But, come what may, the man's in luck Who turns it all to glee,

And laughing, cries, with honest Puck, "Good Lord! what fools yo be."

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE

ODE TO FORTUNE

FAIR lady with the bandaged eye!
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 cats his fill;
My books at Goodrich's abide,

My country-seat is Weehawk hill;
My morning lounge is Eastburn's shop,
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
"T were cruelty to tumble down.

COLUMBUS

ST. STEPHEN's cloistered hall was proud In learning's pomp that day,

HALLECK And Drake

For there a robed and stately crowd
Pressed on in long array.

A mariner with simple chart
Confronts that conclave high,

While strong ambition stirs his heart, And burning thoughts of wonder part From lip and sparkling eye.

When sudden from the forest wide

A red-browed chieftain came,

With towering form, and haughty stride,

And eye like kindling flame:

In whispered tones they speak, And lines upon their tablets trace, Which flush each ashen cheek; The Inquisition's mystic doom

Sits on their brows severe,

And bursting forth in visioned gloom,
Sad heresy from burning tomb

Groans on the startled ear.

Courage, thou Genoese! Old Time
Thy splendid dream shall crown;
Yon Western Hemisphere sublime,
Where unshorn forests frown,
The awful Andes' cloud-wrapt brow,
The Indian hunter's bow,
Bold streams untamed by helm or prow,
And rocks of gold and diamonds, thou
To thankless Spain shalt show.

Courage, World-finder! Thou hast need!
In Fates' unfolding scroll,

Dark woes and ingrate wrongs I read,
That rack the noble soul.
On! on! Creation's secrets probe,

Then drink thy cup of scorn,
And wrapped in fallen Caesar's robe,
Sleep like that master of the globe,
All glorious, yet forlorn.

To no dark ambush drew,

But simply to the Old World brought

The welcome of the New.

Ho! City of the gay !

Paris! what festal rite

Doth call thy thronging million forth, All eager for the sight?

Thy soldiers line the streets

In fixed and stern array,

With buckled helm and bayonet,

As on the battle-day.

By square, and fountain side,

Heads in dense masses rise,
And tower and battlement and tree
Are studded thick with eyes.
Comes there some conqueror home
In triumph from the fight,
With spoil and captives in his train,
The trophies of his might?

The Arc de Triomphe glows!
A martial host is nigh;
France pours in long succession forth
Her pomp of chivalry.
No clarion marks their way,
No victor trump is blown;

Behold, in glittering show,
A gorgeous car of state !

The white-plumed steeds, in cloth of gold,

Bow down beneath its weight;
And the noble war-horse, led
Caparisoned along,

Seems fiercely for his lord to ask,
As his red eye scans the throng.

Who rideth on yon car?

The incense flameth high,-
Comes there some demi-god of old?
No answer!-No reply!
Who rideth on yon car? -
No shout his minions raise,
But by a lofty chapel dome
The muffled hero stays.

See, yes, to listen see even madam deign, When the smug seamstress pours her ready strain;

This wings the lie that malice breeds in fear,

No tongue so vile but finds a kindred ear; Swift flies each tale of laughter, shame, or folly,

Caught by Paul Pry and carried home to
Polly;

On this each foul calumniator leans,
And nods and hints the villany he means:
Full well he knows what latent wildfire lies
In the close whisper and the dark surmise;
A muffled word, a wordless wink has woke
A warmer throb than if a Dexter spoke;
And he, o'er Everett's periods who would
nod,

To track a secret, half the town has trod.

O thou, from whose rank breath nor sex can save,

Nor sacred virtue, nor the powerless grave,

Felon unwhipped! than whom in yonder

cells

Full many a groaning wretch less guilty dwells,

Blush if of honest blood a drop remains To steal its lonely way along thy veins, Blush if the bronze, long hardened on thy cheek,

Has left a spot where that poor drop can speak;

Blush to be branded with the slanderer's

name,

And, though thou dreadst not sin, at least dread shame.

We hear, indeed, but shudder while we hear The insidious falsehood and the heartless

jeer;

For each dark libel that thou lickest to

shape,

Thou mayest from law but not from scorn

escape;

The pointed finger, cold, averted eye, Insulted virtue's hiss- thou canst not fly.

FICTION

Look now, directed by yon candle's blaze, Where the false shutter half its trust betrays

Mark that fair girl reclining in her bed, Its curtain round her polished shoulders spread:

Dark midnight reigns, the storm is up in