I weathered it for many a day, With Youth and Hope for friends, at Twenty Years. A small hall-room! I seek it half by stealth — Who cares ? the world may know it if it will ! The worst is told. I had stout heart, good health, A modest clerkship, wants more modest still; Companions too, (I had companions then !) — What room in all my "up-town palace" hears Such peals of mirth as yonder little den When I and Youth kept house, at Twenty Years! 'Twas here I brought my bride. In that dim place The too brief summer of our joy first smiled. Which of your carpet-knights, my queenly Grace, To such a lot will woo your mother's child? 189 190 Le Grenier Just Powers ! how dared we to be gay and glad, To face the world, unvexed by cramping fears? Rash ? — reckless ? We were mad ! — how nobly mad With the brave wine of Love and Twenty Years ! Once, as we listened at the window there, In the warm sunlight of an April day, A sound of loyal thunder filled the air — The Massachusetts Sixth marched down Broad- way. gallant hearts and times ! drum and fife ! In '62 I joined the volunteers. Poor wounded soldier, lonely waiting wife, We learned what glory meant, at Twenty Years ! It's time to go. The place looks chill and drear. Fate ! were it lot of mine to overlive But half the happy days I've counted here, I'd give — what have I that I woul i not give? — Again to struggle on, to breast the tide, To know the worst of Fortune's frowns and fears, Brave heart within, my darling at my side, And all the world to win, at Twenty Years ! SIRO DELMONICO Samuel Ward He lieth low whose constant art For years the daily feasts purveyed Of wayfarers from every mart, The Paladins of every trade. And yet to-night gay music stirs The halls he strolled through yestere'en, And mantles high the wine that spurs The revellers by him unseen. Le Roi est mort ! Vive le Roi ! One leader drops, another comes; On flows the dance, — a stream of joy Staccatoed by the muffled drums That soon for us shall mark the tread Of mourning friends and chanting priests. Ah ! there are other banquets spread Than Siro's memorable feasts. ' 191 BROWN, OF GRACE CHURCH, 1864 Peter Marie O glorious Brown ! thou medley strange Of church-yard, ball-room, saint, and sinner; Flying by morn through Fashion's range, And burying mortals after dinner — Walking one day with invitations, Passing the next at consecrations, Tossing the sod at eve on coffins, With one hand drying tears of orphans And one unclasping ball-room carriage, Or cutting plum-cake up at marriage — Dusting by day the pew and missal — Sounding by night the ball-room whistle — Admitted free through Fashion's wicket, And skilled at psalms, at punch, at cricket; Relate by what mysterious art Thou canst so well fulfil thy part — And how, thus sorely tasked each week, Thou look'st so happy, fat and sleek. Repeat to us the prittle-prattle About thine ears must daily rattle, When marching round through Fashion's quarters Thou'rt questioned oft by Eve's fair daughters, And tell us why seek up, seek down, 192 Brown, of Grace Church O'er all the earth, there's but one Brown — One man alone whom church and state At once consent to consecrate, With license boundless to combine The pew, the ball, the hearse, the wine! 13 THE TWEED RING, 1868 Anonymous The great Moguls of Gotham ! their proud purses Grow with the rich man's spoil and poor man curses; With a firm grasp on ev'ry pocket, they Build fanes for which the servile people pay. The Rich and Poor they plunder as they will — The more the people howl the more they steal ; Millions on millions to their minions fling, And make all rich who battle for the Ring. As on a foe upon New York they forage, Whose people stand it patiently — with courage. Meanwhile the City debt by millions grows, And what it is no human being knows, Nor will, till Tweed lets Connolly declare The mighty load the patient people bear. The money which at Albany does work — Comes from the tax-afflicted of New York; The feather ravished from that well-plucked mart, Wings the sharp arrow to her bleeding heart ! A bold Triumvirate now masters all, — Chief consuls, Sweeney, Tweed, and Oakey Hall, — The World's Emporium, soon to be, Sleeps in the throttles of this ruthless Three. 194 THE STREETS, 1869 W. 0. Stoddard Our city is born of the pure, blue sea, And girt by the waters of rivers three — Two of them large and one of them small — And the ocean tides, as they rise and fall, Wash the feet of our island town, Swinging and plashing up and down. Easy it should be to keep us clean, A city that lies such washings between; Plenty of water and plenty of soap, Plenty of shovels and hoes, we hope, And other hose that may carry and squirt Streams of water wherever there's dirt ; And yet this town, that should be so clean, Is the dirtiest city that ever was seen. From end to end of each filthy street Nothing is pure and nothing is sweet. And the mire our rolling wheels that clogs Is foul with the bodies of cats and dogs, And the offal of cleaner brutes than they Who leave our streets in so vile a way In spite of all the money we pay. For, know, oh monarch of Scanderoon, That we, thy people, from June till June, Pay enough, in our hard won gold, i95 196 The Streets Fairly counted and straightly told, If into a sheet it was properly rolled, To cover the pavement of stone and wood — The pavement that is, we mean, that should Be under the sloppy and slippery mire Where our garments spoil and our horses tire — From end to end of the city wide, And leave an elegant fringe outside. And the thing is a thing, oh king, that sours On us all, to find that the city powers, The grand magnorums who round you stand, And take our money with greedy hand, See no evil, or shame, or hurt In leaving our streets all hid in the dirt. DAWN IN THE CITY Charles deKay The city slowly wakes: Her every chimney makes Offering of smoke against the cool white skies. Slowly the morning shakes The lingering shadowy flakes Of night from doors and windows, from the city's eyes. A breath through heaven goes: Leaves of the pale sweet rose Are strewn along the clouds of upper air. Healer of ancient woes, The palm of dawn bestows Peace on the feverish brow, comfort on grim despair. Now the celestial fire Fingers the sunken spire, Crocket by crocket swiftly creepeth down; Brushes the maze of wire, Dewy, electric lyre, And with a silent hymn one moment fills the town. A sound of pattering hoofs Above the emergent roofs And anxious bleatings tell the passing herd; 197 198 Dawn in the City Scared by the piteous droves A shoal of skurrying doves Veering, around the island of the church has whirred. Soon through the smoky haze The park begins to raise Its outlines clearer into day lit prose; Ever with fresh amaze The sleepless fountains praise Morn that has gilt the city as it gilds the rose. High in the clear air The smoke now builds a stair Leading to realms no wing of bird has found; Things are more foul, more fair; A distant clock somewhere Strikes, and the dreamer starts at clear reverberant sound. Farther the tide of dark Drains from each square and park ; Here is a city fresh and new-create, Wondrous as though the ark Should once again disbark On a remoulded world its safe and joyous freight. Ebbs all the dark, and now Life eddies to and fro By pier and alley, street and avenue: The myriads stir below, As hives of coral grow — Vaulted above, like them with a fresh sea of blue. FITZ-GREENE HALLECK At the Unveiling of his Statue, 1877 John Greenleaf Whittier Among their graven shapes to whom Thy civic wreaths belong, O city of his love, make room For one whose gift was song. In common ways, with common men, He served his race and time As well as if his clerkly pen • Had never danced to rhyme. He toiled and sang ; and year by year Men found their homes more sweet, And through a tenderer atmosphere Looked down the brick-walled street. The Greek's wild onset Wall Street knew; The Red King walked Broadway; And Alnwick Castle's roses blew From Palisades to Bay. Fair City by the Sea! upraise His veil with reverent hands; And mingle with thy own the praise And pride of other lands. 199 200 Fitz-Greene Halleck 0, stately stand thy palace walls, Thy tall ships ride the seas; To-day thy poet's name recalls A prouder thought than these. Not less thy pulse of trade shall beat, Not less thy tall fleets swim, That shaded square and dusty street Are classic ground through him. New hands the wires of song may sweep, New voices challenge fame; But let no moss of years o'ercreep The lines of Halleck' s name. THE " STAY AT HOME'S " PLAINT, i George A. Baker, Jr. The Spring has grown to Summer; The sun is fierce and high; The city shrinks and withers Beneath a burning sky. Ailanthus trees are fragrant, And thicker shadows cast, While berry-girls, with voices shrill, And watering-carts go past. In offices like ovens We sit without our coats; Our cuffs are moist and shapeless, No collars bind our throats. We carry huge umbrellas On Broad Street and on Wall, Oh, how thermometers go up! And, oh, how stocks do fall! The nights are full of music, Melodious Teuton troops Beguile us, calmly smoking, On balconies and stoops. With eyes half-shut and dreamy, We watch the fire-flies' spark, And image far-off faces, As day dies into dark. 201 202 The " Stay at Home's 99 Plaint The avenue is lonely, The houses choked with dust ; The shutters, barred and bolted, The bell-knobs all a-rust. No blossom-like spring dresses, No faces young and fair, From "Dickels" to "The Brunswick," No promenader there. The girls we used to walk with Are far away, alas! The feet that kissed its pavement Are deep in country grass. Along the scented hedge-rows, Among the green old trees, Are blooming city faces 'Neath rosy-lined pongees. They're cottaging at Newport; They're bathing at Cape May; In Saratoga's ball-rooms They dance the hours away. Their voices through the quiet Of haunted Catskill break ; Or rouse those dreamy dryads, The nymphs of Echo Lake. The hands we've led through Germans, And squeezed, perchance, of yore, Now deftly grasp the bridle, The mallet, and the oar. The eyes that wrought our ruin On other men look down ; We're but the broken play-things They've left behind in town. BALLADE OF BARRISTERS C. C. Starkweather To the shy, sweet face that I saw this morning, I toss this kiss from my window-sill. And mayhap my partner will give me warning If I shove not quicker my grey goose-quill. I've twenty folios yet to fill. So it's Blue Eyes, Down ! till this deed is drawn ; For Maiden Lane's not a lover's lawn, And the rattle of Broadway never is still. From seal and parchment and dust-covered papers, My thoughts fly back to her — willy nil. I lunch at Cable's on lamb and capers, And a secret bumper I drain with Phil, And I smile when he leaves me to pay the bill. Oh, it's Blue Eyes, Down! till this deed is drawn; For Maiden Lane's not a lover's lawn, And the rattle of Broadway never is still. My office is no conservatory ; Its walls are like blanks for a clerk to fill ; But that mignonette, jasmine, and morning-glory The charms of a whole hothouse would kill 203 204 Ballade of Barristers In the white vase there, on the window-sill. But it's Blue Eyes, Down ! till this deed is drawn ; For Maiden Lane's not a lover's lawn, And the rattle of Broadway never is still. Envoy Barristers! with brief -bags to fill It's Blue Eyes, Down ! till the deeds are drawn, For Maiden Lane's not a lover's lawn, And the rattle of Broadway never is still. A SUMMER SUMMARY Franklin P. Adams Shall I, lying in a grot, Die because the day is hot? Or declare I can't endure Such a torrid temperature? Be it hotter than the flames South Gehenna Junction claims, If it be not so to me, What care I how hot it be? Shall I say I love the town Praised by Robinson and Browne? Shall I say, "In Summer heat Old Manhattan can't be beat"? Be it luring as a bar, Or my neighbor's motor-car, If I think it is pazziz What care I how fine it is? Shall I prate of rural joys Far from civic smoke and noise? Shall I, like the others, drool "But the nights are always cool"? If I hate to rise at six Shall I praise the suburbs? Nix! 205 206 A Summer Summary If the country's not for me, What care I how good it be? Town or country, cool or hot, Differs nothing, matters not; For to quote that Roman cuss, Why dispute "de gustibus"? If to this or that one should Take a fancy, it is good. If these rhymes look good to me, What care I how bad they be? HYMN Sung at the Presentation of the Obelisk to the City of New York, February 22, 1881. Richard Watson Gilder Great God, to whom since time began The world has prayed and striven; Maker of stars, and earth, and man, To thee our praise is given. Here, by this ancient Sign Of Thine own Light divine, We lift to thee our eyes, Thou Dweller of the Skies; Hear us, God in Heaven! Older than Nilus* mighty flood Into the Mid-Sea pouring, Or than the sea, Thou God hast stood — Thou God of our adoring! Waters and stormy blast Haste when thou bid'st them haste; Silent, and hid, and still, Thou sendest good and ill; Thy ways are past exploring. In myriad forms, by myriad names, Men seek to bind and mould Thee; 207 208 Hymn But Thou dost melt, like wax in flames, The cords that would enfold Thee Who mad est life and light, Bring'st morning after night, Who all things did create — No majesty, nor state, Nor word, nor world can hold Thee! Great God, to whom since time began The world has prayed and striven; Maker of stars, and earth, and man, To Thee our praise is given. Of suns Thou art the Sun, Eternal, holy One; Who us can help save Thou? To Thee alone we bow ! Hear us, God in heaven! THE BUNTLING BALL, 1884 Edgar Fawcett Mr. Buntling Speaks : O proud New York, that wast New Amsterdam, How art thou fallen away from dignity ! Methinks thy Battery and thy Bowling Green Should split in angered earthquake at thy shame ! Thou, too, indignant Peter, shouldst arise, A shade with slim clay pipe and ligneous leg, To lay thy broad staff on the ungrateful heads Of these thy base descendants, them that love Gross pelf and pander to the parvenu ! For such am I, even such, and better far The laboring Scythia's westward-pointed prow Nor me nor mine had hither borne unscathed Through the strait Narrows; but that either strand Had clashing met, and whelmed off Sandy Hook The great ship's vigor in tumultuous waves! Thus were averted this unseemly Ball, Its hollow and absurd extravagance Checked by the grim economy of death ! Chorus of Knickerbocker Young Men Old man, do not be nonsensical In your views about New York; 209 210 The Buntling Ball You are needlessly forensical For a potentate in Pork ! Why not recollect with gratitude That we throng your mansion wide, And express no moral platitude Upon Knickerbocker pride? Since the days when dull old Trinity Was a temple far up town, And a girl was thought divinity If she owned but one silk gown; Since the days when each festivity They would all by twelve forsake, And the dominant proclivity Was for lemonade-and-cake ; Since the days when aristocracy Of the gender known as male, Would esteem it vain plutocracy To exploit a swallow-tail; Since the days when custom's manacle Was a bond of rigid force, — Since the days thus puritanical, We have altered things, of course. For the years are cruel pillagers, As they lay old fashions low, And to live like simple villagers Is no longer comme il faut. Our progenitors (peace be with them !) Were a very stupid lot, And so little we agree with them That we imitate them not. They were certainly respectable, As with pride we now declare, But we find it more delectable If we draw the line just there. The Buntling Ball For to fling aside all flattery, And to speak as hits the mark, They were narrow as the Battery When compared with Central Park. THE BURIAL OF GRANT New York, August 8, 1885 Richard Watson Gilder Ye living soldiers of the mighty war, Once more from roaring cannon, and the drums, And bugles blown at morn, the summons comes; Forget the halting limb, each wound and scar; Once more your Captain calls to you; Come to his last review! And come ye, too, bright spirits of the dead, Ye who flamed heavenward from the embattled field; And ye whose harder fate it was to yield Life from the loathful prison or anguished bed ; Dear ghosts! come join your comrades here Beside this sacred bier! Nor be ye absent, ye immortal band, — Warriors of ages past, and our own age, — Who drew the sword for right, and not in rage, Made war that peace might live in all the land, Nor ever struck one vengeful blow, But helped the fallen foe. 212 The Burial of Grant 213 And fail not ye, — but, ah, ye falter not To join his army of the dead and living, — Ye who once felt his might, and his forgiving; Brothers, whom more in love than hate he smote. For all his countrymen make room By our great hero's tomb! Come soldiers — not to battle as of yore, But come to weep; ay, shed, your noblest tears; For lo, the stubborn chief, who knew not fears, Lies cold at last, ye shall not see him more, How long grim Death he fought and well, That poor, lean frame doth tell. All's over now; here let our Captain rest, Silent among the blare of praise and blame; Here let him rest, while never rests his fame; Here in the city's heart he loved the best, And where our sons his tomb may see To make them brave as he; — As brave as he — he on whose iron arm Our Greatest leaned, our gentlest and most wise; Leaned when all other help seemed mocking lies, While this one soldier checked the tide of harm, And they together saved the state, And made it free and great. A BALLAD OF CLAREMONT HILL Henry van Dyke The roar of the city is low, Muffled by new-fallen snow, And the sign of the wintry moon is small and round and still. Will you come with me to-night, To see a pleasant sight Away on the river-side, at the edge of Claremont Hill? "And what shall we see there, But streets that are new and bare, And many a desolate place that the city is coming to fill; And a soldier's tomb of stone, And a few trees standing alone — Will you walk for that through the cold, to the edge of Claremont Hill?" But there's more than that for me, In the place that I fain would see: There's a glimpse of the grace that helps us all to bear life's ill; A touch of the vital breath That keeps the world from death ; 214 A Ballad of Claremont Hill 215 A flower that never fades, on the edge of Claremont Hill. For just where the road swings round, In a narrow strip of ground, Where a group of forest trees are lingering fondly still, There's a grave of the olden time, When the garden bloomed in its prime, And the children laughed and sang on the edge of Claremont Hill. The marble is pure and white, And even in this dim light, You may read the simple words that are written there if you will ; You may hear a father tell Of a child he loved so well, A hundred years ago, on the edge of Claremont Hill. The tide of the city has rolled Across that bower of old, And blotted out the beds of the rose and the daffodil; But the little playmate sleeps, And the shrine of love still keeps A record of happy days, on the edge of Claremont Hill. The river is pouring down To the crowded, careless town, Where the intricate wheels of trade are grinding on like a mill; But the clamorous noise and strife Of the hurrying waves of life Flow soft by this haven of peace on the edge of Clare- mont Hill. 216 A Ballad of Claremont Hill And after all, my friend, When the tale of our years shall end, Be it long or short, or lowly or great, as God may will, What better praise could we hear, Than this of the child so dear: You have made my life more sweet, on the edge of Claremont Hill. RIVERSIDE John Myers O'Hara Across the slopes whose wooded spaces hide The Hudson's sweep, rising more royal than Above the Tiber that of Hadrian, A tomb looms domed and dim o'er dusk and tide; All dreams of alien beauty that abide, The memory of lands beyond the span Of seas that sing the deeds of god and man, May reinspire the soul on Riverside. And now the mists are falling on the far Wide silver of the river, and a star Burns in the pines that crown the Palisades. Slowly the final streak of sunlight fades, And Claremont, with the lamps against its white, Shines like a limpid jewel in the night. 217 THE LAST OF THE NEW YEAR'S CALLERS The Story of an Old Man, an Old Man's Friendship, and a New Card-Basket H. C. BUNNER The door is shut — I think the fine old face Trembles a little, round the under lip ; His look is wistful — can it be the place Where, at his knock, the bolt was quick to slip (It had a knocker then), when, bravely decked, He took, of New Year's, with his lowest bow, His glass of egg-nog, white and nutmeg-flecked, From her who is — where is the young bride now? O Greenwood, answer ! Through your ample gate There went a hearse, these many years ago; And often by a grave — more oft of late — Stands an old gentleman, with hair like snow. Two graves he stands by, truly; for the friend Who won her, long has lain beside his wife; And their old comrade, waiting for the end, Remembers what they were to him in life. And now he stands before the old-time door, A little gladdened in his lonely heart To give of love for those that are no more To those that live to-day a generous part. 218 The Last of the New Year's Callers 219 Ay, She has gone, sweet, loyal, brave, and gay — But then, her daughter's grown and wed the while; And the old custom lingers: New Year's Day, Will she not greet him with her mother's smile? But things are changed, ah, things are changed you see; We keep no New Year's, now, not we — It's an old-time day, And an old-time way, And an old-time fashion we've chosen to cut — And the dear old man May wait as he can In front of the old-time door that's shut. THE COLUMBUS PARADE, 1893 Starr Hoyt Nichols Huge warships of all nations side by side, Oarless and sailless, heedless of the breeze Drive their colossal prow with conquering ease Against the thrusting of an adverse tide; And 'mid them three curved caravels — the pride Of bold Columbus, when he clove the seas, The windy sport of what storm-gods might please, Seeking strange ports where keel did never ride, Yet these leviathans are proud to dip Their bright flags to the pigmy counterpart Of his slight ships; and from the flame- wreathed lip Of thundering cannon cheer his dauntless heart. Greater than Caesar's fortunes carried well The fragile oak of Christopher's caravel. 220 WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS COME IN New York Harbor, August 20, 1898 Guy Wetmore Carryll To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er map- less miles of sea, On winds and tides the gospel rides that the further- most isles are free; And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and hill, Breaker and beach, cry each to each, "'Tis the Mother who calls ! B e still ! ' ' Mother! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm, Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sovereign arm, Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, who bade her navies roam, Who calls again to the leagues of main, and who calls them this time home! And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest; The black cloud dies in the August skies and deep in the golden west 221 222 When the Great Gray Ships Come In Invisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars, And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars ! Peace! As the tidings silence the strenuous cannon- ade, Peace at last ! is the bugle-blast the length of the long blockade; And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release, From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is "Peace! Thank God for peace!" Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall show The sons of those who swept the seas how she bade them rise and go; How, when the stirring summons smote on her chil- dren's ear, South and North at the call stood forth, and the whole land answered "Here!" For the soul of the soldier's story and the heart of the sailor's song Are all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with wrong, Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the decks they trod, Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their country's God! Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free, To carry the hearts of a people to the uttermost ends of sea, To see the day steal up the bay, where the enemy lies in wait, When the Great Gray Ships Come In 223 To run your ship to the harbor's lip and sink her across the strait : — But better the golden evening when the ships round heads for home, And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething foam, And the people wait at the haven's gate, to greet the men who win! Thank God for peace! Thank God for peace, when the great gray ships come in! INTERCESSIONAL, 1898 McCready Sykes Godkin the Righteous, known of old, Priest of the nation's moral health; Within whose Post we daily read The gospel of the rights of wealth; Great Evening Post, be with us yet, Lest we forget; lest we forget. The Tribune drools; the Sun is vile; The Journal and the World are lies ; Alone thy Post speaks forth the truth — Not humble, but divinely wise. Omniscient Post, don't leave us yet, Lest we forget; lest we forget. Far East our navy swats the foe; Manila falls beneath our fire; We're tempted, Larry, to exult — But chide us with thy caustic ire. Great Evening Post, reprove us yet, Lest we forget; lest we forget. If, proud of Dewey, we cheer his name, And count the ships the Spaniards lost, Such boastings as our fathers used — 224 Intercessional Benighted folks without the Post; Godkin, be quick; remind us yet, Lest we forget; lest we forget. For Yankee heart that puts her trust In twenty-inch guns and armor plate, And recognizeth not that all — Save Godkin — are degenerate; For licking Spain and wicked brag; Godkin, forgive thy country's flag. THE OLD LYCEUM Fourth Avenue and 23RD Street Lines read by Miss Annie Russell, at the Final Performance, March 22, 1902 A. E. Lancaster The end has come. Dare we, who face you thus, To bid good-bye to you, as you to us, Dare we expect a place, however small, With those you love to turn to and recall ? Ah, yes ! You are too generous to begrudge The Little Girl who loved the Loyal Judge. Her tempted parents now avoid temptation; The Probate Judge is scarcely on probation; Ditto the youth familiarly called Jim, The clerk who lost the clue he found with vim, The Ikensteins, on whom existence dawned As numbering put the Pawners and the Pawned, And Mrs. Brown, to better fortunes bred, But now must keep a boarding-house instead ; Likewise, comparing one thing with another, The Judge's quite "incorrigible" mother, Since Mrs. Gilbert throws on every role The genial sunshine of a radiant soul. 226 The Old Lyceum 227 Then, when destruction lays its ruthless hand Where once the play and player took their stand, Hope and not grief will cause our hearts to swell, Since "au revoir" will lurk behind "farewell," And from afar there sounds a. sweet Te Deum, Because the New springs from the Old Lyceum! THE REGIMENT, 1909 John Curtis Underwood The traffic clears, and the crowd to the curb shifts to the roll of drums, As down the dusty avenue the long brown column comes, And their faces match their khaki. From Luzon's tropic suns They took this tan, and the glint of their eyes like the glitter of their guns Flamed on the way to Pekin till they saw the flag still there. They bear their faded colors past, and something in the air Lessens the roar of the city. One gray bystander sees The vStars and Stripes at Gettysburg and faces set like these When death broke battle's mould. They pass, in- domitable, strong, Wearing the deathless order of discipline. The throng Gentile and Jew and Kelt and Hun and their own blood brothers thrill To the ripple of their cadenced ranks; for now the drums are still And the measured tread of feet that marched to set the Cubans free, 228 The Regiment 229 Falls on the asphalt like the sound of breakers when the sea Strikes on the sands at midnight to mark the pulse of time, And the nation's heart-beat blends with them; the boys that breathless climb To a lamp-post or a column's height, the girls whose ardent eyes Wake to a world of fighting men and the dream that never dies; Embattled, grim in touch with them; crude as brown powder grains That leap to life and shake the air when freedom fires the trains. Essential, hard, dynamic, fit, and silent still they go, Down the pathway of their duty to a goal that none may know. Here is the nation's last reserve, these and their next of kin When the ends of earth are looted bare and the years of wrath begin. For each heart guards its citadel and these shall serve alone When millions fail and navies sink and forts are overthrown. They pass and the city's tumult throbs through its arteries And fills them full of greed and lust, dishonor and disease, And dreams insane of peace unearned, decadence and disgrace; But still the red blood corpuscles shall vitalize the race. CONSECRATED GROUND An ode read at the New York City Hall, July 4, 191 1 Edwin Markham 1 Let there be prayer and praise On these worn stones and on these trodden ways; For all around Is holy ground, Ground that departed years Have hallowed with high dreams (Freedom's immortal themes) — Made sacred, too, with fall of noble tears. 11 Let there be prayer and praise, For here once, in the old, heroic days, Appeared our Washington, (Time had no nobler son!) And here, beneath these lifted skies, he heard From the new page God's last oracular word — The word the Bell of Liberty gave tongue — The word forever old, forever young — The cry, "Let Freedom be On land, on sea!" 230 Consecrated Ground 231 It was the great word that had sounded on From far Thermopylae and Marathon. in Here they brought Lincoln, dead but deathless — here, When hate had torn the April from the year. Here on that darkened day They brought the martyr on his homeward way ; And in this storied place They laid him with his hushed, heroic face, With all the patient mercies of his look Still written there as in the Judgment Book — A great soul that had greatly lived, and then, Dying, sent out his greatness upon men. IV And here with stately step and measured chant, They brought our stern, sad, silent soldier, Grant ; Only a little more stilled, a little more Than he had been on life's loud ways before. He was no babbler by the noisy gate: Only in deeds was he articulate — Strong to strike blows that Righteousness might live- Strong also to forgive. v So here where we have brought our greatest dead, Here is a shrine, here is an altar spread, Where we may consecrate our hearts again To their high hopes for men ; 232 Consecrated Ground Knowing our heroes watch us from their spheres, Still touched by mortal tears — Knowing they watch us with their serious eyes, There where the deathless climb the deathless skies. NEW YORK HARBOR Written in view of the harbor of New York on the loveliest and calmest of the last days of autumn. Park Benjamin Is this a painting? Are those pictured clouds Which on the sky so movelessly repose? Has some rare artist fashioned forth the shrouds Of yonder vessel ? Are these imaged shows Of outline, figure, form, or is there life — Life with a thousand pulses — in the scene We gaze upon, those towering banks between, Ere tossed these billows in tumultuous strife? Billows! there's not a wave! the waters spread One broad, unbroken mirror! all around Is hushed to silence, — silence so profound That a bird's carol, or an arrow sped Into the distance, would, like larum bell, Jar the deep stillness and dissolve the spell ! 233 NEW YORK IN SUNSET William Ellery Leonard The island city of dominion stands, Crowned with all turrets, o'er the waters' crest, Throned, like the bright Cybele of the West, And hailed with cymbals in a million hands Around here; yet serenely she commands The inland vision and the ocean quest, The new-born mistress of the world's unrest, The beauty and the terror of the lands. She sees the fields of harvest sown for her, She sees the fortress set beside her gate, Her hosts, her ships, she sees through storm and fire; And hers all gifts of gold and spice and myrrh, And hers all hopes, all hills and shores of fate, And hers the fame of Babylon and Tyre. 234 NEW YORK BAY AT DUSK Mildred L. McNeal-Sweeney Now comes the fragrant night in from the sea And all her flowery purples soon unfolds, Like April-countries, violet sown, where we May have the hush the eager time withholds. Methinks heaven sometimes takes the world aside And lends a happy ear to all it says — Soothing its great unrest, and for its pride Showing again the simple fields of praise. This starry-lighted island is no more The quick and restless city of my task; It dreams with me and what may be in store For either, we do neither care nor ask, Leaving the dear fulfilment of my youth In the safe care of thought and time and truth. 235 ON THE BAY Richard Watson Gilder This watery vague how vast ! This misty globe, Seen from this center where the ferry plies, — It plies, but seems to poise in middle air, — Soft gray below gray heavens, and in the West A rose-gray memory of the sunken sun; And, where gray water touches grayer sky, A band of darker gray pricked out with lights, — A diamond-twinkling circlet bounding all; And where the statue looms, a quenchless star; And where the lighthouse, a red, pulsing flame; While the great bridge its starry diadem Shows through the gray, itself in grayness lost ! 236 RETURN TO NEW YORK John Hall Wheelock Far and free o'er the lifting sea, the lapsing wastes and the waves that roam, Hour by hour with sleepless power the keel has fur- rowed the soft, sad foam; Slowly now, with steadier prow, she steals through the dim gray fog-banks home. Faint and far from across the bar the first lines burn of the cloudy day, From whistle and horn in the twilit morn low murmurs are wafted across the bay. The fleet, sweet swing of the sea-bird's wing beats down the darkness and dies away. Dawn, — and lo, as the rifted snow that melts from the sun on a mountain height, As the veils from a bride that fall and divide, the fog veils sunder and leave in sight, Like Venice, dim on the water's rim, the city, my mother, bared and bright. In the first hours her stately towers and clustered summits show faint and fair : Mother, mother, to thee and none other the heart cries out in the morning there! 237 238 Return to New York Solemnly, slowly, the white mists wholly fade, and the whole, sweet form lies bare. Hail, all hail, with the dawn for veil, the sea foi throne and the stars for crown ! Mother, thy son, his journeying done, triumphantly here at thine heart bows down; Love that sings, on the sea-wind's wings runs on tc greet thee his very own. THE NEW COLOSSUS Emma Lazarus Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbour that twin cities frame. "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" 239 BARTHOLDI'S PHAROS George Alfred Townsend Manhattan Bay in glory lay When Verrazano entered; His heart was cold, on thoughts of gold And ivory concentred : "Now go about and sail we out! — Although this scene entrances; For we Italians seek rich mines To satisfy King Francis." The Portugee came in from sea, Sir Estevan de Gomez; "I smell," said he, "no spicery Nor gum, such as at home is; King Charles of Spain, he would raise Cain And cuss-words use terrific, If we clove not this granite main To cloves of the Pacific. " The Half -Moon next our harbor vexed — The Dutchman made appearance — The Northwest Passage was his text, And Albany his clearance; The Indian damsels pleased his ways, — He was a gay deceiver, — Bartholdi's Pharos 241 And nothing met his sordid praise But buffalo and beaver. Next came Lord Howe, guns at his prow, His nose and clothes vermilion, With Hessian bayonets, to plough The hills around new Ilion; Seven years the fleet stayed here to eat, — King George he paid the ration, — Till French and Yankees down the street Saw an evacuation. The artisan American Came now — a buoyant schemer — With fleets of fire-winged birds to span The shores with many a steamer. At Fulton's wand our sparkling pond Leaped into life and duty, But nothing came to correspond Unto the sense of Beauty. The gold we made, the South-Sea trade, The peltries and the spices, And mechanisms, like crystal prisms, Refracted our devices. Yet in the heart the spell of Art Slept, like the winter throstle, Or Faith, in old Diana's mart, Awaiting an apostle. The son of France his kindling glance Threw o'er this radiant Edom, And like a Bayard of romance Knelt to the strength of Freedom; 16 Bartholdi's Pharos He saw arise athwart our skies A Goddess ever living, Illumination in her eyes, And flame to darkness giving. Lift high thy torch and forward march, dame of Revolution! — All heaven thy triumphal arch, All progress the solution ; And from the earth and all its dross May man behold the story — Friendship is pious as the cross, And only Art is glory! AT ELLIS ISLAND Margaret Chanler Aldrich Across the land their long lines pass; More souls come to us sun by sun, Each ship a city as she rides, Than manned the march of Washington. From ancient states where burthens lie Extortionate upon the poor, Men rise like flocks from leafless woods, Then flight a shadow at our door. A shadow passing life by life Into the morrow of our race; What know we of the unseen minds? These hands have riches we embrace. What common thought so many moves ? Our laws with Liberty are brave; Beneath them men will take content A wage, a lodging, and a grave. Strange to each other as to us, The races of the world are ours; No sleepless frontiers here impede A secret ballot's sacred powers. 243 244 At Ellis Island Ye patient aliens ! Sifting in Where trades a fateful welcome burn, Bequeath your children what you find — A land to which all peoples turn. "SCUM O' THE EARTH" Robert Haven Schauffler i At the gate of the West I stand, On the isle where the nations throng. We call them "scum o' the earth"; Stay, are we doing you wrong, Young fellow from Socrates' land? — You, like a Hermes so lissome and strong Fresh from the Master Praxiteles' hand? So you're of Spartan birth? Descended, perhaps, from one of the band — Deathless in story and song — Who combed their long hair at Thermopylae's pass? Ah, I forgot the straits, alas ! More tragic than theirs, more compassion- worth That have doomed you to march in our "immigrant class ' ' Where you're nothing but "scum o' the earth." II You Pole with the child on your knee, What dower brings you to the land of the free? 245 ••Scum o 9 the Earth M Hark! does she croon That sad little tune That Chopin once found on his Polish lea And mounted in gold for you and me? Now a ragged young fiddler answers In wild Czech melody That Dvorak took whole from the dancers, And the heavy faces bloom In the wonderful Slavic way; The little, dull eyes, the brows a-gloom, Suddenly dawn like the day. While, watching these folk and their mystery, I forget they're nothing worth; That Bohemians, Slovaks, Croatians, And men of all Slavic nations Are "polacks" — and "scum o' the earth." in Genoese boy of the level brow, Lad of the lustrous, dreamy eyes A-stare at Manhattan's pinnacles now In a first sweet shock of a hushed surprise; Within your far-rapt seer's eyes I catch the glow of the wild surmise That played on the Santa Maria's prow In that still grey dawn, Four centuries gone, When a world from the wave began to rise. Oh, it's hard to foretell what high emprise Is the goal that gleams When Italy's dreams Spread wing and sweep into the skies. Caesar dreamed him a world ruled well; 44 Scum o f the Earth M 247 Dante dreamed Heaven out of Hell; Angelo brought us there to dwell ; And you, are you of a different birth? — You're only a "dago" — and "scum o' the earth"! IV Stay, are we doing you wrong Calling you "scum o' the earth," Man of the sorrow-bowed head, Of the features tender yet strong, — Man of the eyes full of wisdom and mystery Mingled with patience and dread? Have I not known you in history, Sorrow-bowed head? Were you the poet-king, worth Treasures of Ophir unpriced? Were you the prophet, perchance, whose art Foretold how the rabble would mock That shepherd of spirits, erelong, Who should carry the lambs on his heart And tenderly feed his flock? Man — lift that sorrow-bowed head. Lo! 'tis the face of the Christ! The vision dies at its birth. You're merely a butt for our mirth. You're a "sheeny" — and therefore despised And rejected as "scum o' the earth. " v Countrymen, bend and invoke Mercy for us blasphemers, For that we spat on these marvellous folk, 248 " Scum o* the Earth M Nations of darers and dreamers, Scions of singers and seers, Our peers, and more than our peers. "Rabble and refuse, " we name them And "scum o' the earth, " to shame them. Mercy for us of the few, young years, Of the culture so callow and crude, Of the hands so grasping and rude, The lips so ready for sneers At the sons of our ancient more-than-peers. Mercy for us who dare despise Men in whose loins our Homer lies; Mothers of men who shall bring to us The glory of Titian, the grandeur of Huss; Children in whose frail arms shall rest Prophets and singers and saints of the West. Newcomers all from the eastern seas, Help us incarnate dreams like these. Forget, and forgive, that we did you wrong. Help us to father a nation, strong In the comradeship of an equal birth, In the wealth of the richest bloods of earth. THE HUDSON Starr Hoyt Nichols With tranquil majesty our river flows From lordly Adirondack Mountains green, Where muskrats slink and otter fish unseen, And antlered stags wait for their lonely does. How vSwell its waters as it grandly goes By cloudy Catskill through West Point's ravine, Floating rich fleets its sculptured banks between, Toward pillared Palisades past Anthony's Nose ! Next laps Manhattan's wharves in light caress, Blent with green Neptune's earth-surrounding streams And dancing by the city's blithesomeness Gives port to navies where the high gull screams; Then sinks its being in the featureless sea, As souls melt theirs in death's infinity. 249 THE SHADOWY CITY LOOMS New York from the North River Lloyd Mifflin In deepening shades the haunting vision swims; A denser greyness settles o'er the stream; The domes are veiled; the wondrous City dims — Dims as a dream : The night transforms it to a palace vast Lit with a thousand lamps from cryptic wires; The vaporous walls are phantoms of the Past, Strange with vague spires : Huge, peopled monoliths that touch the skies, Whose indeterminate bases baffle sight, Each with its Argus, incandescent eyes Pierces the night: Undreamt-of heights of glimmering marble loom Like some enchanted fabric wrought of air; Gigantic shafts of insubstantial gloom Lift, shadowy, there: Could fabled Camelot of the poet's dream Surpass these towers soaring from the mist? — These steel-ribbed granite miracles that gleam Dim amethyst? . . . 250 The Shadowy City Looms 251 Slow on the tide, from murky coves remote, The freighted barges move, laboriously, While some palatial, golden-lighted boat Steams for the sea : Now that the moon is breaking through the cloud The radiant halo o'er the City pales; Shimmer the dusky wharves with mast and shroud And furled sails: Soft strains of music, hovering, drift away; In cloudy turrets toll the spectral bells; While the sea- voices, from the wastes of grey, Send faint farewells: The homing sloops are sheltered in the slip : The silence deepens; and up-stream, afar, A fading lantern on an anchored ship Seems a lost star. THE CITY Marion Couthouy Smith Beside the shining water, serene she sits in state, Fronting the noonday splendour, keeping the New World's gate; Mother of hope and promise, city of light and dream, Smiling in beauty's triumph, changed with each chang- ing gleam; Beside the shining water, she draws her veil of mist Over her flashing jewels, opal and amethyst. In twilight's purple vapour, in morning's rain of gold, Forever round her island walls the glittering tides are rolled ; And the great sea's utmost secret, the river's tenderer song, Sound through her mingled voices the changeful year along. Like doves to her bosom flocking, the proud swift ships come home, Tracking her glassy waters with arabesques of foam; And to her heart's strong throbbing a thousand hearts keep time, Where far across the bay's clear stretch is borne her silver chime. 252 The City 253 Indrawn the sullen shadows from lapping waters creep, Cold, through the teeming channels where her life's stream runs deep; Indrawn, her breath comes faintly, in broken sob and moan, Slow, through her up-tossed thunders — a secret monotone Sounding from dark recesses the voice of want and wrong, Till her mad, sweet, varied music seems but a syren song; And all her noonday glories, her midnight crown of flame, Seem but the false regalia of anguish and of shame; While o'er that aching tumult she draws her veil of mist, With the mocking gleam of jewels, opal and ame- thyst. Still by the shining water, serene she sits in state, Fronting the noonday splendour, keeping the New World's gate; And still her sun-wrought signals flash from her lifted spires, And still beneath the lights of heaven she burns her midnight fires, And the proud, swift ships flock homeward, and hope- drawn hearts beat time, As far across the bay's clear stretch is borne her silver chime. NEW YORK Don Marquis She is hot to the sea that crouches beside, Human and hot to the cool stars peering down, My passionate city, my quivering town, And her dark blood, tide upon purple tide, With throbs as of thunder beats, With leaping rhythms and vast, is swirled Through the shaken lengths of her veined streets — She pulses, the heart of a world 1 I have thrilled with her ecstasy, agony, woe — Hath she a mood that I do not know? The winds of her music tumultuous have seized me and swayed me, Have lifted, have swung me around In their whirls as of cyclonic sound; Her passions have torn me and tossed me and brayed me; Drunken and tranced and dazzled with visions and gleams, I have spun with her dervish priests ; I have searched to the souls of her haunted beasts And found love sleeping there; I have soared on the wings of her flashing dreams; I have sunk with her dull despair; 254 New York 255 I have sweat with her travails and cursed with her pains ; I have swelled with her foolish pride; I have raged through a thick red mist at one with her branded Cains, With her broken Christ s have died. beautiful half -god city of visions and love! hideous half -brute city of hate! wholly human and baffled and passionate town! The throes of thy burgeoning, stress of thy fight, Thy bitter, blind struggle to gain for thy body a soul, 1 have known, I have felt, and been shaken there- by! Wakened and shaken and broken, For I hear in thy thunders terrific that throb through thy rapid veins The beat of the heart of a world. BROOKLYN BRIDGE TOWERS (As Unconnected) George Alfred Townsend Brontes Brother ! are you waiting Faithfully for me? Stand fast and at last I'll reach my hair to thee. Though of vacant sight, Blindly we are feeling Tow'rd each other, till the light, Through our sockets stealing O'er the stream, in one beam Shall meet, and see! Arges Brother ! I am listening To the words you say, As they reach me, whistling Across the windy bay. Though my feet are cold, And they long divide us, Here I'll hold till I am old; Our echoes shall provide us 256 Brooklyn Bridge Towers On bounding feet a pathway fleet, Till we behold! Brontes Like two gates asunder Something swings between. On our heads the thunder Strikes. We stand serene! Earliest on our brows, Still the latest tarry The rosy clouds ; the birds in crowds Sail round to see us marry. We will win, though, my twin, Waves intervene. Arges Hark, behind ! the churches Faintly lift their bells. And far below come and go The city's hollow swells; Frightened ferry fleets Disappear in vapour, And the camps of twinkling lamps Struggle for a taper. To them all, starry tall, We are sentinels ! Brontes Aye ! I cannot see them, Yet I feel them there; And clambering stars their silver bars Wind o'er me like a stair. Brooklyn Bridge Towers Brother, does a pulse Start not in thy shoulder, For a mystic destiny, — Something better, bolder, — When the rainbow its skein Twineth in air? Arges Yes ! A host of spirits In procession creep O'er me silently, From darkened deeps of sleep. Far away I hear Wheels imperious driven Up the heights of the atmosphere, By the image of Heaven! His path we span, and, brother ! Man Is the charioteer ! BROOKLYN BRIDGE AT DAWN Richard Le Gallienne Out of the cleansing night of stars and tides, Building itself anew in the slow dawn, The long sea-city rises : night is gone, Day is not yet; still merciful, she hides Her summoning brow, and still the night-car glides Empty of faces; the night-watchmen yawn One to the other, and shiver and pass on, Nor yet a soul over the great bridge rides. Frail as a gossamer, a thing of air, A bow of shadow o'er the river flung, Its sleepy masts and lonely lapping flood ; Who, seeing thus the bridge a-slumber there, Would dream such softness, like a picture hung, Is wrought of human thunder, iron and blood? 259 THE TOWERS OF MANHATTAN Don Marquis On the middle arch of the bridge I stood And mused, as the twilight failed ; — The bridge that swings and sings 'twixt tide and sky Like a harp that the sea-winds sweep ; — Night flooded in from the bay With billow on billow of shadow and beauty, Wave upon wave of illusion and dusk, And before me apparelled in splendor, Banded with loops of light, Clothed on with purple and magic, Rose the tall towers of Manhattan, Wonderful under the stars. Whence has this miracle sprung To challenge the skies ? From the plinth of this girdled island, Guarded by sentinel waters, How has this glory arisen? Whence is the faith, and what is the creed, that has dowered The dumb brute rock and the sullen iron With a beauty so bold and vital, A grace so vivid and real ? 260 The Towers of Manhattan 261 Whence the strong wings of this lyric that soars like a song in stone? For the builders builded in blindness; Little they thought of the ultimate Uses of beauty ! Little they kenned and nothing they recked of the raptures Of conscious and masterful art ; They builded blinder than they who raised The naively blasphemous challenge of Babel ; For they wrought in the sordid humor Of greed, and the lust of power ; They wrought in the heat of the bitter Battle for gold; And some of them ground men's lives to mortar, Taking the conqueror's toll, From the veins of the driven millions; Of curses and tears they builded, Cruelty and crime and sorrow — And behold ! by a baffling magic The work of their hands transmuted To temples and towers that are crowned 'With a glamour transcendent That lifts up the heart like the smile of a god ! The dust is the dust, and forever Receiveth its own; But the dreams of a man or a people Forever survive; These builders, their crimes and their curses, Their greed and their sordid endeavor, Lie in the dust, Dead in the dust. 262 The Towers of Manhattan But the vision, the dream, and the glory Remain: Triumphantly over all Rises the secret hope, Rises the baffled illusion, Rises the broken dream That hid in the heart of the conquered, That dwelt in the conqueror's breast; By the side of each man as he labored, Unseen and unknown, Labored his dream; Now, eminent, fronting the morning, Mysterious, clothed with the night, Rises the crushed aspiration, The unconscious and scarcely articulate prayer, Rises the faith forgotten, Triumphs the spurned ideal, Rises the god denied, Conquers the creed betrayed, Rises the baffled spirit Flowering in visible durable marvel of stone and of steel, Miraculous under the heavens, Wonderful under the stars. Nay, mock at the gods if you will, Even forget their existence, But always they labor in secret To bring to a sudden and golden achievement Their subtle intentions; And lo! from the dung a lily! A temple out of the clay! The Towers of Manhattan A city out of the rabble ! And lo ! the strong hands of Manhattan, Mightily lifted up To grasp at the gold of the sunset For a crown for her head] THE MORAINE John Curtis Underwood Look down, love, from the Bridge's height And see the buildings piled below, A heap of pebbles in the night Where stars like fireflies come and go. Here by the border of the sea Where life has left its last moraine, The soul of man eternally Resigns its pleasure and its pain. The glacier glides into the deep, An endless river of the years, From the far mountains where they sleep Who first begot our hopes and fears. Cave-man, Crusader, scientist, They pass as pass the centuries; And teach these stones to still persist To tally time's infinities. What does it all mean? ^Eons dear Have left Manhattan here to-day That we might meet. Our home is here To share with others while we may. 264 THAT DEAR CONEY Chester Firkins A city walled against the golden day, A city starless in the silver night, Hath reared in glory down her teeming bay, Past many a roaring quay, Electra's Temple pinnacled with light. Fountains ablaze and whirling wheels of fire, A phantom garden by the rumbling sea ; Not Ctesiphon nor flame-adoring Tyre, Not Carthage's red pyre E'er burned the night to such a brilliancy. Bright mirrored towers tremble in the wave; My black prow cleaves through faery citadels; I gaze upon a deep, enchanted pave, Some sea-tombed city's grave, Whence music 'mid the voice of revel wells. The ghostly castles crumble; but the cry, The song, the shouting grow; and far away Weird echo-voices call me as they fly, "Come! Join the night city at her play! Forget the dark of day; For here the ways of light and laughter lie. " 265 CITY OF SHIPS Walt Whitman City of ships ! (0 the black ships ! the fierce ships ! the beautiful sharp-bow'd steamships and sail- ships !) City of the world! (for all races are here, All the lands of the earth make contributions here;) City of the sea ! city of hurried and glittering tides ! City whose gleeful tides continually rush or recede, whirling in and out with eddies and foam! City of wharves and stores — city of tall facades of marble and iron! Proud and passionate city — meddlesome, mad, extra- vagant city! Spring up, city — not for peace alone, but be indeed yourself, warlike! Fear not — submit to no models but your own, city! Behold me — incarnate me as I have incarnated you! 1 have rejected nothing you offer'd me — whom you adopted I have adopted, Good or bad I never question you — I love all — I do not condemn anything, 266 City of Ships 267 I chant and celebrate all that is yours — yet peace no more, In peace I chanted peace, but now the drum of war is mine, War, red war is my song through your streets, O city! THE INDIA WHARF Sara Teasdale Here in the velvet stillness The wide sown fields fall to the faint horizon, Sleeping in starlight . . . A year ago we walked in the jangling city Together . . . forgetful. One by one we crossed the avenues, Rivers of light, roaring in tumult, And came to the narrow, knotted streets. Through the tense crowd We went aloof, ecstatic, walking in wonder, Unconscious of our motion. Forever the foreign people with dark, deep-seeing eyes Passed us and passed. Lights and foreign words and foreign faces, I forgot them all; I only felt alive, defiant of all death and sorrow, Sure and elated. That was the gift you gave me . . . The streets grew still more tangled, And led us at last to water black and glossy, 268 The Indian Wharf 269 Flecked here and there with lights, faint and far off. There on a shabby building was a sign "The India Wharf" . . . and we turned back. I always felt we could have taken ship And crossed the bright green seas To dreaming cities set on sacred streams And palaces Of ivory and scarlet. NEW YORK Wendell Phillips Stafford O Titan daughter crouching by the sea, Playing with ships and channelling the sands And gathering evermore in eager hands Poor shells and pebbles for thy jewelry, Unheedful how the nations swarm to thee From all the shallows of distressful lands, — More busy braiding weeds in idle bands Than mothering the millions at thy knee, — Oh, when thy destiny shall bid thee rise, And thy god-heart with love of man shall burn, How towards thy feet the human tides will yearn, While all the muses waken in thine eyes, And floods of blessing leave thy lifted urn As April mornings overflow the skies ! 270 THE EAST RIVER BRIDGE MARKET James Oppenheim The riveted rafters drip the rain and the twilight pave is puddle and mud, But the peddlers' carts are huddled again and the crowd jams past in a woollen flood — They weave a pattern of reds and blacks, women in shawls and men in coats, Women who trudge with broken backs and wisps of men with bearded throats. From jets cart-held the wind-tossed gas flames a shadowy fire that traces Poverty's stamp on the forms that pass, misery's blight on the world-old faces — Pain, that sculptor of men, has creased many a line in many a brow, Till he, with love divine, released a splendour which is shining now. For under the greys and the saffrons daubed on the ancient faces, life looks through, Every atom of soil absorbed in the human stir and the struggle new — These as by red-hot rivets are clutched to the nerve- live business thrilling the hour — 271 272 The East River Bridge Market Here where the strings of the purse are touched the brain becomes a working power. Where have I mixed in this scene before? In what strange world, in what strange age? Lo, in the flesh of life's uproar these people float from a printed page, Rises Isaiah, Rizpah, Ruth, prophet, and woman-in- love, and mother, See where Isaiah is visioning Truth as he peddles fish to Abel's brother. Worlds away and worlds behind all living worlds these souls assemble, Rizpah there with her dead to mind, Ruth with her yearning heart a-tremble! What to these are Wall Street's currents of electricity circling Earth? What to these are Broadway's torrents of roaring work and rippling mirth? By what nerve do these souls connect with the huge skyscraping towers of steel That girdle Earth with their intellect, a might that world-end millions feel? What place have these in the world we sense and glimpse in the morning paper's print ? Lost, they are lost in a world immense, and who is aware of their strife and stint? And yet America's mightiest age shall be child of these wonderful mothers of men — Each in her realm is queen and sage, and shall remake the world again — The East River Bridge Market 273 Her babes are the masters of dim To-morrows, her daughters the wives and teachers to come, Out of her woes and her infinite sorrows she breeds the Lincolns of the Slum. Out of the simple and common clay, out of the very earth of Earth, Now, as ever, there break away spirits that feed the world's great dearth — Take the startling gas-fire glow, stand, stand still, let me see your face ! Mother, that your strange heart might know you are the fount of a future race! 18 LOWER NEW YORK— A STORM Don Marquis White wing'd below the darkling clouds The driven sea-gulls wheel; The roused sea flings a storm against The towers of stone and steel. The very voice of ocean rings Along the shaken street — Dusk, storm, and beauty whelm the world Where sea and city meet — But what care they for flashing wings, Quick beauty, loud refrain, These huddled thousands, deaf and blind To all but greed and gain? 274 IN TRINITY CHURCHYARD AT GUNSET Thomas S. Jones, Jr. How still they sleep within the city moil In their old churchyard with its sighing trees, Where sometimes through the din a twilight breeze Makes one forget the busy streets of toil; But they have little thought of worldly spoil Or the great gain of mortal victories, Their hopes, their dreams, are cold and dead as these Quaint, time-worn gravestones crumbling on the soil. Yet they once lived and struggled years ago ; Their hearts beat madly as these hearts of ours — And now is all undone in dreamless rest ? See, a great city stands against the glow — Their city, they who here beneath the flowers Have known so long God's gift of peace, most blest! 275 THE WALL STREET PIT, May, 1901 Edwin Markham I see a hell of faces surge and whirl, Like maelstrom in the ocean — faces lean And fleshless as the talons of a hawk — Hot faces like the faces of the wolves That track the traveller fleeing through the night — Grim faces shrunken up and fallen in, Deep-ploughed like weather-eaten bark of oak — Drawn faces like the faces of the dead, Grown suddenly old upon the brink of Earth. Is this a whirl of madmen ravening, And blowing bubbles in their merriment? Is Babel come again with shrieking crew To eat the dust and drink the roaring wind? And all for what ? A handful of bright sand To buy a shroud with and a length of earth? Oh, saner are the hearts on stiller ways! Thrice happier they who, far from these wild hours, Grow softly as the apples on a bough. Wiser the ploughman with his scudding blade, Turning a straight fresh furrow down a field — Wiser the herdsman whistling to his heart, In the long shadows at the break of day — 276 The Wall Street Pit Wiser the fisherman with quiet hand, Slanting his sail against the evening wind. The swallow sweeps back from the south again, The green of May is edging all the boughs, The shy arbutus glimmers in the wood, And yet this hell of faces in the town — This storm of tongues, this whirlpool roaring on, Surrounded by the quiet of the hills; The great calm stars forever overhead, And, under all, the silence of the dead! PAN IN WALL STREET Edmund Clarence Stedman Just where the Treasury's marble front Looks over Wall Street's mingled nations, — Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont To throng for trade and last quotations, — Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold Outrival, in the ears of people, The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled From Trinity's undaunted steeple; — Even there I heard a strange, wild strain Sound high above the modern clamour, Above the cries of greed and gain, The curbstone war, the auction's hammer, — And swift, on Music's misty ways, It led, from all this strife for millions, To ancient, sweet do-nothing days Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians. And as it stilled the multitude, And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, I saw the minstrel, where he stood At ease against a Doric pillar: One hand a droning organ played, The other held a Pan's-pipe (fashioned 278 Pan in Wall Street 279 Like those of old) to lips that made The reeds give out that strain impassioned. 'Twas Pan himself had wandered here A-strolling through this sordid city, And piping to the civic ear The prelude of some pastoral ditty! The demigod had crossed the seas, — From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr And Syracusan times, — to these Far shores and twenty centuries later. A ragged cap was on his head : But — hidden thus — there was no doubting That, all with crispy locks o'erspread, His gnarled horns were somewhere sprouting; His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes, Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them, And trousers, patched of divers hues, Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them. He filled the quivering reeds with sound, And o'er his mouth their changes shifted, And with his goat's-eyes looked around Where'er the passing current drifted; And soon, as on Trinacrian hills The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him, Even now the tradesmen from their tills, With clerks and porters, crowded near him. The bulls and bears together drew From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley, As erst, if pastorals be true, Came beasts from every wooded valley; 28o Pan in Wall Street The random passers stayed to list, — A boxer JEgon, rough and merry, — A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry. A one-eyed Cyclops halted long In tattered cloak of army pattern, And Galatea joined the throng, — A blowsy, apple-vending slattern; While old Silenus staggered out From some new-fangled lunch-house handy, And bade the piper, with a shout, To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy ! A newsboy and a peanut-girl Like little Fauns began to caper: His hair was all in tangled curl, Her tawny legs were bare and taper; And still the gathering larger grew, And gave its pence and crowded nigher, While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew His pipe, and struck the gamut higher. O heart of Nature, beating still With throbs her vernal passion taught her, — Even here, as on the vine-clad hill, Or by the Arethusan water ! New forms may fold the speech, new lands Arise within these ocean-portals, But Music waves eternal wands, — Enchantress of the souls of mortals! So thought I, — but among us trod A man in blue, with legal baton, Pan in Wall Street 281 And scoffed the vagrant demigod, And pushed him from the step I sat on. Doubting I mused upon the cry, 14 Great Pan is dead!" — and all the people Went on their ways : — and clear and high The quarter sounded from the steeple. A FAUN IN WALL STREET John Myers O'Hara What shape so furtive steals along the dim Bleak street, barren of throngs, this day of June; This day of rest, when all the roses swoon In Attic vales where dryads wait for him ? What sylvan this, and what the stranger whim That lured him here this golden afternoon; Ways where the dusk has fallen oversoon In the deep canyon, torrentless and grim? Great Pan is far, O mad estray, and these Bare walls that leap to heaven and hide the skies Are fanes men rear to other deities ; Far to the East the haunted woodland lies, And cloudless still, from cyclad-dotted seas, Hymettus and the hills of Hellas rise. 282 THE CURB-BROKERS Florence Wilkinson Evans Hail, ye frenzied creatures, antic, mask-like figures, Shouting gibberish symbols, wheat and corn and cotton. Lo, the whole world is a maniac vision, Worm-eaten by black hopes and wriggling poison- ous alarms; Neither flesh nor blood nor God nor devil, One great brazen throat and dollar-signs for arms. Hail, ye frenzied creatures, 'Tis a blue autumn morn ! And did ye ever walk among the rustling rows of corn? 283 IN LOWER NEW YORK Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer Stand here with me. The throngs dissolve away. The sunset fades. A single star grows bright. The moon as purely sheds her balm of light Through these cliff-corridors as on the bay Pure-spread beyond them. Sea-breeze murmurs say, Not all of time is pledged for gain, the night Means sleeping even here, and in despite Of gold and greed will dawn a Sabbath-day. There is no peace like this, the deep repose Of citadels of haggard restlessness. Prairie and mountain-top and twilit snows Breathe of the benison of silence less Than these tired streets, dazed with the noise of men, When the calm darkness bids them rest again. 284 WHEN BETSY COMES DOWN-TOWN Louise Morgan Sill When Betsy comes down-town, From her remote suburban lair, There seems to blow a brighter air; The grimy streets seem debonair For touching of her gown; And under muslin frills her feet, As tiny and as silvery fleet As some gazelle's, go tapping sweet When Betsy comes down-town . When Betsy comes down-town, The musty volumes mountain-high, The shelves where dust and papers lie, Seem ill to suit a butterfly Fresh from the meadow brown — But when she goes a lingering light, Reflection from the vision bright, Makes everything divinely right That seemed askew down-town. 285 IN NEW YORK John Hall Wheelock Within the modern world, deformed and vast, Lurks everlasting, though all men deny, The awful force that in the ages past Walked on the waves and cried on Calvary. I feel it in the crowded city street 'Mid iron walls and wheels and clanging cars, I feel it in my pulses as they beat, The monstrous secret that propels the stars. 286 MONODY ON THE ASTOR HOUSE Franklin P. Adams Lament, Muse, and heave a suspiration, Make me an epicedium, a threne, An ode to fit my humid lachrimation, A dirge ultramarine ! For heavy I, and supercharged with woe, On reading that the Astor House must go. Thou noble inn where oft I (Crys of "Louder") Repaired to find a frugal bit of lunch ; Where grew the city's only perfect chowder And hot Jamaica punch — So deep my woe that thou art to be razed I question it can fittingly be phrazed. Farewell, farewell ! If Byron I may borrow — I read of thee in many an Alger tome, Unthinking that, in age and bowed with sorrow, I'd spill to thee a pome; Unknowing that some day I should deplore The announcement that thou wert to be no more. Yet though my trend be super-sentimental, Thine end I truly do not mind a bit ; 287 288 Monody on the Astor House My grief for that is wholly incidental, This is my woe, to wit : The riveting and blasting that I hear — Shades of the Woolworth tower ! — another Lincoln at the Astor House, February 19, 1861 From Harper's Weekly, February, 1861 A FORGOTTEN BARD Clinton Scollard In a dim nook beneath the street Where Pine and noisy Nassau meet, This little book of song I found In scarred morocco quaintly bound . Each musty and bemildewed leaf Bespeaks long years of grime and grief; Long years, — for on the title page A dim date tells the volume's age. Ah, who was he, the bard that sung In that dead century's stately tongue In those envanished days of yore? — An empty name — I know no more ! Yet as I read will fancy form A face whose glow is fresh and warm, A frank, clear eye wherein I view A nature open, genial, true. Mayhap he dreamed of fame, but fate Has barred to him that temple's gate; He loved, — was loved, — for one divines An answered passion in his lines; He died, ah, yes, he died, but when He ceased to walk the ways of men, 19 289 A Forgotten Bard Or where his clay with mother clay Commingles sweetly, who can say! In pity will I give his book A not too lonely study nook, Where kindly gleams of light may play Across it of a wintry day ; And I will take it down sometimes To con the prim and polished rhymes. — Will thus, when the grey years have fled, Some book of mine be housed and read? NATHAN HALE Chester Firkins Somewhere beneath the thundering city's pave, An unmarked grave; Somewhere in the vast spaces beyond Time, A fame sublime; And that is all we watchers here below May dream or know Of him, the tranquil and intrepid soul Who died for us among the death-drum's roll In Henry Rutgers' orchard long ago. You've been, perchance, in Market Street, Where now the weary, hurrying feet Of thousands clatter, day by day, To join the throngs of East Broadway; Where creak and crash of car and dray Mingle with children's voices sweet ; Where poverty and sorrow meet, And yet where some seem always gay. Though toil and tumult wrap you 'round, Tread softly — it is holy ground ! 'Twas in September of the year When Liberty first lifted clear 291 Nathan Hale Her daring sword, they brought him here, And slew him as he faced them, bound, And buried him without a mound Or yet a blossom for his bier! Oh, if your heart as mine doth burn, These tenemental walls will turn Into a yellowing orchard close, With redcoat men in silent rows; And he, in high, serene repose, Lifts eyes that but a moment yearn Toward his torn letters 'mongst the fern As proudly to his doom he goes. Somewhere beneath the thundering city's pave, An unmarked grave; But is not the great city o'er him sprent His better monument? These mighty sons of Caesar and of Shem, He died for them! The tumult of the hosts he helped to free, The roar of the wide mart, his elegy, His solemn and triumphant requiem! DIGGING FOUNDATIONS AT NIGHT Cortland Street Harvey Maitland Watts Here, where the forges sound their giant scale Of thud and groan, and braziers belch their smoke; In depths, unseen, backs bent, nor fear, nor quail The myriads toil; bearing in cheer the yoke, Knowing full well that soon, aloft, will rise Some new Aladdin's dream, scraping the very skies. 293 THE ANGEL OF THE CORNICE Florence Wilkinson Evans Listen to me, ye creeping ants of men, Because of human hearts I snatched and slew, Because of blood poured out, because of blood, I am drawn close to you. Listen, across the quivering sea of roofs Thousands of miles — that cry along the wires ! Aerial signals, soundless waves of air Heavy with import, moan of steel-spun spires! I brood above the costliness of the task Through which these human creatures fall consumed. Men, bow the head before the dizzying grave Whose valour and toil to such a death are doomed. This is the harvest you have sowed ; Your blood is mixed with mine, with mine; And I, who break you on my fiery wheel, Not Moloch am I, but divine, divine. The pitiless Angel of the Mercenary? Nay, for I too am great, Lifting the vast hopes of the modern world As on the knees of fate. 294 The Angel of the Cornice I am Winged Victory at the prow, Oh ye who serve the God of force, Pilgrims that ride the deep with me, Ye, too, shall learn the love that is remorse. THE WOOLWORTH BUILDING Madison Cawein Enormously it lifts Its towers against the splendour of the west; Like some wild dream that drifts Before the mind, and at the will's behest, — Enchantment-based, gigantic steel and stone, — Is given permanence; A concrete fact, Complete, alone, Glorious, immense, Such as no nation here on earth has known: Epitomizing all That is American, that stands for youth, And strength and truth ; That's individual, And beautiful and free, — Resistless strength and tireless energy. Even as a cataract, Its superb fact Suggests vast forces Nature builds with — Joy, And Power and Thought, She to her aid has brought For eons past, will bring for eons yet to be, Shaping the world to her desire : the three 296 The Woolworth Building 297 Her counsellors constantly, Her architects, through whom her dreams come true, — Her workmen, bringing forth, With toil that shall not cease, Mountains and plains and seas, That make the Earth the glory that it is : And, one with these, Such works of man as this, This building, towering into the blue, A beacon, round which like an ocean wide, Circles and flows the restless human tide. FROM THE WOOLWORTH TOWER Sara Teasdale Vivid with love, eager for greater beauty- Out of the night we came Into the corridor, brilliant and warm. A metal door slides open, And the lift receives us. Swiftly, with sharp unswerving flight The car shoots upward, And the air, swirling and angry, Howls like a hundred devils. Past the maze of trim bronze doors, Steadily we ascend I cling to you Conscious of the chasm under us, And a terrible whirring deafens my ears. The flight is ended. We pass through a door leading onto the ledge — Wind, night and space! Oh terrible height Why have we sought you ? Oh bitter wind with icy invisible wings Why do you beat us? Why would you bear us away? 298 The Woolworth Tower, 1915 From an etching by Henri de Ville From the Woolworth Tower 299 We look through the miles of air, The cold blue miles between us and the city, Over the edge of eternity we look On all the lights, A thousand times more numerous than the stars; Oh lines and loops of light in unwound chains That mark for miles and miles The vast black mazy cobweb of the streets; Near us clusters and splashes of living gold That change far off to bluish steel Where the fragile lights on the Jersey shore Tremble like drops of wind-stirred dew. The strident noises of the city Floating up to us Are hallowed into whispers. Ferries cross through the darkness Weaving a golden thread into the night, Their whistles weird shadows of sound. We feel the millions of humanity beneath us, — The warm millions, moving under the roofs, Consumed by their own desires; Preparing food, Sobbing alone in a garret, With burning eyes bending over a needle, Aimlessly reading the evening paper, Dancing in the naked light of the cafe\ Laying out the dead, Bringing a child to birth — The sorrow, the torpor, the bitterness, the frail joy Come up to us Like a cold fog wrapping us round, Oh in a hundred years Not one of these blood-warm bodies 300 From the Woolworth Tower But will be worthless as clay. The anguish, the torpor, the toil Will have passed to other millions Consumed by the same desires. Ages will come and go, Darkness will blot the lights And the tower will be laid on the earth. The sea will remain Black and unchanging, The stars will look down Brilliant and unconcerned. Beloved, Tho' sorrow, futility, defeat Surround us, They cannot bear us down. Here on the abyss of eternity Love has crowned us For a moment Victors. NEW YORK A Nocturne Florence Earle Coates Down-gazing, I behold, Miraculous by night, A city all of gold. Here, there, and everywhere, In myriad fashion fair, A mystery untold Of Light! Not royal Babylon, Nor Tyre, nor Rome the great — In the all-powerful state Her wisdom and her armed legions won — Was so illuminate As the strange world which, awed, I look upon. With it compared, the ancient glories fail, And, in the glow it doth irradiate, The planets of the firmament grow pale ! Night, birth-fellow to Chaos, never wore A robe so gemmed before. The splendour streams In lines and jets and scintillating gleams 301 302 New York From tower and spire and campanile bright, And palaces of light. How beautiful is this Unmatched Cosmopolis! — City of wealth and want, Of pitiless extremes, Selfish ambitions, pure aspiring dreams; Whose miseries, remembered, daunt The bravest spirit hope hath cheered — This city loved and hated, honoured, feared: This Titan City, bold to dare: This wounded Might That, dreading darkness, still conceals its care And hides its gaping hurt 'neath veils of light ! Oh, I have looked on Venice when the moon Silvered each dark lagoon, And have in dreams beheld her Clothed in resplendent pride, The Adriatic's bride! Naples I, too, have seen — An even lovelier Queen — And thought that nothing in the world excelled her — Nay marvelled, as at close of day I gazed across her opalescent bay And saw Vesuvius burn on high Against the soft Italian sky, That anything on earth could wear A charm so past compare! Yet, O Manhattan! Glowing now Against the sombre night, New York 303 Thine opulence and squalor hid from sight, Never was aught more beautiful than thou Dost in thy calm appear — So glorified and so transfigured here — Since the Eternal, to creation stirred, Breathed from His awful lips the mystic word : Let there be Light! A DREAM TEMPLE New York City Edith M. Thomas My temple hath yon city roofs for floor; For roof, the azure; and, to stay the roof, A thousand alabastrine columns soar In coiling smoke that, silent, steals aloof! My temple builds itself at windless prime, — At dawn, — or in the rosy eventime; Ere garish midday, roof and pillar melt, — And they are gone, — the Blest, who there have knelt ! 304 THE EMPIRE CITY George Sylvester Viereck Huge steel -ribbed monsters rise into the air Her Babylonian towers, while on high Like gilt-scaled serpents glide the swift trains by, Or, underfoot, creep to their secret lair. A thousand lights are jewels in her hair, The sea her girdle, and her crown the sky, Her life-blood throbs, the fevered pulses fly, Immense, defiant, breathless she stands there And ever listens in the ceaseless din, Waiting for him, her lover who shall come, Whose singing lips shall boldly claim their own And render sonant what in her was dumb : The splendour and the madness and the sin, Her dreams in iron and her thoughts of stone. 20 305 NEW YORK, FROM A SKYSCRAPER James Oppenheim Up in the heights of the evening skies I see my City of cities float In sunset's golden and crimson dyes: I look, and a great joy clutches my throat ! Plateau of roofs by canyons crossed: windows by thousands fire-unfurled gazing, how the heart is lost in the Deepest City in the World! sprawling City ! Worlds in a world ! Housing each strange type that is human — Yonder a Little Italy curled — here the haunt of the Scarlet Woman — The night's white Bacchanals of Broadway — the Ghetto pushcarts ringed with faces — Wall Street's roar and the Plaza's play — a weltering focus of all Earth's races! Walking your Night's many-nationed byways — brush- ing Sicilians and Jews and Greeks — Meeting gaunt Bread Lines on your highways — watch- ing night-clerks in your flaming peaks — Marking your Theatres' outpour of splendour — paus- ing on doorsteps with resting Mothers — 306 New York, from a Skyscraper 307 I marvelled at Christs with their messages tender, their daring dream of a World of Brothers ! Brothers? What means Irish to Greek? What the Ghetto to Morningside? How shall we weld the strong and the weak while millions struggle with light denied ? Yet, but to follow these Souls where they roam — rip- ping off housetops, the city's mask — At Night I should find each one in a Home, at Morn I should find each one at a Task ! Labour and Love, four-million divided — surely the millions at last are a-move — Surely the Brotherhood-slant is decided — the Social Labour, the Social Love! Surely four millions of Souls close-gathered in this one spot could stagger the world — City, Earth's Future is Mothered and Fathered where your great streets feel the Man-tides hurled ! For the Souls in one car where they hang on the straps could send this City a-wing through the starred — Each man is a tiny Faucet that taps the infinite reservoir of God ! — What if they turned the Faucet full stream ? What if our millions to-night were aware? What if to-morrow they built to their Dream the City of Brothers in laughter and prayer? THE RED BOX AT VESEY STREET H. C. BUNNER Past the Red Box at Vesey Street Swing two strong tides of hurrying feet, And up and down and all the day Rises a sullen roar, to say The Bowery has met Broadway. And where the confluent current brawls Stands, fair and dear and old, St. Paul's, Through her grand window looking down Upon the fever of the town ; Rearing her shrine of patriot pride Above that hungry human-tide Mad with the lust of sordid gain, Wild for the things that God holds vain; Blind, selfish, cruel — Stay there! out A man is turning from the rout, And stops to drop a folded sheet In the Red Box at Vesey Street. On goes he to the money-mart, A broker, shrewd and tricky-smart; But in the space you saw him stand, He reached and grasped a brother's hand: And some poor bed-rid wretch will find Bed-life a little less unkind .308 The Red Box at Vesey Street 309 For that man's stopping. They who pass Under St. Paul's broad roseate glass Have but to reach their hands to gain The pitiful world of prisoned pain. The hospital's poor captive lies Waiting the day with weary eyes, Waiting the day, to hear again News of the outer world of men, Brought to him in a crumpled sheet From the Red Box at Vesey Street. For the Red Box at Vesey Street Was made because men's hearts must beat; Because the humblest kindly thought May do what wealth has never bought. That journal in your hand you hold To you already has grown old, — Stale, dull, a thing to throw away, — Yet since the earliest gleam of day Men in a score of hospitals Have lain and watched the whitewashed walls ; Waiting the hour that brings more near The Life so infinitely dear — The Life of trouble, toil, and strife, Hard, if you will — but Life, Life, Life! Tell them, friend! that life is sweet Through the Red Box at Vesey Street. ON CEDAR STREET, NEW YORK Helen Hay Whitney I, whose totem was a tree In the days when earth was new, Joyous leafy ancestry Known of twilight and of dew, Now within this iron wall Slave of tasks that irk the soul, To my parents send one call — That they give me of their dole. Thro' the roar of alien sound Grimy noise of work-a-day, Secretly a voice, half drowned, Whispers thro' the evening's grey, "Child, we know the path you tread, Ghost and manes, we are true : Cedar spirits, long since dead, Calm and sweet abide with you. " 310 ISAAK WALTON IN MAIDEN LANE Percy MacKaye In that Manhattan alley long yclept, With gentle olden music, Maiden Lane, Where sick and sad-eyed Traffic scarce has slept Even at midnight, in her lust for gain, Rolling in restive pain Through the stern vigil of a century, There, mid the din of harsh reality — The newsboy's shriek, car's clang and huckster's chaff, The cobble's roar, and the loud drayman's laugh, And the dull stare, The inhuman, haunted glare Of the faces — the grey faces Of Mammon's stark-mad races, Sordid and slattern, Modish and tattern, Loveless in their misery — There, in the midst of all, Seated upon a stall, Musing on meadows, Isaak, I met thee ! — How my heart stopped for too much happiness, To meet thee there in that maelstrom of men, Benignant, wise and calm ! Ah, gently then Came back, in fancy's dress, All that of old was sweet, 311 312 Isaak Walton in Maiden Lane Serene and fair, to grace the garish street. Musing on meadows now in Maiden Lane, The turbid current surging at my side Became the flow of Thames' sequestered tide, The newsboy's cry waned to a curlew's call, The jangling pedlar tended tinkling sheep Along green hedgerows; even the drayman's brawl Sweetened to an old soliloquy, till all That strident world has chastened to a sleep Where, in a twilit eddy of my dream, Thine image, Isaak, pored upon a bream. AT THE SHRINE Richard Kendall Munkittrick A pale Italian peasant, Beside the dusty way, Upon this morning pleasant Kneels in the sun to pray. Silent in her devotion, With fervent glance she pleads; Her finger's only motion, Telling her amber beads. Dreaming of ilex bowers Beyond the purple brine Once more she sees the flowers Bloom at the wayside shrine. And, while the mad crowd jostles, She, with a visage sweet, Prays where the bisque apostles Are sold on Barclay Street. 313 THE FACTORIES Margaret Widdemer I have shut my little sister in from life and light (For a rose, for a ribbon, for a wreath across my hair) , I have made her restless feet still until the night, Locked from sweets of summer and fine wild spring air; I who ranged the meadowlands, free from sun to sun Free to sing and pull the buds and watch the far wings fly, I have bound my sister till her playing-time was done — Oh, my little sister, was it I? Was it I? I have robbed my sister of her day of maidenhood (For a robe, for a feather, for a trinket's restless spark), Shut from Love till dusk shall fall, how shall she know good, How shall she go scatheless through the sin-lit dark? I who could be innocent, I who could be gay, I who could have love and mirth before the light went by. 3H The Factories 315 I have put my sister in her mating-time away — Sister, my young sister, was it I ? Was it I ? I have robbed my sister of the lips against her breast, (For a coin, for the weaving of my children's lace and lawn) , Feet that pace beside the loom, hands that cannot rest — How can she know motherhood, whose strength is gone? I who took no heed of her, starved and labour-worn. I against whose placid heart my sleepy gold-heads lie, Round my path they cry to me, little souls unborn — God of Life ! Creator ! It was I ! It was I ! THE CHILDREN John Hall Wheelock In the Spring on the pavements of the city The little children play marbles and laugh and shout, Their laughter is drowned by the city all about ; But they laugh back regardless of the city And clap their hands and shout. In the sunlight fading from the alleys, The braided hair, and the short hair are bowed Over a few soiled marbles; a watching crowd Circles them in the noisy, dusty alleys, Where the close heads are bowed. From the river in the distance flowing The whistles murmur, — the tired souls of men Call to each other over the waters again, Over the river in the sunlight flowing Answer the souls of men. When lamps in the street-ways glimmer, Along the rooves the sky still burns with day, — A little group watches them where they play. And in the distance the long waters glimmer With the receding day. 316 CHINATOWN UNVISITED George Macdonald Major In the Sybil Book of Youth First I read the word in sooth; Golden legends of a place Full of romance, full of grace, Till my radiant childhood teemed With the glories that I dreamed — Chinatown, Chinatown. There methought the air ne'er ceased Blowing odors from the East, Never ceased weird music from Banjo, tinkling bells, tom-tom. While each scented breeze unrolled Flags of yellow, red, and gold — Chinatown, Chinatown. Sheening silks and jeweled shoes These, methought the Chinese use Up and down the shining streets, Only wealth and pleasure meets. While the bells of Joss peal down Blessings rich in Chinatown — Chinatown, Chinatown. 3i7 CHINATOWN VISITED George Macdonald Major From sullen skies a cheerless rain That floods the half-choked gutter drain; Ramshackle houses, brick and wood, Where hides Disease with shroud and hood ; Worn doors, uncurtained window-panes And mucky streets and garbage lanes — And this is — this is Chinatown. Pattering feet of Chinamen, Holima, Ching-la, Ribald girls of Chinatown; Joss ! how foul they are. Within the ever-swinging door The halls uncarpeted, where pour The pungent, sickening opium fumes From out the poorly furnished rooms, Where spots of gilt and red attest What dingy finery is the rest — In Chinatown, in Chinatown. Raising Cain in Chinatown, Drink, and dope and toss; Day and night are but a day, Not a God, but Joss. 318 Chinatown Visited 319 The Joss, a paint-daubed idol pent, The third floor of a tenement, Draped faded silk and tawdry gold, Where wrinkled priests their service hold While barbarous drum and banjos whine, Make thoughts infernal not divine — Within the fane of Chinatown. Pictures of pagodas, too; Tea-fields stretching down Lumbering junks and sampan boats — This is Chinatown. And women old before their time, With faces cursed by drink or crime, From many open casements peer At huddling Chinamen who leer From doors of dens where gamblers meet Or dives or corners of the street — In tawdry, slattern Chinatown. Calling out to sailor men: "Sailor mokki hi, Fightin' dlunk in Doyers Stleet, China gel no li!" THE GREEK QUARTER John Myers O'Hara The cryptic letters of the golden tongue The philhellene upon the window sees, And hears the music of Maeonides Above the roar by trains and traffic flung; Heroic odes to Argive valour sung. And softer strains of old idyllic ease; A solace lure for servile destinies Unknown to Hellas when the world was young. I sip the coffee of Demetrios And listen while my thought is far away; The swarthy faces of the dim cafe Are olive vendors on the shores of Cos ; The wall lamps flicker but I peer across The blue ^Egean sparkling in the day. 320 BALLAD OF DEAD GIRLS Dana Burnet Scarce had they brought the bodies down Across the withered floor Than Max Rogosky thundered at The District Leader's door. Scarce had the white-lipped mothers come To search the fearful noon Than little Max stood shivering In Tom McTodd's saloon. In Tom McTodd's saloon he stood, Beside the silver bar, Where any honest lad may stand And sell his vote at par. "Ten years I've paid the System's tax. " (The words fell quivering, raw), ' ' And now I want the thing I bought — Protection from the law. " The Leader smiled a crooked smile. "Your doors were locked, " he said. "You've overstepped the limit, Max — A hundred women . . . dead!" 21 321 Ballad of Dead Girls Then Max Rogosky gripped the bar, And shivered where he stood. "You listen now to me, " he cried, "Like business fellers should. "I've paid for all my hundred dead, I've paid, I've paid, I've paid ..." His ragged laughter rang, and died — For he was sore afraid. "I've paid for wooden hall and stair, I've paid to strain my floors, I've paid for rotten fire-escapes, For all my bolted doors. "Your fat inspectors came and came, I crossed their hands with gold, And now I want the thing I bought, The thing the System sold. " The District Leader filled a glass With whisky from the bar ; (The little silver counter where He bought men's souls at par.) And well he knew that he must give The thing that he had sold. Else men should doubt the System's word, Keep back the System's gold. The whisky burned beneath his tongue: "A hundred women — dead! I guess the Boss can fix it up; Go home — and hide, " he said. Ballad of Dead Girls 323 All day they brought the bodies down From Max Rogosky's place. And, oh, the fearful touch of flame On hand and breast and face! All day the white-lipped mothers came To search the sheeted dead, And Horror strode the blackened walls Where Death had walked in red. But Max Rogosky did not weep (He knew that tears were vain) ; He paid the System's price, and lived To lock his doors again. BOWERY GALS, 1850 (From Christy's Plantation Melodies) As I was lumbering down de street, O, down de street, O, down de street, Dat pretty color'd gal I chanc'd to meet. 0, she was fair to view. Chorus Den de Bowery gals will you come out to-night? Will you come out to-night ? Will you come out to-night? 0, de Bowery gals will you come out to-night And dance by de light ob de moon? Den we stopp'd awhile and had some talk, 0, we had some talk, 0, we had some talk, And her heel cover'd up the whole side-walk, As she stood right by me. Chorus : Den de Bowery gals, etc. I'd like to kiss dem lubly lips, Dem lubly lips, Dem lubly lips, 324 Bowery Gals, 1850 325 I think that I could lose my wits, And drap right down on de floor. Chorus: Den de Bowery gals, etc. I ax'd her would she go to a dance, Would she go to a dance, Would she go to a dance, I thought that I might have a chance To shake my foot wid her. Chorus : Den de Bowery gals, etc. I danc'd all night and my heel kept a-rocking, 0, my heel kept a-rocking, 0, my heel kept a-rocking, And I balance to de gal wid a hole in her stocking, She was de prettiest gal in de room. Chorus: Den de Bowery gals, etc. I am bound to make dat gal my wife, Dat gal my wife, Dat gal my wife, 0, I should be happy all my life, If I had her along wid me. Chorus : Den de Bowery gals, etc. ROMAIOS W. G. Ballantine 'Twas in the crowded avenue; o'erhead Thundered the trains; below the pavement shook With quivering cables ; everywhere the crush Of horses, wheels, and men eddied and swirled. A river of humanity swept by With faces hard as ice. I stopped beside A little push-cart filled with southern fruits And dickered with the huckster, "Three for five?" "No, two, " in broken English. There we stood — He shabby, stooping, wolfish, all intent Upon a penny, I to him no more Than just another stranger from the throng Trampling each other in this fierce new world. Then looking in his sordid eyes I said, Using the tongue of Plato and of Paul, "Art thou a Roman?" Never magic word Of wizard or enchanter wrought more sure. The man erect, transfigured, eyes on fire, Lips parted, breath drawn fast, thrust in my hands His double handful. Huckster? No, a king! "Could I speak Roman? Did I share it all — The memories, the pride, the grief, the hope?" Then welcome to the best of all he had. 326 Romaios 327 Wouldst know, self-glorified American, The name that sums the grandest heritage Race ever owned? 'Tis "Roman" spoke in Greek; ROMAIOS they call it. Constantine the Great, Fixed with new capital where East meets West, Brought Rome's imperial law, the Cross of Christ, The art and tongue of Greece — the whole world's best; And in that fairest spot new Christian Rome Reigned queen a thousand years, until the Turk Fell like a blight, and darkness shrouded all. But still that name lives in the exiles' dreams, All glories, Christian, Hebrew, Roman, Greek, Blend in that one unequalled Romaios. Abraham, Moses, Homer, Phidias, Cassar, Paul, Chrysostom, Justinian, Bozzaris, Ypsilanti, Byron, all Are his. blessed America, these men That come in rags, bring jewels in their hearts To shine resplendent in thy future's crown ! A SWEETHEART: THOMPSON STREET Samuel McCoy Queen of all streets, Fifth Avenue Stretches her slender limbs From the great Arch of Triumph, on — On, where the distance dims The splendors of her jewelled robes, Her granite draperies ; The magic, sunset-smitten walls That veil her marble knees; For ninety squares she lies a queen, Superb, bare, unashamed, Yielding her beauty scornfully To worshippers unnamed. But at her feet her sister glows, A daughter of the South : Squalid, immeasurably mean, — But oh! her hot, sweet mouth! My Thompson Street! a Tuscan girl, Hot with life's wildest blood; Her black shawl on her black, black hair, Her brown feet stained with mud ; 328 A Sweetheart: Thompson Street 329 A scarlet blossom at her lips, A new babe at her breast ; A singer at a wine-shop door, (Her lover unconf essed) . Listen! a hurdy-gurdy plays — Now alien melodies : She smiles, she cannot quite forget The mother over-seas. But she no less is mine alone, Mine, mine! . . . Who may I be? Have / betrayed her from her home? I am called Liberty! WASHINGTON SQUARE Richard Watson Gilder This is the end of town I love the best. O, lovely the hour of light from the burning west — Of light that lingers and fades in the shadowy square Where the solemn fountain lifts a shaft in the air To catch the skyey colours, and fling them down In a wild-wood torrent that drowns the noise of the town. And lovely the hour of the still and dreamy night When, lifted against the blue, stands the arch of white With one clear planet above; and the sickle moon, In curve reversed from the arch's marble round, Silvers the sapphire sky. Now soon, ah, soon, Shall the city square be turned to holy ground, Through the light of the moon and the stars and the glowing flower, — The Cross of Light, — that looms from the sacred tower. 330 WASHINGTON SQUARE James Oppenheim Starless and still — Who stopped this heart? Who bound this city in a trance? With open eyes the sleeping houses stare at the Park: And among nude boughs the slumbering hanging moons are gazing : And somnambulent drops of melting snow glide from the roofs and patter on the pave — I in a dream draw the echoes of my footfall silvery sharp — Sleep-walking city! Who are the wide-eyed prowlers in the night ? What nightmare-ridden cars move through their own far thunder? What living death of the wind rises, crackling the drowsy twigs? In the enchantment of the ebb of life, In the miracle of millions stretched in their rooms unconscious and breathing, In the sleep of the broadcast people, 33i 332 Washington Square In the multitude of dreams rising from the houses, I pause, frozen in a spell. We sleep in the eternal arms of night : We give ourselves, in the heart of peril, To sheer unconsciousness : Silently sliding through space, the huge globe turns. I cannot go: I dream that behind a window one wakes, a woman : She is thinking of me. ON SICK LEAVE 1916 Hamilton Fish Armstrong He limped beneath the Arch, across the Square, And through the dazzling shaft of rainbow-air That blew from where the busy fountain leaped. For him within that vision-laden cloud There were no peaceful hills, no valleys loud With streams, no fields in honeysuckle steeped. Grim hills there were, emplumed with puffs of smok Valleys there were, where biting guns awoke Echoes that died amid the eternal din — Broad honeysuckle-bordered fields there were, Stamped down by passing troops, — and in the air That smell which only is where war has been. 333 WASHINGTON SQUARE, NORTH Walter Prichard Eaton Red-brick and sunny in a cheerful row, Unboastful of the beauty they possess, These ancient houses face the square; the stress Of commerce from the nervous town below Swept round and far beyond them long ago ; Upon their view the high warehouses press; But they abide in their old-worldliness, And time with them moves gratefully and slow. Not otherwise when time and age advance May I look forth on some green spot in life, And keep the world aloof to see the sun, And hold the children in a kindly glance, There peacefully to pass out from the strife, Unsoiled, unwearied, when my day is done. 334 OLD TRAILS Edwin Arlington Robinson I met him as one meets a ghost or two, Between the gray Arch and the old Hotel. "King Solomon was right, there's nothing new," Said he. "Behold a ruin who meant well. " He led me down familiar steps again, Appealingly, and set me in a chair. "My dreams have all come true to other men, " Said he; "God lives, however, and why care? "An hour among the ghosts will do no harm. " He laughed, and something glad within me sank. I may have eyed him with a faint alarm, For now his laugh was lost in what he drank. "They chill things here with ice from hell, " he said; "I might have known it. " And he made a face That showed again how much of him was dead, And how much was alive and out of place, And out of reach. He knew as well as I That all the words of wise men who are skilled In using them are not so much to defy What comes when memory meets the unfulfilled. 335 336 Old Trails What evil and infirm perversity- Had been at work with him to bring him back? Never among the ghosts, assuredly, Would he originate a new attack; Never among the ghosts, or anywhere, Till what was dead of him was put away, Would he attain to his offended share Of honour among others of his day. "You ponder like an owl, " he said at last; "You always did, and here you have a cause. For I'm a confirmation of the past, A vengeance, and a flowering of what was. "Sorry? Of course you are, though you compress, With even your most impenetrable fears, A placid and a proper consciousness Of anxious angels over my arrears. ' ' I see them there against me in a book As large as hope, in ink that shines by night. For sure I see; but now I'd rather look At you, and you are not a pleasant sight. "Forbear, forgive. Ten years are on my soul, And on my conscience. I've an incubus: My one distinction, and a parlous toll To glory; but hope lives on clamorous. " 'Twas hope, though heaven I grant you knows of what — The kind that blinks and rises when it falls, Whether it sees a reason why or not — That heard Broadway's hard-throated siren-calls ; Old Trails 337 "'Twas hope that brought me through December storms, To shores again where I'll not have to be A lonely man with only foreign worms To cheer him in his last obscurity. "But what it was that hurried me down here To be among the ghosts, I leave to you. My thanks are yours, no less, for one thing clear: Though you are silent what you say is true. "There may have been the devil in my feet, For down I blundered like a fugitive, To find the old room in Eleventh Street. God save us! — I came here again to live. " We rose at that, and all the ghosts rose then, And followed us unseen to his old room. No longer a good place for living men We found it, and we shivered in the gloom. The goods he took away from there were few, And soon we found ourselves outside once more, Where now the lights along the Avenue Bloomed white for miles above an iron floor. "Now lead me to the newest of hotels, " He said, "and let your spleen be undeceived: This ruin is not myself, but someone else; I haven't failed; I've merely not achieved." Whether he knew or not, he laughed and dined With more of an immune regardlessness Of pits before him and of sands behind Than many a child at forty would confess; 22 338 Old Trails And after, when the bells in Boris rang Their tumult at the Metropolitan, He rocked himself, and I believe he sang. "God lives," he crooned aloud, "and I'm the man!" He was. And even though the creature spoiled All prophecies, I cherish his acclaim. Three weeks he fattened; and five years he toiled In Yonkers, — and then sauntered into fame. And he may go now to what streets he will — Eleventh, or the last, and little care; But he would find the old room very still Of evenings, and the ghosts would all be there. I doubt if he goes after them; I doubt If many of them ever come to him. His memories are like lamps, and they go out; Or if they burn, they flicker and are dim. A light of other gleams he has to-day And adulations of applauding hosts; A famous danger, but a safer way Than growing old alone among the ghosts. But we may still be glad that we were wrong; He fooled us, and we'd shrivel to deny it ; Though sometimes when old echoes ring too long, I wish the bells in Boris would be quiet. OLD SAWS AND SEE-SAWS Andrew E. Watrous From Eighth Street up, from Eighth Street down, This is the manner of this great town : From Eighth Street up, the women are spurning it; From Eighth Street down the men are earning it. Borrowing, buying, begging it, lending it, From Eighth Street up the women are spending it. 'Twill be the manner of this great town Till Wall Street's up and Harlem's down, Till green grass grows in Tompkins Square, Till all the "L's" reduce their fare; From some street up, the women are burning it, From some street down, the men still earning it; Father from son, if need be, rending it, That daughter and wife may still be spending it. From Eighth Street up, from Eighth Street down — A see-saw rhyme and a see-saw town. 339 THE MENU Thomas Bailey Aldrich I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, and sound wine — The Roederer chilly to a charm, As Juno's breath the claret warm, The sherry of an ancient brand. No Persian pomp, you understand — A soup, a fish, two meats, and then A salad fit for aldermen (When aldermen, alas the days! Were really worth their mayonnaise) ; A dish of grapes whose clusters won Their bronze in Carolinian sun ; Next, cheese — for you the Neufchatel, A bit of Cheshire likes me well ; Cafe au lait or coffee black, With Kirsch or Kummel or Cognac (The German Band in Irving Place By this time purple in the face) ; Cigars and pipes. These being through, Friends shall drop in, a very few — Shakespeare and Milton, and no more. When these are guests I bolt the door, With Not at Home to any one Excepting Alfred Tennyson. 340 GRACE CHIMES Meredith Nicholson "Lead, kindly light, " I heard the glad bells ring, And thought how God existeth everywhere; 'Twas in a city strange that, sweetest thing! "Lead, kindly light," I heard the glad bells ring, And summer quickened in the heart of spring, For where the kind light leadeth all is fair. "Lead, kindly light," I heard the glad bells ring, And thought how God existeth everywhere. 34i AT HALF-PAST FIVE A February Fancy Andrew E. Watrous This is a common dream enough — You've dreamt it, friend, and so have I Along with like romantic stuff Of how and when a man would die. Futile! It matters little, when Upon Death's roll we're reached and read Where are we; the one wish is then For more names Hwixt ours and the head. We lazy fellows like to prate Of battles o'er and marches done; Yet in the grim king's army great, Conscript, methinks, is every one. Yet more a fool than dreamer he (And fools in this are most alive) Who may in dreams, seen dreams to be, Joy not. I'd die at half -past five, Then when the flood of Broadway's tide Sets upward through the winter mist From the slim city's either side, Drawn like thin glove on slender wrist; With all the league of lights aflare, Above the hurrying roar and bustle That makes for avenue and square, As if for life were strained each muscle; 342 At Half-Past Five 343 When Trinity points, there below, Still skyward, with its awful face Framed by the red sun's afterglow, In solemn flame from spire to base — Then, in this queer old cross-town street, By some dim window, where, at length, Day, dying, wholly failed to meet The task that taxed its noonday strength, As in my dull ear duller grew The hum, as fainter to my eyes The shimmer of the street-lamps through The mist that took in two worlds' rise, A moment would my numb brain seize What prank Fate played so straight-faced well, To keep me toiling like to these For what I could not dying tell — A moment would there at the pest Flash laughter — far would buzz their hive, Then stilled this beat here in the breast, As night came down at half-past five. YOUTH Samuel McCoy You say New York is lovelier than ever? Ah, is it still the city that I knew? Is it still . . . tell me first, though, did you never Dine at that restaurant I sent you to ? You know — the little one that artists know of; The one you never find without a guide; The one where no one ever makes a show of His worldly wealth, or puts on any "side. " Much chance there was indeed of our dissembling, With those wild Indians there to squelch all sham ! Why, not one of us had a thing resembling (Even remotely) wealth — nor cared a damn ! You say you missed it? never once you dined there? I'm sorry! But perhaps you'd not have seen The glamour that we fellows used to find there; It might have bored you — though I'm sure 'twas clean ! Not that that mattered ! We were young and healthy, And breakfast, luncheons, never cost us much; At night, with a half-dollar, we were wealthy, And dined there ravenously — always "dutch. " 344 Youth 345 Hesternce rosce! Yes, my Latin's scrappy; I'm not quite certain that it's apropos; But still those yesterdays were, oh, so happy, And nights like those are wonderful to know ! I'll try to show you . . . This is how you find it, This restaurant we called "The Hopeful Heart" — A silly title; but you mustn't mind it, We were all youngsters then, and mad on Art — You leave the Avenue just where the church's Calm finger points up to the summer stars, And so go down the cross street till your search is Ended when you hear some lilting bars Of music — some warm tenor voice is singing That old berceuse from "Jocelyn" . . . then a laugh ! That's Alan, bless him! Now his arm he's flinging Around your shoulder and life's gained a half ! He's waited to surprise you — has some matter, Some harebrained scheme, to tell to you alone; Then down the three stone steps you two will clatter, And all the worries of your day have flown ! See! there's "The Senor, " plump and rosy; meets you And smiles his "Messieurs" as you troop on through The kitchen, where the steam of cooking greets you, And reach the tiny yard, and join the crew! 346 Youth You never went there? Well, you might have wondered At what we found to make us like the place: It wasn't much to see; sometimes they blundered, And served us meals that merited no grace; The tableware was cracked, the forks were greasy, They charged fantastic sums for their cigars; But still the waiters always smiled their "Si, si." And it was pleasant, underneath the stars. Perhaps it wasn't all my fancy painted: I only know that something seemed to give The simplest speech a magic unacquainted, And all our words (of course) were bound to live ! What was its secret ? I can not explain it. You missed it? Then you've only life's flat lees! Perhaps to go back would be to profane it, But, oh, how gay it was! What prophecies! MACARONI Arthur Guiterman 'Tis made of the flour of wheat, so they say, Although I confess to the dawnings Of doubt how they mix it in Avenue A Before it is dried in the awnings. Fair Italy's sons in the family shed Alluringly drape it and coil it; But don't be afraid, for the microbes are dead As nails when you properly boil it. 'Tis blithe in the cellars of festive New York To see how the diners assail it ! Some mince it, some reel up its lengths on a fork, While others devoutly inhale it. It should be absorbed to "Faniculi's" strains, Or, maybe, to "Santa Lucia's." All poets agree it is good for the brains. The best may be had at Maria's. I like it served hotter, by twenty degrees, Than any place mentioned by Dante , Then, quickly! Beppino, with plenty of cheese, And don't you forget the Chianti! 347 TWILIGHT ON SIXTH AVENUE Charles G. D. Roberts Over the tops of the houses Twilight and sunset meet, The green, diaphanous dusk Sinks to the eager street. Astray in the tangle of roofs Wanders a wind of June, The dial shines in the clock-tower Like the face of a strange-scrawled moon. The narrowing lines of the houses Palely begin to gleam, And the hurrying crowds fade softly Like an army in a dream. Above the vanishing faces A phantom train flares on, With a voice that shakes the shadows, — Diminishes, and is gone. And I walk with the journeying throng In such a solitude As where a lonely ocean Washes a lonely wood. 348 THE NIGHT COURT Ruth Comfort Mitchell "Call Rose Costara!" Insolent she comes. The watchers, practiced, keen, turn down their thumbs. The walk, the talk, the face, — that shell-pink tint, — It is old stuff; they read her like coarse print. Here is no hapless innocence waylaid. This is a stolid worker at her trade. Listening, she yawns ; half smiling, undismayed, Shrugging a little at the law's delay, Bored and impatient to be on her way. It is her eighth conviction. Out beyond the rail A lady novelist in search of types turns pale. She meant to write of them just as she found them, And with no tears of maudlin glamour round them, In forceful, virile words, harsh, true words, without shame, Calling an ugly thing, boldly, an ugly name; Sympathy, velvet glove, on purpose, iron hand. But eighth conviction! All the phrases she had planned Fail; "sullen, " "vengeful," no, she isn't that. No, the pink face beneath the hectic hat Gives back her own aghast and sickened stare With a detached and rather cheerful air, 349 350 The Night Court And then the little novelist sees red. From her chaste heart all clemency is fled. "Oh, loathsome! venomous! Off with her head! Call Rose Costara!" But before you stop, And shelve your decent rage, Let's call the cop. Let's call the plain-clothes cop who brought her in. The weary-eyed night watchman of the law, A shuffling person with a hanging jaw, Loose-lipped and sallow, rather vague of chin, Comes rubber-heeling at his Honor's rap. He set and baited and then sprung the trap — The trap — by his unsavory report. Let's ask him why — but first Let's call the court. Not only the grim figure in the chair, Sphinx-like above the waste and wreckage there, Skeptical, weary of a retold tale, But the whole humming hive, the false, the frail, — An old young woman with a weasel face, A lying witness waiting in his place, Two ferret lawyers nosing out a case, Reporters questioning a Mexican, Sobbing her silly heart out for her man, Planning to feature her, "lone, desperate, pretty," Yes, call the court. But wait! Let's call the city. Call the community! Call up, call down, Call all the speeding, mad, unheeding town ! Call rags and tags and then call velvet gown ! The Night Court 35i Go, summon them from tenements and clubs, On office floors and over steaming tubs ! Shout to the boxes and behind the scenes, Then to the push-carts and the limousines ! Arouse the lecture-room, the cabaret ! Confound them with a trumpet-blast and say, "Are you so dull, so deaf and blind indeed, That you mistake the harvest for the seed?" Condemn them for — but stay! Let's call the code — That facile thing they've fashioned to their mode : Smug sophistries that smother and befool, That numb and stultify; that clumsy thing That measures mountains with a three-foot rule, And plumbs the ocean with a puddling-string — The little, brittle code. Here is the root, Far out of sight, and buried safe and deep, And Rose Costara is the bitter fruit. On every limb and leaf, death, ruin, creep. So, lady novelist, go home again. Rub biting acid on your little pen. Look back and out and up and in, and then Write that it is no job for pruning-shears. Tell them to dig for years and years and years The twined and twisted roots. Blot out the page; Invert the blundering order of the age; Reverse the scheme : the last shall be the first. Summon the system, starting with the worst — The lying, dying code! On, down the line, The city, and the court, the cop. Assign The guilt, the blame, the shame ! Sting, lash, and spur ! Call each and all ! Call us ! And then call her ! UNION SQUARE Walter Malone I watch the water lilies in this pond, The white, the blue — the yellow and the red, The sparrow tripping on their pads beyond, And splashing dewdrops on his wings and head. The lotus, like a Cleopatra there, Reveals a bosom with a roseate glow, As in her gorgeous old Egyptian lair She fascinated heroes long ago. Adown the walk a throng of children goes With dewy eyes a-peep through hazy curls, When years are poems, every month a rose, All morns are rubies and all noons are pearls. Around these seats I see a motley crowd Of listless loungers, miserable and low, With backs bent double, wrinkled faces bowed, Or, aimless, straggling by with footsteps slow. With corncob pipes, these old men mumbling sit, Forsaken, friendless, waiting but for death, When, like the dead leaves that around them flit, They fall to be forgotten in a breath. 352 Union Square 353 And here a hard-faced girl reclines alone, Dreaming of dead days with their holy calm, Before her happy heart was turned to stone, And slumber to her spirit brought no balm. Here the young poet, once a farmer boy, Who with glad heart unto the city came, Sees manhood years his high-born hopes destroy, And slay his dreams of fortune and of fame. When night descends, electric argent lamps, Like radiant cactus blossoms, blaze on high ; The city seems a world of warlike camps, While Broadway with his legions thunders by. In gilt play-houses hundreds sigh to see The mimic woes of actors on the stage, But not one tear for actual grief shall be, The snares for childhood or the pangs of age. Around this Square rich men and women ride, Bedizened creatures in their fashion flaunt, While this starved outcast, planning suicide, Steals back to perish in his dismal haunt. Strange, while is known so well the sparrow's fall, Man heeds not when his brother's plaint is made; Stiange, that the brightest, whitest light of all Should cast the deepest and the darkest shade! But still the world denies its helping hand To those most worthy of its love and care. If Christ returned to-night, He too would stand Homeless and friendless, here in Union Square. 23 GRAMERCY PARK Sara Teasdale The little park was filled with peace, The walks were carpeted with snow, But every iron gate was locked, Lest, if we entered, peace should go. We circled it a dozen times, The wind was blowing from the sea, I only felt your restless eyes Whose love was like a cloak for me. Oh heavy gates that fate has locked To bar the joy we may not win, Peace would go out forevermore If we should dare to enter in. 354 CHELSEA, i860 Rt. Rev. Arthur Cleveland Coxe, D.D. When old Canute the Dane Was Merry England's king; A thousand years agone, and more, As ancient rumours sing; His boat was rowing down the Ouse, At eve, one summer day, Where Ely's tall cathedral peered ■ Above the glassy way. Anon, sweet music on his ear Comes floating from the fane, And listening, as with all his soul, Sat old Canute the Dane; And reverently did he doff his crown To join the clerkly prayer, While swelled old lauds and litanies Upon the stilly air. Now, who shall glide on Hudson's breast At eve of summer's day, And cometh where St. Peter's tower Peers o'er his coasting way; 355 356 Chelsea A moment let him slack his oar And speed more still along, His ear shall catch those very notes Of litany and song. The Church that sang those anthem prayers A thousand years ago, Is singing yet by silver Cam, And here by Hudson's flow: And glorias that thrilled the heart Of old Canute the Dane Are rising yet, at noon and eve, From Chelsea's student train. THE PARKS Charles Hanson Towne There are green islands in the city sea, Where all day long, the endless, passionate waves Beat, yet destroy not; and their quiet saves How many a heart grown sick with memory ! Not derelicts alone are foundered there, But children with the laughter of the May — Bright living flowers — in these glad gardens play, Knowing, yet knowing not, the town's despair ! God made the ocean, where tumultuousiy The loud storms burst; and Babylon he made; Yet all the hills are His, dim valley and glade — There are green islands in the city sea. 357 NOTHING TO WEAR (Abridged) William Allen Butler Miss Flora M'Flimsey, of Madison Square, Has made three separate journeys to Paris, And her father assures me, each time she was there, That she and her friend Mrs. Harris (Not the lady whose name is so famous in history, But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery) Spent six consecutive weeks, without stopping, In one continuous round of shopping — Shopping alone, and shopping together, At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather, For all manner of things that a woman can put On the crown of her head, or the sole of her foot, Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist, Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced, Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow, In front or behind, above or below; For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls; Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls; Dresses to sit in, to stand in, to walk in; Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in; Dresses in which to do nothing at all; Dresses for Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall — 358 Nothing to Wear 359 All of them different in colour and shape, Silk, muslin, and lace, velvet, satin, and crape, Brocade and broadcloth, and other material, Quite as expensive and much more ethereal ; In short, for all things that could ever be thought of, Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be bought of, From ten-thousand-franc robes to twenty-sous frills; In all quarters of Paris, and to every store, While M'Flimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore, They footed the streets, and he footed the bills ! And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the day This merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broad- way, This same Miss M'Flimsey, of Madison Square, The last time we met was in utter despair, Because she had nothing whatever to wear! Nothing to Wear ! Now, as this is a true ditty, I do not assert — this, you know, is between us — That she's in a state of absolute nudity, Like Powers' Greek Slave or the Medici Venus; But I do mean to say, I have heard her declare, When at the same moment she had on a dress Which cost five hundred dollars, and not a cent less, And jewelry worth ten times more, i should guess, That she had not a thing in the wide world to wear ! Researches in some of the "Upper Ten" districts Reveal the most painful and startling statistics, Of which let me mention only a few : In one single house on the Fifth Avenue 36o Nothing to Wear Three young ladies were found, all below twenty- two, Who have been three whole weeks without anything new In the way of flounced silks, and thus left in the lurch Are unable to go to ball, concert, or church. In another large mansion, near the same place, Was found a deplorable, heart-rending case Of entire destitution of Brussels point-lace. In a neighbouring block there was found, in three calls, Total want, long continued, of camel's-hair shawls; And a suffering family, whose case exhibits The most pressing need of real ermine tippets ; One deserving lady almost unable To survive for the want of a new Russian sable; Still another, whose tortures have been most terrific Ever since the sad loss of the steamer Pacific, In which were engulfed, not friend or relation (For whose fate she perhaps might have found con- solation, Or borne it, at least, with serene resignation), But the choicest assortment of French sleeves and collars Ever sent out from Paris, worth thousands of dollars, And all as to style most recherche and rare, The want of which leaves her with nothing to wear, And renders her life so drear and dyspeptic That she's quite a recluse, and almost a sceptic, For she touchingly says that 'this sort of grief Cannot find in Religion the slightest relief, And Philosophy has not a maxim to spare For the victims of such overwhelming despair. Nothing to Wear 361 Won't some kind philanthropist, seeing that aid is So needed at once by these indigent ladies, Take charge of the matter? Or won't Peter Cooper The corner-stone lay of some new splendid super- Structure, like that which to-day links his name In the Union unending of Honor and Fame, And found a new charity just for the care Of these unhappy women with nothing to wear? MADISON SQUARE: CHRISTMAS Brian Hooker Here is our worth. We cannot rear the towers Of other times, nor bid our deeds remain Where lesser generations dream in vain, Nor sing their songs, nor crown us with their flowers. The kingdoms and the glories and the powers Have been ; yet it may be the slow years gain A thought more sorrow for a brother's pain, A little joy in other joy than ours. We in whose sight the world is newly known, Shall we match works with Babylon, or wars With Rome, or arts with Athens ? Which of them Will praise our pride? This only is our own — This dead tree blossoming a thousand stars, And every one a Star of Bethlehem. 362 THE CLOCK IN THE AIR John Curtis Underwood High on Manhattan's tallest tower The clock keeps watch and tells the hour. The chimes ring out their reveille. The city wakes and turns to see Its campanile's shaft of light Against the sunrise. All the night It points its ringer to the sky. All day the multitudes march by; While like a skylark's song there falls To waken souls in prison walls To thoughts of meadows far away From dusty rooms that hide the day; Of snowpeaks and the open sea ; Of all the city's symphony This note supernal and supreme Teaching the toilers how to dream. 363 THE METROPOLITAN TOWER Sara Teasdale We walked together in the dusk To watch the tower grow dimly white, And saw it lift against the sky- Its flower of amber light. You talked of half a hundred things, I kept each little word you said ; And when at last the hour was full, I saw the light turn red. You did not know the time had come, You did not see the sudden flower, Nor know that in my heart Love's birth Was reckoned from that hour. 364 AT THE FARRAGUT STATUE Robert Bridges To live a hero, then to stand In bronze serene above the city's throng; Hero at sea, and now on land Revered by thousands as they rush along . If these were all the gifts of fame — To be a shade amid alert reality, And win a statue and a name — How cold and cheerless immortality ! But when the sun shines in the Square, And multitudes are swarming in the street, Children are always gathered there, Laughing and playing round the hero's feet. And in the crisis of the game — With boyish grit and ardor it is played — You'll hear some youngster call his name: "The Admiral — he never was afraid!" And so the hero daily lives, And boys grow braver as the Man they see! The inspiration that he gives Still helps to make them loyal, strong, and free! 365 THE LITTLE CHURCH AROUND THE CORNER John Myers O'Hara In meek seclusion where cathedrals vie, It shuns the shining dome and spires of pride; Content to nestle undiscerned beside The street where wealth and fashion pass it by ; A refuge for the spirit's inmost sigh, With prayer's consoling hush to none denied ; It keeps the faith for hearts that still confide, Renunciation that no pomps belie. And many pass its portal shrine nor stay The hurried step, impatient of its peace; But when the pageant vanishes with day And all the lures of gain and glory cease, One enters, sad as Dante, long ago, The convent gate of Fra Hilario. 366 QUALITY HILL Clinton Scollard Quality Hill ! It looked down on the town With a tinge of contempt, a suspicion of frown; And why should it not, if you'll please to declare, With the atmosphere such a superior air, And the earth to be trod, any hour in the day, Of a texture more fine than mere commonplace clay? Quality Hill ! As you clambered the slope, With each step of ascent (to make use of a trope) An attar pervasive, by some subtle stealth, Began to steal out from the roses of Wealth; And wherever you fared, you beheld on each side A presence arrayed in the trappings of Pride. Quality Hill! There the blood it ran blue; There was more than one crest; there were quarter- ings, too. Yet small quarter they gave to the stranger that came, Those who bowed before Fashion, that debonair dame, Unless the new-comer crept into the fold Through the magical sign of the Goddess of Gold ! 367 368 Quality Hill Quality Hill ! There was satin and silk For "my lady, " and dresses as snowy as milk; There was poise, there was pose; there was plenty of art, But who dare assert that beneath it was heart? And envy and malice? But, stay! Could aught ill (God's grace!) have a place upon Quality Hill? Quality Hill ! Lo ! it nourishes still ! And who can deny that forever it will? A blending of breeding with puff and with plume; A strange sort of mixture of rick and mushroom. Some amble, some scramble, (some gamble!) to fill The motley and medley of Quality Hill. THE GATEWAY The Pennsylvania Railroad Station, New York Harvey Maitland Watts What Rome in sheer abandonment of pride Flung free on high for Purple Ease a lair, Fretted with gold, a-gleam with spoils most rare, Here, to a nobler use soars purified. While from its silent depths controlled glide The slaving monsters as the people fare — Of all things past the free, resplendent heir — Holding the earth in leash with naught untried. Lo ! 'neath these vaultings how oblivion sweeps The older portals! What the Golden Horn? Or Venice, dreaming where soft waters swoon? Or Atlas towering o'er grey ocean's deep? Here, where this titan gateway greets the morn Glad millions press to life's exultant noon ! 369 THE SWITCH YARD John Curtis Underwood Out of the glimmer of arc lights and spaces of shade, Far on the frontier the city has won from the dark, Rails in the moonlight in ribbons of silver are laid. Eyes that are watchful the loom of the switch yard shall mark, Ears that are keen to its music shall hark. Red, green, and gold are the signals that mark the design. Black is the ground where the work of the weaver is spread. Bright in the night is the glittering length of the line, Swiftly and strongly and surely the shuttles are sped Bringing and braiding and breaking the thread. Clicking of switches and resonant rolling of wheels Mix in the midnight with stifled escape of the steam. Down the long siding a shadowed shape silently steals, Sudden it checks; and the gride of the brakes is a scream, The sound of a rent in the stuff of the dream. 370 The Switch Yard 37i Stars in their courses in switch yards of uttermost space, Thrills in the ether that galaxies, systems, obey Meshes immortal of motion and matter to trace; Feel as they reel and they race down Heaven's perman- ent way Past the tall signal tower holding the void in survey. HERALD SQUARE John Curtis Underwood You who have felt the pressure and made good, Who cold and hungry heard the presses thunder; And watched with eyes that little understood Sheet after sheet show white, and double under; And saw beside you there some face of wood, Some well-clad idler's stare of vacant wonder; Clubman, collegian, child or priest or maid: Have you not envied them their careless faces, Their lives untried, untainted, unafraid; Their linen white? These are the printless spaces, The margins for your mark. His ink may fade, God's sheet moves on. You would not change your places. 372 THREE O'CLOCK Morning Ridgely Torrance The jewel-blue electric flowers Are cold upon their iron trees. Upraised, the deadly harp of rails Whines for its interval of ease. The stones keep all their daily speech Buried, but can no more forget Than would a water-vacant beach The hour when it was wet. A whitened few wane out like moons, Ghastly, from some torn edge of shade; A drowning one, a reeling one, And one still loitering after trade. On high the candour of the clock Portions the dark with solemn sound. The burden of the bitten rock Moans up from underground. Far down the streets a shutting door Echoes the yesterday that fled Among the days that should have been, Which people cities of the dead. 373 Three O'Clock The banners of the steam unfold Upon the towers to meet the day; The lights go out in red and gold, But Time goes out in grey. NIGHT IN NEW YORK George Parsons Lathrop Haunted by unknown feet — Ways of the midnight hour ! Strangely you murmur below me, Strange is your half -silent power. Places of life and of death, Numbered and named as streets, What, through your channels of stone, Is the tide that unweariedly beats? A whisper, a sigh-laden breath, Is all that I hear of its flowing, Footsteps of stranger and foe — Footsteps of friends, could we meet them — Alike to me in my sorrow; Alike to a life left alone. Yet swift as my heart they throb, They fall thick as tears on the stone: My spirit perchance may borrow New strength from their eager tone. Still ever that slip and slide Of the feet that shuffle or glide, And linger or haste through the populous waste Of the shadowy, dim-lit square ! 375 Night in New York And I know not, from the sound, As I sit and ponder within, The goal to which those steps are bound, — On hest of mercy, or hest of sin, Or joy's short-measured round ; Yet a meaning deeper they bear In their vaguely muffled din. Roar of the multitude, Chafe of the million-crowd, To this you are all subdued In the murmurous, sad night-air! Yet whether you thunder aloud, Or hush your tone to a prayer, You chant amain through the modern maze The only epic of our days. Still as death are the places of life; The city seems crumbled and gone, Sunk 'mid invisible deeps — The city so lately rife With the stir of brain and brawn. Haply it only sleeps; But what if indeed it were dead, And another earth should arise To greet the grey of the dawn? Faint then our epic would wail To those who should come in our stead. But what if the earth were ours? What if, with holier eyes, We should meet the new hope, and not fail? Weary the night grows pale: With a blush as of opening flowers Night in New York Dimly the East shines red. Can it be that the morn shall fulfil My dream, and refashion our clay As the poet may fashion his rhyme? Hark to that mingled scream Rising from workshop and mill — Hailing some marvellous sight ; Mighty breath of the hours, Poured through the trumpets of steam; Awful tornado of time, Blowing us whither it will ! God has breathed in the nostrils of night, And behold, it is day! RAINY SUNDAY John Hall Wheelock The soft, grey garment of the rushing rain Veils in the lonely, Sunday streets afar. The passengers sit dumb within the car — Slow drops slip wearily down the window-pane. A funeral procession takes its way Across the tracks, the car stands still a space, All eyes are turned and every anxious face, — Save one, that laughs oblivious of delay. Holding her baby close against her breast, The heart of love, too glad to comprehend, And Life at war with Death until the end, The mother throned serene amid the rest. 378 BROADWAY Walt Whitman What hurrying human tides, or day or night ! What passions, winnings, losses, ardours, swim thy waters ! What whirls of evil, bliss and sorrow, stem thee! What curious questioning glances — glints of love! Leer, envy, scorn, contempt, hope, aspiration! Thou portal — thou arena — thou of the myriad long- drawn lines and groups ! (Could but thy flagstones, curbs, facades, tell their inimitable tales ; Thy windows rich, and huge hotels — thy sidewalks wide;) Thou of the endless sliding, mincing, shuffling feet ! Thou, like the parti-coloured world itself — like infinite, teeming, mocking life ! Thou visor'd, vast, unspeakable show and lesson ! 379 THE CITY Richard Watson Gilder Oh, dear is the song of the pine When the wind of the night-time blows, And dear is the murmuring river That afar through my childhood flows; And soft is the raindrops' beat And the fountain's lyric play, But to me no music is half so sweet As the thunder of Broadway ! Stream of the living world Where dash the billows of strife! — One plunge in the mighty torrent Is a year of tamer life! City of glorious days, Of hope, and labour, and mirth, With room, and to spare, on thy splendid bays For the ships of all the earth ! 380 LILACS IN THE CITY Brian Hooker Amid the rush and fever of the street, The snarl and clash of countless quarrelling bells, And the sick, heavy heat, The hissing footsteps, and the hateful smells, I found you, speaking quietly Of sunlit hill-horizons and clean earth ; While the pale multitude that may not dare To pause and live a moment, lest they die, Swarmed onward with hot eyes, and left you there — An armful of God's glory, nothing worth. You are more beautiful than I can know. Even one loving you might gaze an hour Nor learn the perfect glow Of line and tint in one small, purple flower. There are no two of you the same, And every one is wonderful and new — Poor baby blossoms that have died unblown, And you that droop yourselves as if for shame, You too are perfect. I had hardly known The grace of your glad sisters but for you. 381 Lilacs in the City You myriad of little litanies ! Not as our bitter piety, subdued To cold creed that denies Or lying law that severs glad and good ; But like a child's eyes after sleep Uplifted; like a girl's first wordless prayer Close-held by him who loves her — no distress, No storm of supplication, but a deep, Dear heartache of such utter happiness As only utter purity can bear. For you are all the robin feels at dawn ; The meaning of great dimness, and calm moons On high fields far withdrawn, Where the haze glimmers and the wild bee croons. You are the soul of a June night : — Intimate joy of moon-swept vale and glade, Warm fragrance breathing upward from the ground, And eager winds tremulous with sharp delight Till all the tense-tuned gloom thrills like a sound — Mystery of sweet passion unafraid. sweet, sweet, sweet! You are the proof of all That over-truth our dreams have memory of That day cannot recall : Work without weariness, and tearless love, And taintless laughter. While we run To measure dust, and sounding names are hurled Into the nothingness of days unborn, You hold your little hearts up to the sun, Quietly beautiful amid our scorn — God's answer to the wisdom of this world. THE LITTLE FRUIT-SHOP Florence Wilkinson Evans The little Broadway fruit-shop bursts and glows Like a stained-glass window rioting through the gloom Of a grim facade; a garden over seas; A Syracusan idyl ; a lilt that flows In chords of dusk-red colour; emerald bloom Loved by the nightingale, voice of the voiceless trees ; Ripe orchards mellow with innumerable bees. A dark Greek boy counts up with supple hands Lucent rotundities, the Bacchic grape In luscious pyramids, pears like a lute Most musically carved, nuts from sweet lands Demeter lost; oh, many a sculptured shape;— Had he his panther-skin, the thyrsus and the flute, — Lo, a swart faun-god mid his votive fruit. 383 NEW YORK Richard Hovey The low line of the walls that lie outspread Miles on long miles, the fog and smoke and slime, The wharves and ships with flags of every clime, The domes and steeples rising overhead ! It is not these. Rather it is the tread Of the million heavy feet that keep sad time To heavy thoughts, the want that mothers crime, The weary toiling for a bitter bread, The perishing of poets for renown, The shriek of shame from the concealing waves. Ah, me! how many heart-beats day by day Go to make up the life of the vast town ! myriad dead in unremembered graves! torrent of the living down Broadway ! 384 TO A NEW YORK SHOP-GIRL DRESSED FOR SUNDAY Anna Hempstead Branch To-day I saw the shop-girl go Down gay Broadway to meet her beau. Conspicuous, splendid, conscious, sweet, She spread abroad and took the street. And all that niceness would forbid, Superb, she smiled upon and did. Let other girls, whose happier days Preserve the perfume of their ways, Go modestly. The passing hour Adds splendor to their opening flower. But from this child too swift a doom Must steal her prettiness and bloom. Toil and weariness hide the grace That pleads a moment from her face. So blame her not if for a day She flaunts her glories while she may. She half perceives, half understands, Snatching her gifts with both her hands. 2 5 385 To a Shop-Girl Dressed for Sunday The little strut beneath the skirt That lags neglected in the dirt, The indolent swagger down the street — Who can condemn such happy feet ! Innocent ! vulgar — that's the truth ! Yet with the daring wiles of youth ! The bright, self-conscious eyes that stare With such hauteur, beneath such hair! Perhaps the men will find me fair! Charming and charmed, flippant, arrayed, Fluttered and foolish, proud, displayed, Infinite pathos of parade ! The bangles and the narrowed waist — The tinselled boa — forgive the taste! Oh, the starved nights she gave for that, And bartered bread to buy her hat ! She flows before the reproachful sage And begs her woman's heritage. Dear child, with the defiant eyes, Insolent with the half surmise We do not quite admire, I know How foresight frowns on this vain show ! And judgment, wearily sad, may see No grace in such frivolity. Yet which of us was ever bold To worship Beauty, hungry and cold! To a Shop-Girl Dressed for Sunday 387 Scorn famine down, proudly expressed Apostle to what things are best. Let him who starves to buy the food For his soul's comfort find her good, Nor chide the frills and furbelows That are the prettiest things she knows. Poet and prophet in God's eyes Make no more perfect sacrifice. Who knows before what inner shrine She eats with them the bread and wine? Poor waif! One of the sacred few That madly sought the best they knew! Dear — let me lean my cheek to-night Close, close to yours. Ah, that is right. How warm and near ! At last I see One beauty shines for thee and me. So let us love and understand — Whose hearts are hidden in God's hand. And we will cherish your brief Spring And all its fragile flowering. God loves all prettiness, and on this Surely his angels lay their kiss. ON BROADWAY George Sylvester Viereck Great jewels glitter like a wizard's rain Of pearl and ruby in the women's hair. And all the men — each drags a golden chain, As though he walked in freedom. In the glare, Luxurious-cushioned, wheels a revel-train Where kings of song with weary feet have trod, Where Poe, sad priest to Beauty and to Pain, Bore through the night the Vision and the God. And yet, perhaps, in this assemblage vast, In some poor heart sounds the enraptured chord, And staggering homeward from a hopeless quest The God-annointed touched me, meanly dressed And, like a second Peter, I have passed Without salute the vessel of the Lord. IN BROADWAY Vance Thompson I walk in Broadway to and fro With the taciturn ghost of Edgar Poe. Girls idle for us when the lights Are red on the pavement there o' nights. Girls .sidle with strenuous eyes for us, With gestures urgent and amorous; But we mock them, pacing to and fro — I and the ghost of Edgar Poe. " Dear Ghost, " I say to him, "to and fro As you walked in Broadway long ago Did the. small girls idle for you and cry?" 1 ' Ho ! the black stars swung in a yellow sky One night, one night — and a woman came Out of a harem of wind-blown flame; But the lips that she laid on mine were snow — Bitter as ice, " says the ghost of Poe. I make the sign of the cross. 389 THE WHITE LIGHTS Broadway, 1906 Edward Arlington Robinson When in from Delos came the gold That held the dream of Pericles, When first Athenian ears were told The tumult of Euripides, When men met Aristophanes, Who fledged them with immortal quills — Here, where the time knew none of these, There were some islands and some hills. When Rome went ravening to see The sons of mothers end their days, When Flaccus had Leuconoe To banish her Chaldean ways, When first the pearled, alembic phrase Of Maro into music ran, Here there was neither blame nor praise For Rome or for the Mantuan. When Avon, like a faery floor, Lay freighted, for the eyes of One, With galleons laden long before By moonlit wharves in Avalon — 390 The White Lights Here, where the white lights have begun To seethe a way for something fair, No prophet knew, from what was done, That there was triumph in the air. AFTER THE PLAY Broadway, 19 16 Hamilton Fish Armstrong The great gold room is heavy with the scent Of flowers crushed by dancers, and smoke, and wine; The little tables with clustered glasses shine. And always through the buzzing merriment And through the thump of tired musicians' play I hear the drums an ocean's breadth away — Away — and shaded candles hiss and dance Into the air — and burst — my pulses quiver — I smell the stinking field, and 'cross the river I see a fringe of mud-swamped guns that glance When shells come whining toward the bitter pit Of ploughed-up reddened muck and powder-grit — Ploughed-up and red with blood. But what is blood To placid prattlers in another world, Who only recall the showy flags unfurled And waving scarfs, as on the curb they stood Some years ago and watched a regiment pass With jaunty step and cheerful blare of brass? 392 After the Play 393 Yes, what is blood to those in puppet-land? Hung on a new gilt cord they jerk and swing Compliant with the propitious breeze and sing Self-satisfied thoughtless tunes, nor seek the hand That strings them there — discreet torpidity, With ears that hear not, eyes that will not see. There is a sudden stir, and waiters run To catch a man whose flabby face goes grey. "He's dead!" the whisper comes. The musicians' play Stops. A few white-lipped women have begun To cry a little. And all are soon outside. Yet this day twenty thousand men have died. A RHYME ABOUT AN ELECTRICAL ADVERTISING SIGN Vachel Lindsay I look on the specious electrical light Blatant, mechanical, crawling and white, Wickedly red or malignantly green Like the beads of a young Senegambian queen. Showing, while millions of souls hurry on, The virtues of collars, from sunset till dawn, By dart or by tumble of whirl within whirl, Starting new fads for the shame-weary girl, By maggoty motions in sickening line Proclaiming a hat or a soup or a wine, While there far above the steep cliffs of the street The stars sing a message elusive and sweet. Now man cannot rest in his pleasure and toil His clumsy contraptions of coil upon coil Till the thing he invents, in its use and its range, Leads on to the marvellous Change Beyond Change. Some day this old Broadway shall climb to the skies, As a ribbon of cloud on a soul-wind shall rise, And we shall be lifted, rejoicing by night, Till we join with the planets who choir their delight. 39,4 An Electrical Advertising Sign 395 The signs in the streets and the signs in the skies Shall make a new Zodiac, guiding the wise, And Broadway make one with that marvellous stair That is climbed by the rainbow-clad spirits of prayer. SEVEN SANDWICHMEN ON BROADWAY Jefferson Butler Fletcher Shuffling and shambling, woebegone, they pass, Seven in single file, and seven as one, — As if a spectrum of all woe the sun Here cast through some bewitched prismatic glass. From their stooped shoulders, back and fore, hang crass High-coloured chromos of a stage mignonne In tights, astride a grinning simpleton Squat on all fours, and long-eared like an ass. "Success! Success!" we read — yea, thy success We read, wanton among cities : vice Saddled on folly, woe beneath sevenfold: Woe of the lust of life, and the shameful price Of life, — woe of the want, the weariness, — Of fear, of hate, — of the thrice false weights of gold ! 396 IN NEW YORK William Vaughn Moody He plays the deuce with my writing time, For the penny my sixth-floor neighbour throws ; He finds me proud of my pondered rhyme, And he leaves me — well, God knows It takes the shine from a tunester's line When a little mate of the deathless Nine Pipes up under your nose! For listen, there is his voice again, Wistful and clear and piercing sweet. Where did the boy find such a strain To make a dead heart beat? And how in the name of care can he bear To jet such a fountain into the air In this grey gulch of a street ? Tuscan slopes or the Piedmontese? Umbria under the Apennine? South, where the terraced lemon-trees Round rich Sorrento shine? Venice moon on the smooth lagoon? — Where have I heard that aching tune, That boyish throat divine? 397 In New York Beyord my roofs and chimney pots A rag of sunset crumbles grey; Below, fierce radiance hangs in clots O'er the streams that never stay. Shrill and high, newsboys cry The worst of the city's infamy For one more sordid day. But my desire has taken sail For lands beyond, sof t-horizoned : Down languorous leagues I hold the trail, From Marmalada, steeply throned Above high pastures washed with light, Where dolomite by dolomite Looms sheer and spectral-coned. To purple vineyards looking south On reaches of the still Tyrrhene; Virgilian headlands, and the mouth Of Tiber, where that ship put in To take the dead men home to God, Whereof Casella told the mode To the great Florentine. Up stairways blue with flowering weed I climb to hill-hung Bergamo; All day I watch the thunder breed Golden above the springs of Po, Till the voice makes sure its wavering lure, And by Assisi's portals pure I stand, with heart bent low. In New York 399 hear, how it blooms in the blear dayfall, That flower of passionate wistful song ! How it blows like a rose by the iron wall Of the city loud and strong. How it cries ''Nay, nay" to the worldling's way, To the heart's clear dream how it whispers, "Yea; Time comes, though time is long." Beyond my roofs and chimney piles Sunset crumbles, ragged, dire; The roaring street is hung for miles With fierce electric fire. Shrill and high, newsboys cry The gross of the planet's destiny Through one more sullen gyre. Stolidly the town flings down Its lust by day for its nightly lust; Who does his given stint, 'tis known, Shall have his mug and crust. — Too base of mood, too harsh of blood, Too stout to seize the grosser good, Too hungry after dust! hark ! how it blooms in the falling dark, That flower of mystical yearning song; Sad as a hermit thrush, as a lark Uplifted, glad, and strong. Heart, we have chosen the better part ! Save sacred love and sacred art Nothing is good for long. TO FIFTH AVENUE Joaquin Miller beautiful, long, loved Avenue! So faithless to truth, and yet so true ! The camp in battle with the shouts in air, The neighing of steeds and the trumpet's blare! Thou iron-faced sphynx ; thy stedf ast eyes Encompass all seas. Thy hands likewise Lay hold on the peaks. The land and the sea Make tribute alike, and the mystery Of time it is thine — Say, what art thou But the scroll of the Past rolled into the Now? throbbing and pulsing proud Avenue! Thou generous robber ! Thou more than Tyre ! Thou mistress of Pirates ! Thou heart of fire ! Thou heart of the world's heart, pulsing to The bald, white poles. So old; so new. So nude, get garmented past desire. Thou tall splendid woman, I bend to thee; 1 love thy majesty, mystery; Thy touches of sanctity, touches of taint, So grand as a sinner, so good as a saint. Thou heaven of lights ! I stood at night Far down by a spire where the stars shot through 400 To Fifth Avenue 401 Where commerce throbs strong as a burly sea swell, And searched the North Star, O Avenue! If the road up to God were thy long lane of light! — I lifted my face, looking upward and far By the path of the Bear, underneath the North Star Beyond the gaslights where the falling stars spin, And lo! no man can tell, guess he ever so well, Where thy gaslights leave off or the starlights begin. 36 FIFTH AVENUE— SPRING AFTERNOON Louis Untermeyer The world's running over with color, With whispers, strange fervors and April — There's a smell in the air as if meadows Were under our feet. Spring smiles at the commonest waysides; But she pours out her heart to the city, As one woman might to another Who meet after years . . . Restless with color and perfume, The streets are a riot of blossoms. What garden could boast of such flowers — Not Eden itself. Primroses, pinks and gardenias, Shame the grey town and its squalor — Windows are flaming with jonquils; Fires of gold! Out of a florist's some pansies Peer at the crowd, like the faces Of solemnly mischievous children Going to bed . . . 402 Fifth Avenue — Spring Afternoon 403 And women — Spring's favorite children — Frail and phantastically fashioned, Pass like a race of immortals, Too radiant for earth. The pale and the drab are transfigured, They sing themselves into the sunshine — Every girl is a lyric, An urge and a lure. And, like a challenge of trumpets, The Spring and its impulse goes through me — Breezes and flowers and people Sing in my blood . . . Breezes and flowers and people — And under it all, oh beloved, Out of the song and the sunshine, Rises your face! MAY DAY Sara Teasdale The shining line of motors, The swaying motor-bus, The prancing dancing horses Are passing by for us. The sunlight on the steeple, The toys we stop to see, The smiling passing people Are all for you and me. "I love you and I love you!" — "And oh, I love you, too!" "All of the flower girl's lilies Were only grown for you!" Fifth Avenue and April And love and lack of care — The world is mad with music Too beautiful to bear. 404 FIFTH AVENUE AT NIGHT Charles Hanson Towne Like moonstones drooping from a fair queen's ears The pale lights seem — White gems that shimmer when the dark appears And the old dream — The ancient dream that comes with every night Through the long street — The quiet and the shadows, and the light Tread of far feet. 405 RONDEAU A LA NEW YORK Robert Grant A pot of gold ! mistress fair, With eyes of brown that pass compare, Ere I on bended knee express The love which you already guess, I fain would ask a small affair. Hast thou, my dear, an ample share Of this world's goods? Will thy proud pere Disgorge, to gild our blessedness, A pot of gold? Some swains for mental graces care; Some fall a prey to golden hair; I am not blind, I will confess, To intellect or comeliness; Still let these go beside, ma chere, A pot of gold. 406 ON THE PLAZA Bliss Carman One August day I sat beside A cafe window open wide To let the shower-freshened air Blow in across the Plaza, where In golden pomp against the dark Green leafy background of the Park, St. Gaudens' hero, gaunt and grim, Rides on with victory leading him. The wetj black asphalt seemed to hold In every hollow pools of gold, And clouds of gold and pink and grey Were piled up at the end of day, Far down the cross street, where one tower Still glistened from the drenching shower. A weary white-haired man went by, Cooling his forehead gratefully After the day's great heat. A girl, Her thin white garments in a swirl Blown back against her breasts and knees, Like a Winged Victory in the breeze, Alive and modern and superb, Crossed from the circle to the curb. 407 On the Plaza We sat there watching people pass, Clinking the ice against the glass, And talking idly — books or art, Or something equally apart From the essential stress and strife That rudely form and further life, Glad of a respite from the heat, When down the middle of the street, Trundling a hurdy-gurdy, gay In spite of the dull stifling day, Three street-musicians came. The man, With hair and beard as black as Pan, Strolled on one side with lordly grace, While a young girl tugged at a trace Upon the other. And between The shafts there walked a laughing queen, Bright as a poppy, strong and free. What likelier land than Italy Breeds such abandon? Confident And rapturous in mere living spent Each moment to the utmost, there With broad, deep chest and kerchiefed hair, With head thrown back, bare throat, and waist Supple, heroic, and free-laced, Between her two companions walked This splendid woman, chaffed and talked, Did half the work, made all the cheer Of that small company. No fear Of failure in a soul like hers That every moment throbs and stirs With merry ardor, virile hope, Brave effort, nor in all its scope On the Plaza 409 Has room for thought or discontent, Each day its own sufficient vent And source of happiness. Without A trace of bitterness or doubt Of life's true worth, she strode at ease Before those empty palaces A simple heiress of the earth, And all its joys by happy birth, Beneficent as breeze or dew, As fresh as though the world were new And toil and grief were not. How rare A personality was there! MORNING IN CENTRAL PARK James Oppenheim When the morning sun Spills his red lights among the naked trees And one by one The hills awaken — and like wind-played seas Give back the music of the breeze, When among film and tracery of boughs Stripped by the winter's teeth, Green glow the sun-filled pines — man, unhouse Your head of human walls — get from beneath Shut ceilings — let the skies take off the roof Of your small room — and into the Park at seven Go with tremendous stride — Earth there is open wide To the sun and the wind and the amplitude of heaven ! That Child, the World, from out the infinite night Draws through the dark Into the light — And all the sacred mystery of Birth Hovers on the Earth — Even in the pale of the man-gardened Park The mystery of Morn, the beauty and the splendor Through the groves are slipping, from the boughs are dripping, 410 Morning in Central Park 411 A miracle without us, That yet the heart's core owns! — Chant there the pebble-tripped waters shut in stones, Sparrows are over the turf chirping and tripping, And Man's World sings in a swinging circle about us ! O film of ice skimming the crystal pool ! See how it flashes in the wintry sun ! And hear the water splash ! — how clean ! how cool ! And behold how visible, yea, on every one, The silences of enormous centuries, Brood on the rocks and the unstirring trees ! CENTRAL PARK John Myers O'Hara The little lake, sequestered from the wind, Is white with swans that on its bosom sleep ; A sunken mirror where the skies may keep The azure of their summer dream enshrined ; Unsullied by the rim of roofs behind Secluding oaks that cluster on the steep, Or ripple from the shore whose frondage deep Is cool with shadow and with fragrance kind. The tyrant city towers above the trees, Nor heeds the Attic idyl in its heart ; The grind of wheels and noise of feet depart, The woods are filled with fabled deities; A dream recalls them to their sylvan sway, And Mammon yields Arcadia a day. 412 THE MAY PARTY James Oppenheim O million-singing comes the May And whose dumb heart but wakes and thrills Now, as of old, the break-of-day Sings through the heart as through the hills — New spirit and new day are born — Yea, in our souls great suns arise With flame more glorious than the morn Lit with sun-centred skies! O we have watched the blossoms slip Through hills of sunniest silent green, And when at morn the bluebirds drip Dew on wet logs, our eyes have seen — Yea, marked the unmowed meadow tremble Through a million blades of grass new-born — Yea, heard the birds of song assemble The beauty of the morn ! But there is one thing I have seen That shall be held within the heart, When all that deepens into green Or blooms in bright blue shall depart — 4i3 The May Party It was a hill that blossomed rich With buds of an all-lovelier hue Than the wild spring-things that bewitch Each year our souls anew! Lo, in the park, and up the lawn, And laughing in the leafiness, And fresh with all the fragrant dawn, And dancing in gay gala dress, Our city children loosed to skies, A thousand little souls laid bare To all the gales of Paradise That wandered through their hair. O loveliness more absolute Than bird or bough or beast or bud, pure sweet splendors that transmute May's unsoul'd marvellous full flood Into a something lit with God ! gazing where they danced and ran 1 knew then why earth's blossoming sod Had given birth to man ! THE PINES, SIXTY-SEVENTH STREET Central Park — Looking Southward Harvey Maitland Watts Though winds are bleak this greening tells of May, Lit by the winter sunset's trailing gleam, And the susurrus speaks of far-a-way, Some mountain scarp, some hurrying woodland stream — Yet roofed sierras crowd on every side, And ceaseless flows this restless human tide. 4i5 CENTRAL PARK AT DUSK Sara Teasdale Buildings above the leafless trees Loom high as castles in a dream, While one by one the lamps come out To thread the twilight with a gleam. There is no sign of leaf or bud, A hush is over everything — Silent as women wait for love, The world is waiting for the spring, 416 TWILIGHT BY THE MALL Seldon L. Whitcomb The moonlight creeps across yon gilded roof, And northward far of massive block on block The spire of Grace is dim ; the stubborn rock Echoes beneath the roar of wheel and hoof Along Broadway — a human warp whose woof Is spun by hurrying crowds that bridgeward flock; Some with glad faces, some who seem to mock, Some sad, and some who coldly hold aloof. Yet here is calm for which the self has sought ! When crushing grief and stormy rapture meet And mingle here, as night subdues the day, Be silent, till thy anxious soul has caught The harmony wherein the incomplete, Defiant, private note must pass away. 27 417 SPRING NIGHT Sara Teasdale The park is filled with night and fog, The veils are drawn about the world, The drowsy lights along the paths Are dim and pearled. Gold and gleaming the empty streets, Gold and gleaming the misty lake, The mirrored lights like sunken swords, Glimmer and shake. Oh, is it not enough to be Here with this beauty over me? My throat should ache with praise, and I Should kneel in joy beneath the sky. Oh, beauty are you not enough? Why am I crying after love With youth, a singing voice and eyes To take earth's wonder with surprise? Why have I put off my pride, Why am I unsatisfied, I for whom the pensive night Binds her cloudy hair with light, I for whom all beauty burns Like incense in a million urns? Oh, beauty, are you not enough? Why am I crying after love? 418 WHISTLES AT NIGHT John Hall Wheelock At night in the city when the far-off whistles blow I think of you, far-off in the dark and the night, And the old days come back of your young delight So long ago. I remember the evening we parted forever at last, The long, dim aisles of trees in the lamp-lit Park, The windy houses that huddled, chilly and dark, On the twilit Vast. And even the sound of the newsboy's voice in the street And a rattling car, in that moment of exquisite pain, Burned themselves like odors into my brain, Sharp and yet sweet. Because we knew it must be forever and aye, We would laugh, we said, to make it a little thing ; I remember your voice, how your laugh had a curious ring Not wholly gay. 419 420 Whistles at Night The old dear way of moving your shoulders had — And when you had turned away for a little while, How you turned back with a last, brave ghost of a smile, — But not glad, not glad! At night in the city when the far-off whistles blow I think of you, far-off in the dark and the night; The arc-lamp out in the street flares dizzy and white, And the dawn comes slow. THE FLAT-HUNTER'S WAY Franklin P. Adams We don't get any too much light; It's pretty noisy, too, at that; The folks next door stay up all night ; There's but one closet in the flat ; The rent we pay is far from low; Our flat is small and in the rear; But we have looked around, and so, We think we'll stay another year. Our dining-room is pretty dark; Our kitchen's hot and very small ; The "view" we get of Central Park We really do not get at all. The ceiling cracks and crumbles down Upon me while I'm working here — But, after combing all the town, • We think we'll stay another year. We are not "handy" to the sub; Our hall-boy service is a joke; Our janitor's a foreign dub Who never does a thing but smoke: Our landlord says he will not cut A cent from rent already dear; And so we sought for better — but We think we'll stay another year. 421 THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART Lloyd Mifflin Immurmurous Hall, with aisles of grateful shade, Hushed refuge from the tumult of the street, Be thou my Fane, with sculptured gods replete, Mine altar dim — my sanctuary glade ! With genius rare on every side displayed, Dearer thou art than dreams of waving wheat In dales of vanished Youth ! — O rich retreat Throbbing with garnered shapes that never fade! The deathless dead are round me. In these rooms Glow the achieved summits of mankind : The marbles breathe : the color flames and glooms — Immortal Beauty by the soul divined; Inviolate here, the pure Ideal blooms, The flower of man's creative, God-like mind ! 422 THE CITY Edith M. Thomas Not mine with infancy's film'd eyes To greet first light from past thy towers, That soar and dream in stainless skies, Nor heard I first thy chime told hours : Far, far from here my childhood's morn — But here was I reborn. Not mine to taste the keen, salt spray, That tingling smites thy downward face — That stirs the blood, that breaks the fray Of life, in street and marketplace, Where, wearied, none be soon outworn ! But here was I reborn. Here where 'twas given to indraw The air of larger freedom, yet To know the closer bond of law, Here where Fate's lusty blows are met, But not the pinprick and the thorn — Here where I was reborn! In million beating hearts (thine own), A one pulsed world-heart first I felt; 423 The City Then, down upon thy paving stone, In thankfulness, I could have knelt, At one with all — of selfhood shorn — Here where I was reborn ! Dear unto each his native earth, Renascent life thou gavest me, city of my glad rebirth ! I am thy native; shut from thee What but an exile most forlorn, 1 who was here reborn ! Let who will count thee but as part Of this wide land — I, in my soul (More in the gravure on my heart) Proclaim thee greater than the whole! I am thy patriot. Do not scorn Thy singer here reborn. ON A SUBWAY EXPRESS Chester Firkins I, who have lost the stars, the sod, For chilling pave and cheerless light, Have made my meeting-place with God A new and nether Night — Have found a fane where thunder fills Loud caverns, tremulous; — and these Atone me for my reverend hills And moonlit silences. A figment in the crowded dark, Where men sit muted by the roar, I ride upon the whirring Spark Beneath the city's floor. In this dim firmament, the stars Whirl by in blazing files and tiers; Kin meteors graze our flying bars, Amid the spinning spheres. Speed ! speed ! until the quivering rails Flash silver where the head-light gleams, As when on lake the Moon impales The waves upon its beams. 425 On a Subway Express Life throbs about me, yet I stand Out gazing on majestic Power; Death rides with me, on either hand, In my communion hour. You that 'neath country skies can pray, Scoff not at me — the city clod; — My only respite of the Day Is this wild ride — with God. SUBWAY TRACK- WALKERS Dana Burnet Who are ye hopeless who go with dull faces, Treading the terrible floorways of night? Oft have I seen ye flick by in the shadow, Framed from the dark by a flutter of light. Do ye gaze up at the hurtling windows, Streaking your dusk-world with sudden bright lanes? Do ye dream dreams of the lights and the faces ? Do ye think thoughts of the eyes at the panes? Far is your path through the burrows of darkness ! Fearful the death if ye falter or blunder! Once I saw one of you caught in the whirlwind, Hurled to his fathers with steel and great thunder What is your vision, and where is your meaning? Do ye walk only for Saturday's pay? Or are ye sent for a desperate service That I may ride to my true love to-day? 427 ROSES IN THE SUBWAY Dana Burnet A wan-cheeked girl with faded eyes Came stumbling down the crowded car. Clutching her burden to her breast As though she held a star. Roses, I swear it ! Red and sweet And struggling from her pinched white hands, Roses . . . like captured hostages From far and fairy lands ! The thunder of the rushing train Was like a hush . . . The flower scent Breathed faintly on the stale, whirled air Like some dim sacrament — I saw a garden stretching out And morning on it like a crown — And o'er a bed of crimson bloom My mother . . . stooping down. 428 N. Y. Ezra Pound My City, my beloved, my white! Ah, slender, Listen ! Listen to me, and I will breathe into thee a soul. Delicately upon the reed, attend me Now do I know that I am mad, For here are a million people surly with traffic; This is no maid. Neither could I play upon any reed if I had one. My city, my beloved, Thou art a maid with no breasts, Thou art slender as a silver reed. Listen to me, attend me ! And I will breathe into thee a soul. And thou shalt live for ever. 429 OF CITY FLOWERS On reading certain poems in praise of New York Shaemus O'Sheel My city ! How the younger poets mock With present praise thine unrevealed soul ! Surely with scorn thou hear'st their raptures roll, Nor will to their small minds thy mind unlock. Not with such clamoring casuists can I flock; Black witch who ere my birth my future stole, With fury that I care not to control I hate thee and the children of thy stock ! I hate thee and I cry it to the world ! And in return thy uncouth savage love, O lewd amorphous mystery, I feel ! For when at last thy loftiest towers are hurled Hell-ward, of all who mourn thy ruins above, My grief alone, thou knowest, will be real. 430 NEW YORK DAYS William Ellery Leonard Tis something for a poet's lip — Our memorable comradeship. The Empire City of the isle Threw down on us her awful smile. "My fate be on you, " said the Voice; "Aspire, and if you can, rejoice ..." We entered, through a portico, By ample steps that flanged below, A dome supreme and luminous, But housing statues not for us; And sullen made o'er marble tile Dumb exit through the brazen stile: The college of the liberal arts Was not the college of our hearts — We had some other ends to win . . . We saw the iron ships come in From Brooklyn Bridge, the civic towers That loomed too large for earth of ours, The pits between, the smoky pall, The stony shadows vertical Aslant up many a windowed wall . . . 43i 432 New York Days I've read that in the Middle Age, When Dante made his pilgrimage, Each Tuscan baron, bound to feud, Who housed in city walls imbued With blood of Ghibelline and Guelf, Built a high watch-tower for himself, And travellers over Alps looked down On many a grim imperial town That rose in rugged silhouette Of parapet by parapet Without a spire, a tree, a home — 'Twas thus with Pisa, Florence, Rome. But here it seemed some giant broods Had raised the bulwarks of their feuds And mastered Titan altitudes ! We watched on slopes of Morningside Broad Hudson wrestling with the tide, Or from the granite balustrades The sunset o'er the Palisades, Where glowed the Cosmos in the West, Like lightning flashes made to rest And lie an hour manifest . . . We passed in moonlight down the malls Beneath the dusky citadels; We wound from curve to curve in cars On lofty girders under stars ; We drank in music-halls, aflame With lantern green and scarlet dame; And held, where passion most was rife, Our fevered talk of human life . . . New York Days 433 And through the snow, the wind, the gloom, We journeyed to each other's room, In those lamp-lit aerial crypts, Piled with our books and manuscripts — So far above the flash and roar We seemed encaved forevermore Upon some cliff or mountain shore; We read in bardic ecstasies Catullus or Simonides, Or chanted verses of our own In slow sonorous monotone, That sometimes clove so true and free, To us 'twas immortality; We shared the agony of tears Pierced by the ignominious years, And times there were when we were three, But late it grows and where is he? And I long since was inland driven To climb the hills of God as given, While you again are by those seas With more of vision, power, peace. We overcame. But 'twas the press Of no ignoble restlessness — Outside the law yet not outside, By austere issues justified, And justified, were all else vain, By brotherhood of song and pain. 28 POE'S COTTAGE AT FORDHAM Walter Malone Here stands the little antiquated house, A few old-fashioned flowers at the door; The dead past leaves it, quiet as a mouse, Though just beyond a giant city roar. See here the curious porch, the attic there, The quaint square window with its awkward blind, The weather-beaten wall, so blank and bare, And shadowed by an apple tree behind. Within this room Virginia lay when ill, A black cat nestling there to warm her feet; And so she languished, growing paler still, And shivering as the winds of Winter beat. And here her mother through the long, long night Watched ever by the poor consumptive's side. Here by the smoky lamp's low flickering light They looked upon Virginia when she died. And here it was they wrapped her in her shroud, And hence they took her through the falling snow. So on this old house closed at last the cloud That haunts it still with griefs of long ago. 434 Poe's Cottage at Fordham 435 And here the poet's life grew darker still As dream by dream had vanished into air; Here day by day grew weaker yet his will, As golden hopes were rusted in despair. But here were born those strains that cannot die, Romances that shall rule the human heart. Here Fame, whose summer hears no autumn sigh, Shall rear immortal marbles to his art. Here Ligeia haunts us with enchanting eyes, We catch the rustle of Morella's gown; Here Usher treads, and William Wilson dies, And Israfel sings Poe's supreme renown. THE FLEET Chester Firkins Gaunt rocks of death that darkly lay, Unstirred by tide or river's sway, Against the glory of the day The ships of war were still. Kindred in color to the wave, Kindred in menace to the grave, They floated, terrible and brave, Beneath the peopled hill. Immovable as forted isles — Stern guns abristle from their piles — The anchored squadron marked the miles From bay to city's rim. We gazed upon the steely chain — The shackles of the mighty main — Built, by our will, for human pain, And felt the grandeur grim. But sudden fell the veil of night, And sudden to the wondering sight, From far-thronged wave, and wall and height, We saw the splendor glow. 436 The Fleet Phantasmal as a magic dream, The bosom of the hidden stream Burst, beautiful, into the gleam Of lights, long filed and low. The floating citadels of death. As by some mystic shibboleth, Were fashioned, in the space of breath, Into a fairy scene. The things that men had made to kill Stood glorified and sweet and still, While music reached the shoreward hill From out the dream-demesne. But yet again the dawn came, cold. The deep guns, by their thunder, told Their power, where the echoes rolled Against the rocky shore. And out upon the ocean grey, Trim, terrible, in close array, The dreamful, deathful ships away Went forth for Peace, or War. MANHATTAN Charles Hanson Towne When, sick of all the sorrow and distress That flourished in the City like foul weeds, I sought blue rivers and green, opulent meads, And leagues of unregarded loneliness Whereon no foot of man had seemed to press, I did not know how great had been my needs, How wise the woodland's gospels and her creeds, How good her faith to one long comfortless. But in the silence came a Voice to me; In every wind it murmured, and I knew It would not cease, though far my heart might roam. It called me in the sunrise and the dew, At noon and twilight, sadly, hungrily, The jealous City, whispering always — "Home!" 438 VILLANELLE OF CITY AND COUNTRY Zoe Akins Beneath the arches of the leaves I lie, And watch the Lovers wander — Song and Spring — But oh, the towers set in Gotham's sky! A great triangle shaft uplifts on high Its columned shrine wherein the presses sing; Beneath the arches of the leaves I lie. With flocks of clouds the Shepherd-wind goes by, White poppies 'mid the waving grasses swing — But oh, the towers set in Gotham's sky ! As to a fairy castle we draw nigh When home the ferries bear us, marvelling; Beneath the arches of the leaves I lie. Across the empty fields the trumpets die That meadow larks unto the morning fling — But oh, the towers set in Gotham's sky! Far off I hear the city's aching cry, Where Life and Death are Lovers, wandering; Beneath the arches of the leaves I lie, But oh, the towers set in Gotham's sky ! 439 THE ENCHANTED ISLAND In absence, by one who returns no more Edith M. Thomas Art thou there, between thy rivers, With thy towered sea front bold — There, between the dawn and sunset, Lit with amethyst or gold ? Art thou there, enchanted island I shall never more behold ? Dost thou loom, in mystic beauty, Through the hazy, summer light, Like the vision, seen in Patmos, Of the city in the height? Often times, a grey armada, Anchored midst thy waters bright? Art thou filled with joyous tumults That from far thy travellers hail? Do thy clangors grow a music — Throbbing pave and vibrant rail ? Still thy masted lights keep vigil, While thy pleasures never fail ? 440 The Enchanted Island Art thou there, my haven city, Open armed to each oppressed? Art thou there, with all thy strangers Thou hast taken to thy breast — Latin, Slav, and tawny alien From an East beyond the West? Art thou there, midst all abundance, From the wide world's gardens shed — Thou, with palace dwellers — toilers — Strugglers earning scanty bread? Palace dwellers, toilers, beggars, But thy streets they still may tread ! Oh, the echoes of thy pavements Where my feet no more shall be! Art thou there, enchanted island — Thou mine eyes no more shall see? Yet I know, past peradventure, Loosed, my soul shall wing to thee! NEW YORK Florence Wilkinson Evans Into the violet vastness of shoreless and moaning twilight The infinite hulk of the ship of my city pushes her course, Paying out with the rush of her spindle a log un- returning, Crying of births and hushes of deaths recording the knots of her voyage. On her decks by the chart-house they pace, the gal- lant leisurely passengers, Some sob deep down in her hold, the huddled fright- ened stowaways, But the infinite ship of my city steadily surges on- ward; Saluting her neighbours (audacious or timid) the lights of her starboard and larboard. Ship of my city, ship of my city, burning clear at the head of thy foremast, Who is thy captain, what is thy message, where is the port that thou makest? Into the violet vastness of shoreless and moaning twilight The infinite hulk of the ship of my city pushes her course unreturning. 442 GOLDEN HILL. Where, in 1770, Was Shed the First Blood of the Revolution Hamilton Fish Armstrong. East of the rumble of Broadway, Among those streets where yesterday Is clean forgotten in the fray Of money and of trade, East from the ivy-shrouded walls Of gentlemanly old St. Paul's, My quiet way I made. And here, where Nassau touches Ann, Through all the noisy caravan Of this and other years, It seems from far there tingling comes The march of men — the roll of drums — A bugle in my ears. A century and a half ago (Where now the cursing draymen go), Its call thrilled out "Beware!" Then Liberty was something new — King George had not yet brewed his brew Nor redcoats drunk their share. 443 Golden Hill Again that bugle-note is thrilling, Though ears be deaf and hearts unwilling — It sings as loudly still As when they melted leaden kings Into all sorts of useful things On top of Golden Hill. THE STATUE OF LIBERTY New York Harbour, A.D. 2900 Arthur Upson Here once, the records show, a land whose pride Abode in Freedom's watchword ! And once here The port of traffic for a hemisphere, With great gold-piling cities at her side ! Tradition says, superbly once did bide Their sculptured goddess on an island near, With hospitable smile and torch kept clear For all wide hordes that sought her o'er the tide. 'Twas centuries ago. But this is true: Late the fond tyrant who misrules our land, Bidding his serfs dig deep in marshes old, Trembled, not knowing wherefore, as they drew From out this swampy bed of ancient mould A shattered torch held in a mighty hand. 445 MANNAHATTA Walt Whitman I was asking for something specific and perfect for my city, Whereupon lo ! upsprang the aboriginal name. Now I see what there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane, unruly, musical, self-sufficient, I see that the word of my city is that word from of old, Because I see that word nested in nests of water-bays, superb, Rich, hemm'd thick all around with sailships and steamships, an island sixteen miles long, solid- founded, Numberless crowded streets, high growths of iron, slender, strong, light, splendidly uprising toward clear skies, Tides swift and ample, well-loved by me, toward sundown, The flowing sea-currents, the little islands, larger adjoining islands, the heights, the villas, The countless masts, the white shore-steamers, the lighters, the ferry-boats, the black sea-steamers well-model'd, 446 Dust Storm in Broadway — Sudden Disappearance of Half your Friend and all your Eyesight From Harper's Weekly, March, 1861 Mannahatta 447 The down-town streets, the jobbers' houses of busi- ness, the houses of business of the ship-merchants and money-brokers, the river-streets, Immigrants arriving, fifteen or twenty thousand in a week, The carts hauling goods, the manly race of drivers of horses, the brown-faced sailors, The summer air, the bright sun shining, and the sailing clouds aloft, The winter snows, the sleigh-bells, the broken ice in the river, passing along up or down with the flood- tide or ebb-tide, The mechanics of the city, the masters, well-form'd, beautiful-faced, looking you straight in the eyes, Trottoirs throng'd, vehicles, Broadway, the women, the shops and shows, A million people — manners free and superb — open voices — hospitality — the most courageous and friendly young men, City of hurried and sparkling waters! city of spires and masts! City nested in bays ! my city ! INDEX OF AUTHORS Adams, Franklin P., 205, 287, 421 Akins, Z6e, 439 Aldrich, Margaret Chanler, 243 Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, 340 Anonymous, 64, 95, 147, 194, 324 Armstrong, Hamilton Fish, 333, 392, 443 Baker, George A., 201 Ballantine, W. G., 326 Beach, L., 90 Benjamin, Park, 233 Be>anger, Pierre Jean de, 124 Bigelow, Jacob, 165 Branch, Anna Hemstead, 385 Bridges, Robert, 365 Brownell, H. H., 183 Bryant, William Cullen, 157, 160 Bunner, H. C., 65, 138, 218, 308 Burnet, Dana, 321, 427, 428 Butler, William Allen, 358 Carman, Bliss, 407 Carryll, Guy Wetmore, 221 Cawein, Madison, 296 Coates, Florence Earle, 301 Coffin, Robert Stevenson, 125, 127 Cone, Helen Gray, 87 Coxe, Arthur Cleveland, 355 Cromwell, Ruth N., 185 Doane, George Washington, 169 Dobson, Austin, 11 Drake, Joseph Rodman, 106, 117 Drake and Halleck, 1 1 1 , 117 Dunshee, Henry Webb, 26 Eaton, Thomas, 98 Eaton, Walter Prichard, 334 Evans, Florence Wilkinson, 283, 294, 383, 442 Fawcett, Edgar, 209 Finch, Francis Miles, 47 Firkins, Chester, 265, 291, 425, 436 Fletcher, Jefferson Butler, 396 Freneau, Philip, 55, 69, 70, 76, 83, 102 . Gallienne, Richard Le, 259 Gilder, Richard Watson, 207, 212, 236, 330, 380 Grant, Robert, 406 Guiterman, Arthur, 347 Halleck, Fitz-Greene, 109, 119, 121 O'Hara, John Myers, 217, 282, 320, 366? 412 Hooker, Brian, 362, 381 Hopper, Edward, 13 Hovey, Richard, 384 Huntington, Jedediah, 140 Jones, Thomas S., Jr., 275 deKay, Charles, 187, 197 Lancaster, A. E., 226 Lathrop, George Parsons, 375 Lazarus, Emma, 239 Leonard, William Ellery, 234, 431 Lindsay, Vachel, 394 McCoy, Samuel, 328, 344 McNeal-Sweeney, Mildred L., 235 MacKaye, Percy, 311 MacMullen, John, 42 449 450 Index Major, George Macdonald, 317, 3i8 Malone, Walter, 352, 434 Mari£, Peter, 192 Markham, Edward, 9, 230, 276 Marquis, Don, 254, 260, 274 Mifflin, Lloyd, 250, 422 Miller, Joaquin, 400 Mitchell, Ruth Comfort, 349 Moody, William Vaughn, 397 Morris, George P., 132, 135, 152, 162 Munkittrick, Richard Kendall, 313 Nieuwenhof, Evert, 17 Nichols, Starr Hoyt, 220, 249 Nicholson, Meredith, 341 Odell, Jonathan, 53 Osborn, Laughton, 146 Oppenheim, James, 271, 306, 331, 410, 413 Pound, Ezra, 429 Raymond, George Lansing, 36 Roberts, Charles G. D., 348 Robinson, Edward Arlington, 335, 390 Saxe, John G., 156 Schauffler, Robert Haven, 245 Scollard, Clinton, 2, 15, 72, 81, 96, 289, 367 Scott, Moses Y., 114 Selyns, Henricus, 25 O'Sheel, Shaemus, 430 Shippey, Josiah, 78, 105 Sill, Louise Morgan, 35, 50, 285 Smith, Marion Couthouy, 252 Stafford, Wendell Phillips, 270 Stansbury, Joseph, 62 Starkweather, C. C., 203 Stedman, Edmund Clarence, 18, 30, 170, 278 Stoddard, Charles Coleman, 40 Stoddard, W. O., 195 Sykes, McCready, 224 Teasdale, Sara, 268, 298, 354, 364, 404, 416, 418 Thomas, Edith M., 304, 423, 440 Thompson, Vance, 389 Torrance, Ridgely, 373 Towne, Charles Hanson, 357, 405, 438 Townsend, George Alfred, 240, 256 Trowbridge, Robertson, 189 Tucker, Gideon J., 34, 84 Underwood, John Curtis, 228, 264, 363, 370, 372 Untermeyer, Louis, 402 Upson, Arthur, 74, 445 van Dyke, Henry, 6, 60, 214 Van Rensselaer, Mrs. Schuy- ler, 284 Verplanck, Gulian Cromme- lin, no Viereck, George Sylvester, 305, 388 Walsh, Thomas, 57 Ward, Samuel, 191 Watrous, Andrew E., 91, 122, 339. 342 Watts, Harvey Maitland, 293, 369 Wheelock, John Hall, 237, 286, 316, 378, 419 Whitcomb, Seldon L., 417 Whitman, Walt, 1, 54, 179, 266, 379, 446 Whitney, Helen Hay, 310 Whittier, John Greenleaf, 68, 199 Widdemer, Margaret, 314 Willis, Nathaniel P., 142, 144, 150, 154 Woodworth, Samuel, 128, 130, 134 <( Here' s your JRock- a-~way bcac h Clams : here's your Jine young, sa?id Clams. ' Jlny Oranges, Limes, or ons to day ? Very Jine Very cheap"