XCIX. Its memory of this; nor lives there one Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood's days Of happiness were pass'd beneath that sun, That in his manhood's prime can calmly gaze Upon that bay, or on that mountain stand, Nor feel the prouder of his native land. C. "This may be poetry, for aught I know," Said an old, worthy friend of mine, while leaning Over my shoulder as I wrote, "although I can't exactly comprehend its meaning. For my part, I have long been a petitioner To Mr. John M'Comb, the street-commissioner, CI. "That he would think of Weehawk, and would lay it Handsomely out in avenue and square; Then tax the land, and make its owners pay it (As is the usual plan pursued elsewhere); Blow up the rocks, and sell the wood for fuel-- 'Twould save us many a dollar, and a duel." CII. The devil take you and John M'Comb, said I; Lang, in its praise, has penn'd one paragraph, And promised me another. I defy, With such assistance, yours and the world's laugh; And half believe that Paulding, on this theme, Might be a poet--strange as it may seem. CIII. For even our traveller felt, when home returning From that day's tour, as on the deck he stood, The fire of poetry within him burning; "Albeit unused to the rhyming mood;" And with a pencil on his knee he wrote The following flaming lines TO THE HORSEBOAT. 1 Away--o'er the wave to the home we are seeking, Bark of my hope! ere the evening be gone; There's a wild, wild note in the curlew's shrieking; There's a whisper of death in the wind's low moan. 2 Though blue and bright are the heavens above me, And the stars are asleep on the quiet sea; And hearts I love, and hearts that love me, Are beating beside me merrily, 3 Yet, far in the west, where the day's faded roses, Touch'd by the moonbeam, are withering fast; Where the half-seen spirit of twilight reposes, Hymning the dirge of the hours that are past, 4 There, where the ocean-wave sparkles at meeting (As sunset dreams tell us) the kiss of the sky, On his dim, dark cloud is the infant storm sitting, And beneath the horizon his lightnings are nigh. 5 Another hour--and the death-word is given, Another hour--and his lightnings are here; Speed! speed thee, my bark; ere the breeze of even Is lost in the tempest, our home will be near. 6 Then away o'er the wave, while thy pennant is streaming In the shadowy light, like a shooting star; Be swift as the thought of the wanderer, dreaming, In a stranger land, of his fireside afar. 7