Though 'twas presumptuous in this friend of ours To think of rivalling these, I must allow That still the man had talents; and the powers Of his capacious intellect were now Improved by foreign travel, and by reading, And at the Hall he'd learn'd, of course, good breeding. XC. He had read the newspapers with great attention, Advertisements and all; and Riley's book Of travels--valued for its rich invention; And Day and Turner's Price Current; and took The Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews; And also Colonel Pell's; and, to amuse XCI. His leisure hours with classic tale and story, Longworth's Directory, and Mead's Wall-street, And Mr. Delaplaine's Repository; And Mitchill's scientific works complete, With other standard books of modern days, Lay on his table, cover'd with green baize. XCII. His travels had extended to Bath races; And Bloomingdale and Bergen he had seen, And Harlæm Heights; and many other places, By sea and land, had visited; and been, In a steamboat of the Vice President's, To Staten-Island once--for fifty cents. XCIII. And he had dined, by special invitation, On turtle, with "the party" at Hoboken; And thank'd them for his card in an oration, Declared to be the shortest ever spoken. And he had stroll'd one day o'er Weehawk hill: A day worth all the rest--he recollects it still. XCIV. Weehawken! In thy mountain scenery yet, All we adore of nature in her wild And frolic hour of infancy, is met; And never has a summer's morning smiled Upon a lovelier scene, than the full eye Of the enthusiast revels on--when high XCV. Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbs O'er crags, that proudly tower above the deep, And knows that sense of danger which sublimes The breathless moment--when his daring step Is on the verge of the cliff, and he can hear The low dash of the wave with startled ear, XCVI. Like the death-music of his coming doom, And clings to the green turf with desperate force, As the heart clings to life; and when resume The currents in his veins their wonted course, There lingers a deep feeling--like the moan Of wearied ocean, when the storm is gone. XCVII. In such an hour he turns, and on his view, Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before him; Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue Of summer's sky in beauty bending o'er him-- The city bright below; and far away, Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay. XCVIII. Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement, And banners floating in the sunny air; And white sails o'er the calm blue waters bent, Green isle, and circling shore, are blended there In wild reality. When life is old, And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold