LXVIII. And, therefore, I am silent. It remains To bless the hour the Corporation took it Into their heads to give the rich in brains, The worn-out mansion of the poor in pocket, Once "the old almshouse," now a school of wisdom, Sacred to Scudder's shells and Dr. Griscom. LXIX. But whither am I wandering? The esteem I bear "this fair city of the heart," To me a dear enthusiastic theme, Has forced me, all unconsciously, to part Too long from him, the hero of my story. Where was he?--waking from his dream of glory. LXX. And she, the lady of his dream, had fled, And left him somewhat puzzled and confused. He understood, however, half she said; And that is quite as much as we are used To comprehend, or fancy worth repeating, In speeches heard at any public meeting. LXXI. And the next evening found him at the Hall; There he was welcomed by the cordial hand, And met the warm and friendly grasp of all Who take, like watchmen, there, their nightly stand, A ring, as in a boxing match, procuring, To bet on Clinton, Tompkins, or Van Buren. LXXII. 'Twas a propitious moment; for a while The waves of party were at rest. Upon Each complacent brow was gay good humour's smile; And there was much of wit, and jest, and pun, And high amid the circle, in great glee, Sat Croaker's old acquaintance, John Targee. LXXIII. His jokes excell'd the rest, and oft he sang Songs, patriotic, as in duty bound. He had a little of the "nasal twang Heard at conventicle;" but yet you found In him a dash of purity and brightness, That spoke the man of taste and of politeness. LXXIV. For he had been, it seems, the bosom friend Of England's prettiest bard, Anacreon Moore. They met when he, the bard, came here to lend His mirth and music to this favourite shore; For, as the proverb saith, "birds of a feather Instinctively will flock and fly together." LXXV. The winds that wave thy cedar boughs are breathing, "Lake of the Dismal Swamp!" that poet's name; And the spray-showers their noonday halos wreathing Around "Cohoes," are brighten'd by his fame. And bright its sunbeam o'er St. Lawrence smiles, Her million lilies, and her thousand isles. LXXVI. We hear his music in her oarsmen's lay, And where her church-bells "toll the evening chime;" Yet when to him the grateful heart would pay Its homage, now, and in all coming time, Up springs a doubtful question whether we Owe it to Tara's minstrel or Targee. LXXVII.