It was but yesterday they stood All (ex-officio) great and good. But by the tomahawk struck down Of party and of W*lt*r B*wne, Where are they now? With shapes of air, The caravan of things that were, Journeying to their nameless home, Like Mecca's pilgrims from her tomb; With the lost Pleiad; with the wars Of Agamemnon's ancestors; With their own years of joy and grief, Spring's bud, and autumn's faded leaf; With birds that round their cradles flew; With winds that in their boyhood blew; With last night's dream and last night's dew. Yes, they are gone; alas! each one of them; Departed--every mother's son of them. Yet often, at the close of day, When thoughts are wing'd and wandering, they Come with the memory of the past, Like sunset clouds along the mind, Reflecting, as they're flitting fast In their wild hues of shade and light, All that was beautiful and bright In golden moments left behind. TO * * * * *. Dear ***, I am writing, not _to_ you, but _at_ you, For the feet of you tourists have no resting-place; But wherever with this the mail-pigeon may catch you, May she find you with gayety's smile on your face; Whether chasing a snipe at the Falls of Cohoes, Or chased by the snakes upon Anthony's Nose; Whether wandering, at Catskill, from Hotel to Clove, Making sketches, or speeches, puns, poems, or love; Or in old Saratoga's unknown fountain-land, Threading groves of enchantment, half bushes, half sand; Whether dancing on Sundays, at Lebanon Springs, With those Madame Hutins of religion, the Shakers; Or, on Tuesdays, with maidens who seek wedding rings At Ballston, as taught by mammas and match-makers; Whether sailing St. Lawrence, with unbroken neck, From her thousand green isles to her castled Quebec; Or sketching Niagara, pencil on knee (The giant of waters, our country's pet lion), Or dipp'd at Long Branch, in the real salt sea, With a cork for a dolphin, a Cockney Arion; Whether roaming earth, ocean, or even the air, Like Dan O'Rourke's eagle--good luck to you there. For myself, as you'll see by the date of my letter, I'm in town, but of that fact the least said the better; For 'tis vain to deny (though the city o'erflows With well-dressed men and women, whom nobody knows) That one rarely sees persons whose nod is an honour, A lady with fashion's own impress upon her; Or a gentleman bless'd with the courage to say, Like Morris (the Prince Regent's friend, in his day), "Let others in sweet shady solitudes dwell, Oh! give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall."