Bursting with Pride, the loath'd Impostume swells,
Prick him, he sheds his Venom strait, and smells;
But tis soe Lewd a Scribler, that he writes,
With as much force to Nature, as he fights.
Harden'd in shame, tis such a Baffl'd Fopp,
That ev'ry Schoole-Boy, whips him like a Topp.
And with his Arme, and Head, his Brain's soe weake
That his starv'd Fancy, is compell'd to rake,
Among the Excrements of others Witt,
To make a stinking Meale of what they Shitt.
Soe Swine, for nasty Meat, to Dunghill runn,

At night I heard the river's quiet sound
Still flowing on o'er that enchanted ground
As years ago it flowed: th' autumnal breeze
Lay hushed within the dark-leaved alder-trees,
And from unclouded skies the moon's cold beam
Fell in a silver shower upon the stream;
And oh! how fair, how heavenly fair the scene
Caught through the leafy aisles and arches green,
Where light and shade, most marvellously thrown,
Rest on each giant tree and mossy stone!
Soft — as the light that Faith doth shed around,
Whene'er her pathway lies through holy ground;

I.

The rain hath ceased to weep upon the earth,
 The very hills put off their misty shroud;
And evening cometh to her sunset birth
 Through gorgeous bars of black and orange cloud,
While the late beams their lustrous looms may ply
To weave and unweave rainbows in the sky.

II.

Beneath this mountain terrace, at my feet
 Lies one of England's calm and green-field hollows,
And a small village with its rain-washed street,
 And eaves beset with clouds of autumn swallows;
And the full river with its radiant flowing

Old friends and dear! it were ungentle rhyme,
If I should question of your true hearts, whether
Ye have forgotten that far, pleasant time,
The good old time when we were all together.

Our limbs were lusty and our souls sublime;
We never heeded cold and winter weather.
Nor sun nor travel, in that cheery time,
The brave old time when we were all together.

Pleasant it was to tread the mountain thyme,
Sweet was the pure and piny mountain ether,
And pleasant all; but this was in the time,
The good old time when we were all together.

King Craesus dreamed a dream: the live-long day
His heart was swollen with imperial pride
And his eye surfeited with blaze of gems
And gleamy metals, and his weak ear soothed
By fair-tongued Lydians: but in the still night
King Craesus dreamed a dream: 'twas Nemesis
That out of the mute darkness wove that dream.
He slept, and in his sleep he saw his son,
Atys, the beautiful, the chosen Atys,
The youthful warrior, — him he saw in dark
Confused embrace with hazy struggling forms,
Masses, which peopled all the blank of night,

As who, in idly searching o'er
Some seldom-entered garret shed,
Might, with strange pity, touch the poor
Moth-eaten garments of the dead, —

Thus, (to their wearer once allied,)
I lift these weeds of buried woe —
These relics of a Self that died
So sadly and so long ago.

'Tis said that seven short years can change,
Through nerve and bone, this knitted frame, —
Cellule by cellule waxing strange,
Till not an atom is the same.

By what more subtle, slow degrees,
Thus may the mind transmute its all,

NEW YORK AND BROOKLYN , 1883.

The nuptial-knot at last is firmly tied;
A hundred bells ring out a merry chime,
A hundred wires proclaim to every clime —
Manhattan takes fair Brooklyn for his bride.
In strength and beauty growing side by side,
Cities betrothed, you waited vigorous prime,
Like steadfast lovers of the olden time,
Ere greed and gain our early faith defied.

We wish you joy. No longer twain, but one,

The 10th Satyr of the 1st. Book.

Nempe incomposito Dixi pede etc.

Well Sir, 'tis granted, I said Dryden's Rhimes,
Were stoln, unequal, nay dull many times:
What foolish Patron, is there found of his,
So blindly partial, to deny me this?
But that his Plays, Embroider'd up and downe,
With Witt, and Learning, justly pleas'd the Towne,
In the same paper, I as freely owne:
Yet haveing this allow'd, the heavy Masse,
That stuffs up his loose Volumes must not passe:
For by that Rule, I might as well admit,

Down from thy home of cloud and mist
O fall lovingly, April rain!
Wash the gray from the amethyst, —
Melt the hearts of these lingering drifts, —
Plead till thy patient lips have kissed
The earth to its spring-life: the while thy gifts, —
Joy, hope, freshness, — thou lavishest
Wide over hill and plain!

Call to the robin, whose ruddy breast
Throbs with the joy of his first sweet strain;
Bid him put on his brightest vest,
Bid him come up in the elms and sing, —
Sing his sweetest, and flutter his best,

Fast o'er the desert rode Fremont,
O'er the broad and burning plain —
By the Bitter Lake, and the frozen font
In the wild Nevada's chain.
The wolf howled long round his lonely camp,
The mist of morning was cold and damp,
And the dark Platte foamed o'er his charger's neck
Ere he stood on the grand Sierra's Peak.

There's a blacker tide to stem, my boys!
There's a rougher hill to climb!
We shall camp 'mid faction's snarling noise,
And the howl of startled crime.
There's work to do ere we gain the goal —