Obrázky na stránke


Hark! the tolling bell !—what a fearful knell !

How shudders the soul with dread! 'Tis the voice of death,—with his warning breath,

He tells of the recent dead.
And where has Death been in the midst of kin?

To sever the fondest ties?
Where all was so fair, has he flung despair?

What victim in dust now lies ?
Perhaps he has torn, from a heart careworn,

Some child who had linger'd long;
And a love so pure, it shall clasp no more,

The babe it had hush'd with song.
Perhaps he has ta’en, what had yet no stain-

Some maid to her early tomb;
Oh! out upon Death, that his hateful breath

Should wither her youthful bloom.
Perchance 'tis some youth, whose honor and truth

Were plighted to her who hears;
He's shrouded to-day, and she kneels to pray,

While bitterly fall her tears.
I know not in sooth, be it age or youth,

"Tis an awful sound to hear,
For it makes one shrink, on the frightful brink

To which we are all so near.
Then toll away, Bell! thine's a powerful spell

To wake in the soul remorse ;
The murderer's wrath, it may stop in its path,

The dagger's descending force.
Aye, toll away, Bell! what better can tell

How fleeting is all and vain,
How Death in the dark, is choosing his mark

To add to his heaps of slain.
Toll! toll away, Death! fast fleeting's thy breath,

Toll while thou mayest that Bell; But strike thy last chime!-thou endest with time

God's trumpet shall ring thy knell.


To the Senate, on taking leave in February

, 1829. Farewell Senate Chamber, green tables and chairs,

Farewell to the scene of my fun;
Farewell my dear friends, I pronounce it with tears,

My public career it is run.
No more shall I listen to speeches, sublime,

About ev'ry thing under the sun;
No more shall I sketch the discussion in rhyme,

My public career it is run.
No more shall I grasp the warm hand of a friend,

As here I have oftentimes done;
Like Othello's, my business is now at an end,

My public career it is run.
No more shall I ponder, o'er book and o’er bill ;

Of bills I shall soon handle none;
Like Gray, you will “miss me some morn on the hill,"

My public career it is run.
I must hop over clods, with an ignoble name,

Bid adieu to the jest and the pun;
My Pegasus put to the plough, what a shame!

My public career it is run.
No more shall I rummage old Commonwealth's chest,

Or knock at her door as a dun;
My eonstituents have laid my pretensions at rest,

My public career it is run.
In my place I am told they intend to put in

A better and worthier one;
In the room of my body, you'll soon have a Chin,

My public career it is run.
You have the last shot in the locker, dear friends!

The last of a son of a gun-
My ship, d'ye see, is upon her beam ends,

My public career it is run.



A song for the Members of the Assembly.

TUNE.—“Meeting of the Waters." There is not in the wide world, a city so sweet, As the city of Richmond, where lawmakers meet: Oh the last rays of feeling, and life must depart, Ere the days I have spent here, shall fade from my

heart. Yet it is not that Cooksey, serves finest of snacks, Good ven’son, fresh oysters, and fat canvass-backs; It is not the sweet nectar, he gives us to swill; Oh no, it is something more exquisite still. 'Tis that Capitol rising in grandeur on high, Where bank notes by thousands bewitchingly lie, Gives a charm to the scene where we figure away, To the sweetest of tunes, sirs—four dollars a day! Oh this spot was so sacred, our fathers loved it, And they writ down enactments 'gainst serving a writ, So that sheriffs and other base limbs of the law, Must not tap here our shoulders, nor give us their jaw. Sweet city of Richmond, how calm could I rest,

I In the midst of thy mists, near the great public chest, Where the cares which we feel in this hard world are

lost, While we drink and carouse, sirs, at other men's cost. Then push round the bottle, ye lovers of fun, Never heed here that spectre of ill, called a dun; Should he ask his “small balance” we'll bid him to

wait Till we've got all the balance of funds from the state.

THE ADAMS CONVENTION. Jackson folks! Jackson folks! all who are orthodox

Have you heard of the great Adams meeting ?There's a terrific squall blown in the hall,

And you'll get a most terrible beating.

Parson Ker! parson Ker! yes he was in there

The State's getting fond of the Church ; This meek politician put up a petition

That Jackson be left in the lurch. Richmond town, Richmond town were there to look

down On the things that were speaking and writing, And some in the lobby, got up on their hobby,

That is they went fairly to fighting.
Little Frank! little Frank! they gave the first rank,

And the chair of the speaker he took;
But 'tis said, entre nous, he once hated John Q-,

Think of that! think of that master Brooke!
Bob Taylor! Bob Taylor! that eloquent railer,

Cut a splash in this Adams divan;
But if proverbs be true, no harm it will do-

Nine tailors it takes to a man.
Ned Colston! Ned Colston! whose nick-name is roll-

stone, Like Sysiphus labor'd amain; With a very good will, he'd been working up hill,

And was ready to do so again. Sam Blackburn! Sam Blackburn said no man should

backturn; Who once had put hand to the plough ; And his terrible eyes, he threw up to the skies,

And shook like a lion his pow.
Chap Johnson! Chap Johnson! why he's Monsieur

Oh yes he's their Magnus Apollo !
From a whisper so small, none heard it at all,

He gave them a Stentor-like halloo.
Now between you and I, there were many small Fry,

Whose names 'twould be needless to mention ; What Johnson would halloo, they seem'd all to swallow,

They came with no other intention.


What a dust! what a dust! this assembly august!

Will raise in this ancient Dominion ; They have in their crowns, more wisdom, by zounds!

Than is in thy pandects, Justinian!
Jackson's gone, Jackson's gone, to all be it known

Let me cry like Æneas—infandum !-
They made out a ticket, and up they will stick it,

And throw out a tub, ad captandum.
By some hocus pocus, I hope 'tis to joke us,

Their list makes a wonderful show-
Yes, gentlemen, damn me! they've taken our Jamie,

And followed him up with Monroe.
Rhyming lad, rhyming lad, you'll make people mad,

You'd better be reading your Bible;
Oh no you've forgot, 'tis adjudged, is it not,

That truth is by no means a libel.

The Meeting of Congress.

Sound the trumpet !-beat the drum!
To Congress come, to congress come;
All is bustle and busy hum,
And pens are nibbing on ev'ry thumb-

Come to the Congress, come.
All who rise to the top like scum-
All who intend to speak us dumb-
And all who mean to sit quite mum,
From ev'ry quarter, come, oh come-

Come to the Congress, come. Chief of the Nullifiers ! Hayne! Soild with dust of the southern plain, Come once more, with your might and main, Grapple the giant again—again

Come to the Congress, come. Triton amongst the minnows small ! Spouting away upon subjects all;

« PredošláPokračovať »