HILLHOUSE, whose music, like his themes, Lifts earth to heaven--whose poet dreams Are pure and holy as the hymn Echoed from harps of seraphim, By bards that drank at Zion's fountains When glory, peace, and hope were hers, And beautiful upon her mountains The feet of angel messengers. BRYANT, whose songs are thoughts that bless The heart, its teachers, and its joy, As mothers blend with their caress Lessons of truth and gentleness And virtue for the listening boy. Spring's lovelier flowers for many a day Have blossom'd on his wandering way, Beings of beauty and decay, They slumber in their autumn tomb; But those that graced his own Green River, And wreathed the lattice of his home, Charm'd by his song from mortal doom, Bloom on, and will bloom on for ever. And HALLECK--who has made thy roof, St. Tammany! oblivion-proof-- Thy beer illustrious, and thee A belted knight of chivalry; And changed thy dome of painted bricks And porter casks and politics, Into a green Arcadian vale, With St*ph*n All*n for its lark, B*n B*il*y's voice its watch-dog's bark, And J*hn T*rg*e its nightingale. These, and the other THIRTY-FOUR, Will live a thousand years or more-- If the world lasts so long. For me, I rhyme not for posterity, Though pleasant to my heirs might be The incense of its praise, When I, their ancestor, have gone, And paid the debt, the only one A poet ever pays. But many are my years, and few Are left me ere night's holy dew, And sorrow's holier tears, will keep The grass green where in death I sleep And when that grass is green above me, And those who bless me now and love me Are sleeping by my side, Will it avail me aught that men Tell to the world with lip and pen That once I lived and died? No: if a garland for my brow Is growing, let me have it now, While I'm alive to wear it; And if, in whispering my name, There's music in the voice of fame Like Garcia's, let me hear it! The Christmas holydays are nigh, Therefore, till Newyear's Eve, good-by, Then _revenons a nos moutons_, Yourself and aldermen--meanwhile, Look o'er this letter with a smile; And keep the secret of its song As faithfully, but not as long, As you have guarded from the eyes Of editorial Paul Prys, And other meddling, murmuring claimants, Those Eleusinian mysteries, The city's cash receipts and payments. Yours ever, T. C. [A] A favourite French air. In English, "where can one be more happy than in the bosom of one's family?" EPISTLES, ETC. TO W*LT*R B*WNE, ESQ., MEMBER OF THE COUNCIL OF APPOINTMENT OF THE STATE OF NEW-YORK, AT ALBANY, 1821.