We fondly hope that he will be respected At home, and soon obtain a place or pension. We should regret to see him live neglected, Like Fearon, Ashe, and others we could mention; Who paid us friendly visits to abuse Our country, and find food for the reviews. LIX. But to return.--The Heliconian waters Are sparkling in their native fount no more, And after years of wandering, the nine daughters Of poetry have found upon our shore A happier home, and on their sacred shrines Glow in immortal ink, the polish'd lines LX. Of Woodworth, Doctor Farmer, Moses Scott-- Names hallow'd by their reader's sweetest smile; And who that reads at all has read them not? "That blind old man of Scio's rocky isle," Homer, was well enough; but would he ever Have written, think ye, the Backwoodsman? never. LXI. Alas! for Paulding--I regret to see In such a stanza one whose giant powers, Seen in their native element, will be Known to a future age, the pride of ours. There is none breathing who can better wield The battle-axe of satire. On its field LXII. The wreath he fought for he has bravely won, Long be its laurel green around his brow! It is too true, I'm somewhat fond of fun And jesting; but for once I'm serious now. Why is he sipping weak Castalian dews? The muse has damn'd him--let him damn the muse LXIII. But to return once more: the ancients fought Some tolerable battles. Marathon Is still a theme for high and holy thought, And many a poet's lay. We linger on The page that tells us of the brave and free, And reverence thy name, unmatch'd Thermopylæ. LXIV. And there were spirited troops in other days-- The Roman legion and the Spartan band, And Swartwout's gallant corps, the Iron Grays-- Soldiers who met their foemen hand to hand, Or swore, at least, to meet them undismay'd; Yet what were these to General Laight's brigade LXV. Of veterans? nursed in that Free School of glory, The New-York State Militia. From Bellevue, E'en to the Battery flagstaff, the proud story Of their man[oe]uvres at the last review Has rang; and Clinton's "order" told afar He never led a better corps to war. LXVI. What, Egypt, was thy magic, to the tricks Of Mr. Charles, Judge Spencer, or Van Buren? The first with cards, the last in politics, A conjuror's fame for years have been securing. And who would now the Athenian dramas read When he can get "Wall-street," by Mr. Mead. LXVII. I might say much about our letter'd men, Those "grave and reverend seigniors," who compose Our learn'd societies--but here my pen Stops short; for they themselves, the rumour goes, The exclusive privilege by patent claim, Of trumpeting (as the phrase is) their own fame.