Together oft they wander'd--many a spot Now consecrated, as the minstrel's theme, By words of beauty ne'er to be forgot, Their mutual feet have trod; and when the stream Of thought and feeling flow'd in mutual speech, 'Twere vain to tell how much each taught to each. LXXVIII. But, from the following song, it would appear That he of Erin from the sachem took The model of his "Bower of Bendemeer," One of the sweetest airs in Lalla Rookh; 'Tis to be hoped that in his next edition, This, the original, will find admission. SONG. 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 segar, mid the jovial throng. That beer and those bucktails I 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. SONG. There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the night long, In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song. That bower and its music I never forget; But oft, when alone, in the bloom of the year, I think, is the nightingale singing there yet? Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer? No! the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave, But some blossoms were gather'd while freshly they shone; And a dew was distill'd from their flowers, that gave All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone. Thus memory draws from delight ere it dies, An essence that breathes of it many a year; Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer. LXXIX. For many months my hero ne'er neglected To take his ramble there, and soon found out, In much less time than one could have expected, What 'twas they all were quarrelling about. He learn'd the party countersigns by rote, And when to clap his hands, and how to vote. LXXX.