Oh for a herald's skill to rank Your titles in their due degrees! At Singsing--at the Tradesmen's Bank, In Courts, Committees, Caucuses: At Albany, where those who knew The last year's secrets of the great, Call you the golden handle to The earthen Pitcher of the State. (Poor Pitcher! that Van Buren ceases To want its service gives me pain, 'Twill break into as many pieces As Kitty's of Coleraine.) At Bellevue, on her banquet night, Where Burgundy and business meet, On others, at the heart's delight, The Pewter Mug in Frankfort-street; From Harlæm bridge to Whitehall dock, From Bloomingdale to Blackwell's Isles, Forming, including road and rock, A city of some twelve square miles, O'er street and alley, square and block, Towers, temples, telegraphs, and tiles, O'er wharves whose stone and timbers mock The ocean's and its navies' shock, O'er all the fleets that float before her O'er all their banners waving o'er her, Her sky and waters, earth and air-- You are lord, for who is her lord mayor? Where is he? Echo answers, where And voices, like the sound of seas, Breathe in sad chorus, on the breeze, The Highland mourner's melody-- Oh HONE a rie! Oh HONE a rie! The hymn o'er happy days departed, The hope that such again may be, When power was large and liberal-hearted, And wealth was hospitality. One more request, and I am lost, If you its earnest prayer deny; It is, that you preserve the most Inviolable secrecy As to my plan. Our fourteen wards Contain some thirty-seven bards, Who, if my glorious theme were known, Would make it, thought and word, their own, My hopes and happiness destroy, And trample with a rival's joy Upon the grave of my renown. My younger brothers in the art, Whose study is the human heart-- Minstrels, before whose spells have bow'd The learn'd, the lovely, and the proud, Ere their life's morning hours are gone-- Light hearts be theirs, the muse's boon, And may their suns blaze bright at noon, And set without a cloud.