Fanny! 'twas with her name my song began; 'Tis proper and polite her name should end it; If in my story of her woes, or plan Or moral can be traced, 'twas not intended; And if I've wrong'd her, I can only tell her I'm sorry for it--so is my bookseller. CLXXI. I met her yesterday--her eyes were wet-- She faintly smiled, and said she had been reading The Treasurer's Report in the Gazette, M'Intyre's speech, and Campbell's "Love lies bleeding;" She had a shawl on, 'twas not a Cashmere one, And if it cost five dollars, 'twas a dear one. CLXXII. Her father sent to Albany a prayer For office, told how fortune had abused him, And modestly requested to be Mayor-- The Council very civilly refused him; Because, however much they might desire it, The "public good," it seems, did not require it. CLXXIII. Some evenings since, he took a lonely stroll Along Broadway, scene of past joys and evils; He felt that withering bitterness of soul, Quaintly denominated the "blue devils;" And thought of Bonaparte and Belisarius, Pompey, and Colonel Burr, and Caius Marius, CLXXIV. And envying the loud playfulness and mirth Of those who pass'd him, gay in youth and hope, He took at Jupiter a shilling's worth Of gazing, through the showman's telescope; Sounds as of far-off bells came on his ears, He fancied 'twas the music of the spheres. CLXXV. He was mistaken, it was no such thing, 'Twas Yankee Doodle play'd by Scudder's band; He mutter'd, as he linger'd listening, Something of freedom and our happy land; Then sketch'd, as to his home he hurried fast, This sentimental song--his saddest, and his last. I. Young thoughts have music in them, love And happiness their theme; And music wanders in the wind That lulls a morning dream. And there are angel voices heard, In childhood's frolic hours, When life is but an April day Of sunshine and of showers. II. There's music in the forest leaves When summer winds are there, And in the laugh of forest girls That braid their sunny hair. The first wild bird that drinks the dew, From violets of the spring, Has music in his song, and in The fluttering of his wing. III. There's music in the dash of waves When the swift bark cleaves their foam; There's music heard upon her deck, The mariner's song of home, When moon and star beams smiling meet At midnight on the sea-- And there is music--once a week In Scudder's balcony. IV.