SONG

OF THE THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND DRUNKARDS IN THE UNITED STATES.

WE come! we come! with sad array,

And in procession long,

To join the army of the lost,—

Three hundred thousand strong.

Our banners, beckoning on to death,
Abroad we have unrolled;
And Famine, Care, and wan Despair
Are seen on every fold.

Ye heard what music cheers us on,-
The mother's cry, that rang

So wildly, and the babe's that wailed
Above the trumpet's clang.

We've taken spoil; and blighted joys

And ruined homes are here;

We've trampled on the throbbing heart,

And flouted sorrow's tear.

We come! we come! we've searched the land,

The rich and poor are ours

Enlisted from the shrines of God,

From hovels and from towers.

And who or what shall balk the brave,
Who swear to drink and die?

What boots to such man's muttered curse
Or His that spans the sky?

Our leader! who of all the chiefs,

Who 've triumphed from the first,
Can blazon deeds like his? such griefs,
Such wounds, such trophies curst.

We come! Of the world's scourges, who
Like him have overthrown?
What wo had ever earth, like wo

To his stern prowess known?
Onward! though ever on our march,

Hang Misery's countless train;
Onward for hell!-from rank to rank
Pass we the cup again!

We come! we come! to fill our graves,
On which shall shine no star;
To glut the worm that never dies,-
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!

HEAVEN.

THERE is an hour of peaceful rest
To mourning wanderers given.
There is a joy for souls distrest,
A balm for every wounded breast
'Tis found alone, in heaven.

There is a home for weary souls,
By sin and sorrow driven:

When toss'd on life's tempestuous shoals,
Where storms arise, and ocean rolls,
And all is drear, but heaven.

There faith lifts up her cheerful eye,
To brighter prospects given,
And views the tempest passing by ;—
The evening shadows quickly fly,
And all's serene, in heaven.

There, fragrant flowers immortal bloom,
And joys supreme are given;
There, rays divine disperse the gloom,-
Beyond the confines of the tomb
Appears the dawn of heaven.

TO THE SHIP OF THE LINE PENNSYLVANIA.

"LEAP forth to the careering seas,"

O ship of lofty name!

And toss upon thy native breeze
The stars and stripes of fame!
And bear thy thunders o'er the deep
Where vaunting navies ride!
Thou hast a nation's gems to keep-
Her honour and her pride!
Oh! holy is the covenant made
With thee and us to-day;
None from the compact shrinks afraid,
No traitor utters Nay!

We pledge our fervent love, and thou
Thy glorious ribs of oak,

Alive with men who cannot bow
To kings, nor kiss the yoke!

Speed lightnings o'er the Carib sea,
Which deeds of hell deform ;
And look! her hands are spread to thee
Where Afric's robbers swarm.
Go! lie upon the Egean's breast,

Where sparkle emerald isles-
Go! seek the lawless Suliote's nest,

And spoil his cruel wiles.
And keep, where sail the merchant ships,
Stern watch on their highway,
And promptly, through thine iron lips,
When urged, our tribute pay;
Yea, show thy bristling teeth of power,
Wherever tyrants bind,

In pride of their own little hour,
A freeborn, noble mind.

Spread out those ample wings of thine!-
While crime doth govern men,
"T is fit such bulwark of the brine
Should leave the shores of PENN;
For hid within thy giant strength

Are germs of welcome peace,
And such as thou, shalt cause at length
Man's feverish strife to cease.
From every vale, from every crag,
Word of thy beauty's past,
And joy we that our country's flag
Streams from thy towering mast-
Assured that in thy prowess, thou

For her wilt win renown,
Whose sons can die, but know not how
To strike that pennon down.

Nor them alone: on her maternal breast
Here MACHIAVELLI's tortured limbs have rest.
Oh, that the cloud upon his tortured fame
Might pass away, and leave an honest name!
The power of princes o'er thy limbs is stayed,
But thine own "Prince;" that dark spot ne'er
shall fade.

Peace to thine ashes; who can have the heart
Above thy grave to play the censor's part.
I read the statesman's fortune in thy doom,—
Toil, greatness, wo; a late and lying tomb ;*
Aspiring aims, by grovelling arts pursued,
Faction and self, baptized the public good,
A life traduced, a statue crowned with bays,
And starving service paid with funeral praise.
Here too, at length the indomitable will
And fiery pulse of Asti's bard† are still.

And she, the Stuart's widow,-rears thy stone,
Seeks the next aisle, and drops beneath her own.
The great, the proud, the fair,-alike they fall;
Thy sickle, Santa Croce, reapeth all!

Yes, reapeth all, or else had spared the bloom Of that fair bud, now clothed in yonder tomb. Meek, gentle, pure; and yet to him allied, Who smote the astonished nations in his pride: "Worthy his name,"‡ so saith the sculptured line. Waster of man, would he were worthy thine!

Hosts yet unnamed-the obscure, the known— I leave;

What throngs would rise, could each his marble

heave!

But we who muse above the famous dead, Shall soon be silent, as the dust we tread. Yet not for me, when I shall fall asleep, Shall Santa Croce's lamps their vigils keep. Beyond the main, in Auburn's quiet shade, With those I loved and love my couch be made; Spring's pendent branches o'er the hillock wave, And morning's dew-drops glisten on my grave; While heaven's great arch shall rise above my bed, When Santa Croce's crumbles on her dead; Unknown to erring or to suffering fame, So I may leave a pure though humble name.

II.

Yet not in Fashion's brilliant hall,
Surrounded by the gay and fair,
And thou, the fairest of them all,-

Oh, think not, think not of me there; But when the thoughtless crowd is gone, And hushed the voice of senseless glee, And all is silent, still and lone,

And thou art sad, remember me.

III.

Remember me-but loveliest, ne'er,
When, in his orbit fair and high,
The morning's glowing charioteer

Rides proudly up the blushing sky;
But when the waning moonbeam sleeps
At midnight on that lonely lea,
And nature's pensive spirit weeps
In all her dews, remember me.

IV.

Remember me, I pray-but not

In Flora's gay and blooming hour, When every brake hath found its note, And sunshine smiles in every flower: But when the falling leaf is sear,

And withers sadly from the tree, And o'er the ruins of the year Cold Autumn weeps, remember me.

V.

Remember me-but choose not, dear, The hour when, on the gentle lake, The sportive wavelets, blue and clear, Soft rippling to the margin break; But when the deafening billows foam

In madness o'er the pathless sea, Then let thy pilgrim fancy roam Across them, and remember me.

VI.

Remember me-but not to join

If haply some thy friends should praise; "T is far too dear, that voice of thine

To echo what the stranger says. They know us not-but shouldst thou meet Some faithful friend of me and thee, Softly, sometimes, to him repeat My name, and then remember me.

VII.

Remember me-not I entreat,

In scenes of festal week-day joy, For then it were not kind or meet, The thought thy pleasure should alloy; But on the sacred, solemn day,

And, dearest, on thy bended knee, When thou, for those thou lov'st, dost pray, Sweet spirit, then, remember me.

VIII.

Remember me-but not as I

On thee forever, ever dwell, With anxious heart and drooping eye, And doubts 't would grieve thee should I tell; But in thy calm, unclouded heart, Whence dark and gloomy visions flee, Oh, there, my sister, be my part, And kindly there remember me.

THE author of the "Culprit Fay" was born in the city of New York, on the seventh day of August, 1795. His father died while he was very young, and I believe left his family in possession of but little property. Young DRAKE, therefore, experienced some difficulties in acquiring his education. He entered Columbia College, however, at an early period, and passed through that seminary with a reputation for scholarship, taste, and admirable social qualities. He soon after made choice of the medical profession, and became a student, first, with Doctor ROMAINE, and subsequently with Doctor POWELL, both of whom were at that time popular physicians in New York.

Soon after completing his professional studies he was married to Miss SARAH ECKFORD, a daughter of the well-known marine architect, HENRY ECKFORD, through whom he inherited a moderate fortune. Ha health, about the same time, began to decline, and in the winter of 1819 he visited New Orleans, to which city his mother, who had married a second husband, had previously removed with his three sisters. He had anticipated some benefit from the sea-voyage, and the mild climate of Louisiana, but was disappointed, and in the spring of 1820 he returned to New York. His disease-consumption-was now too deeply seated for hope of restoration to be cherished, and he gradually withdrew himself from society, and sought quiet among his books, and in the companionship of his wife and most intimate friends. He lingered through the summer, and died near the close of September, in the twenty-sixth year of his age.

He began to write verses when very young, and was a contributor to several gazettes before he was sixteen years old. He permitted none but his most intimate friends to know his signatures, and sometimes kept the secrets of his authorship entirely to himself. The first four of the once celebrated series of humorous and satirical odes, known as the "Croaker Pieces," were written by him, for the New York "Evening Post," in which they appeared between the tenth and the twentieth of March, 1819. After the publication of the fourth number, DRAKE made HALLECK, then recently arrived in New York, a partner, and the remainder of the pieces were signed "Croaker and Co." The last one written by DRAKE was "The American Flag" printed on the twenty-ninth of May, and the last of the series, "Curtain Conversations," was contributed by HALLECK, on the twenty-fourth of July. These pieces related to persons, events, and scenes, with which most of the readers in New York were familiar, and as they were distinguished alike for playful humour, and an easy and spirited diction, they became very popular, and many efforts were made to find out the authors. Both DRAKE and HALLECK were unknown as poets, and, as they

kept the secret from their friends, a considerable period elapsed before they were discovered.

The "Croakers" are now, however, well nigh forgotten, save a few of the least satirical numbers, which HALLECK has preserved in the collections of his own and of his friend's writings; and the reputation of either author rests on more elaborate and ingenious productions. The longest poem by DRAKE is "The Culprit Fay," a story exhibiting the most delicate fancy, and much artistic skill, which was not printed until several years after his death. It was composed hastily among the highlands of the Hudson, in the summer of 1819. The author was walking with some friends, on a warm, moonlit evening, when one of the party remarked, that "it would be difficult to write a fairy poem, purely imaginative, without the aid of human characters." When the friends were reassembled, two or three days afterwards, "The Culprit Fay" was read to them, nearly as it is printed in this volume.

DRAKE placed a very modest estimate on his own productions, and it is believed that but a small portion of them have been preserved. When on his death-bed, a friend inquired of him what disposition he would have made with his poems? "O, burn them," he replied, "they are quite valueless." Written copies of a number of them were, however, in circulation, and some had been in. correctly printed in the periodicals; and, for this reason, Commodore DEKAY, the husband of the daughter and only child of the deceased poet, in 1836 published the single collection of them which has appeared. It includes, beside «The Culprit Fay," eighteen shorter pieces, some of which are very beautiful.

DRAKE was unassuming and benevolent in his manners and his feelings, and he had an unfailing fountain of fine humour, which made him one of the most pleasant of companions. HALLECK closes a tributary poem published soon after his death, in the "New York Review," with the following

stanzas

When hearts, whose truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven

To tell the world their worth.

And I, who woke each morrow

To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and wo were thine,-
It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow;
But I've in vain essay'd it,
And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free,
The grief is fix'd too deeply

That mourns a man like thee.

203

THE CULPRIT FAY.

"My visual orbs are purged from film, and, lo!
Instead of Anster's turnip-bearing vales
I see old fairy land's miraculous show!

Her trees of tinsel kiss'd by freakish gales,
Her Ouphs that, cloak'd in leaf-gold, skim the breeze,
And fairies, swarming

TENNANT'S ANSTER FAIR.

I.

'Tis the middle watch of a summer's night-
The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright;
Naught is seen in the vault on high

But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky,
And the flood which rolls its milky hue,
A river of light on the welkin blue.
The moon looks down on old Cronest,

She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast,
And seems his huge gray form to throw
In a silver cone on the wave below;
His sides are broken by spots of shade,
By the walnut bough and the cedar made,
And through their clustering branches dark
Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark-
Like starry twinkles that momently break
Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack.

II.

The stars are on the moving stream, And fling, as its ripples gently flow, A burnish'd length of wavy beam In an eel-like, spiral line below; The winds are whist, and the owl is still, The bat in the shelvy rock is hid. And naught is heard on the lonely hill But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill Of the gauze-winged katy-did; And the plaint of the wailing whip-poor-will, Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings, Ever a note of wail and wo,

Till morning spreads her rosy wings, And earth and sky in her glances glow.

Some from the hum-bird's downy nestThey had driven him out by elfin power, And, pillow'd on plumes of his rainbow breast, Had slumber'd there till the charmed hour; Some had lain in the scoop of the rock, With glittering ising-stars inlaid;

And some had open'd the four-o'clock, And stole within its purple shade.

And now they throng the moonlight glade, Above-below-on every side,

Their little minim forms array'd In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride!

V.

They come not now to print the lea, In freak and dance around the tree, Or at the mushroom board to sup, And drink the dew from the buttercup;A scene of sorrow waits them now, For an Ouphe has broken his vestal vow; He has loved an earthly maid, And left for her his woodland shade; He has lain upon her lip of dew, And sunn'd him in her eye of blue Fann'd her cheek with his wing of air, Play'd in the ringlets of her hair, And, nestling on her snowy breast, Forgot the lily-king's behest. For this the shadowy tribes of air

To the elfin court must haste away:And now they stand expectant there, To hear the doom of the culprit Fay.

VI.

The throne was rear'd upon the grass,
Of spice-wood and of sassafras;
On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell

Hung the burnished canopy-
And o'er it gorgeous curtains fell

Of the tulip's crimson drapery. The monarch sat on his judgment-seat, On his brow the crown imperial shone, The prisoner Fay was at his feet, And his peers were ranged around the throne. He waved his sceptre in the air,

He look'd around and calmly spoke ; His brow was grave and his eye severe, But his voice in a soften'd accent broke:

VII.