THE IRON GRAYS.11

E twine the wreath of honor

Around the warrior's brow,

Who, at his country's altar, breathes

The life-devoting vow,

And shall we to the Iron Grays

The meed of praise deny,

Who freely swore, in danger's days,

For their native land to die?

For o'er our bleeding country

Ne'er lowered a darker storm,

Than bade them round their gallant chief

The iron phalanx form.

When first their banner waved in air,
Invasion's bands were nigh,

And the battle-drum beat long and loud,
And the torch of war blazed high !

Though still bright gleam their bayonets,
Unstained with hostile gore,
Far distant yet is England's host,

Unheard her cannon's roar.

Yet not in vain they flew to arms;
It made the foeman know

That many a gallant heart must bleed

Ere freedom's star be low.

Guards of a nation's destiny!

High is that nation's claim,
For not unknown your spirit proud,
Nor your daring chieftain's name.
'Tis yours to shield the dearest ties
That bind to life the heart,
That mingle with the earliest breath,
And with our last depart.

The angel-smile of beauty

What heart but bounds to feel?

Her fingers buckled on the belt,
That sheathes your gleaming steel
And if the soldier's honored death
In battle be your doom,

Her tears shall bid the flowers be green
That blossom round your tomb.

Tread on the path of duty,

Band of the patriot brave,

Prepared to rush, at honor's call,
"To glory or the grave.”
Nor bid your flag again be furled
Till proud its eagles soar,

Till the battle-drum has ceased to beat,

And the war-torch burns no more.

AN EPISTLE TO

|EAR ****, 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 dipped 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 honor, A lady with fashion's own impress upon her;

Or a gentleman blessed 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.”

Apropos-our friend A. chanced this morning to meet The accomplished Miss B. as he passed Contoit's Garden, 12

Both in town in July!-he crossed over the street,

And she entered the rouge-shop of Mrs. St. Martin.13 Resolved not to look at another known face,

Through Leonard and Church Streets she walked to Park Place,

And he turned from Broadway into Catharine Lane, And coursed, to avoid her, through alley and by-street,

Till they met, as the devil would have it, again,

Face to face, near the pump at the corner of Dey

Street.

AN EPISTLE TO

97

Yet, as most of "The Fashion" are journeying now,
With the brown hues of summer on cheek and on brow,
The few "gens comme il faut" who are lingering here,
Are, like fruits out of season, more welcome and dear,
Like "the last rose of summer, left blooming alone,"
Or the last snows of winter, pure ice of haut ton,
Unmelted, undimmed by the sun's brightest ray,
And, like diamonds, making night's darkness seem day.
One meets them in groups, that Canova might fancy,
At our new lounge at evening, the Opera Français,11
In nines like the Muses, in threes like the Graces,
Green spots in a desert of commonplace faces.
The Queen, Mrs. Adams, goes there sweetly dressed
In a beautiful bonnet, all golden and flowery;
While the King, Mr. Bonaparte, smiles on Celeste,
Heloise, and Hutin, from his box at the Bowery.

For news, Parry still the North Sea is exploring,
And the Grand Turk has taken, they say, the Acrop-
olis,

And we, in Swamp Place,1 have discovered, in boring,
A mineral spring to refine the metropolis.
The day we discovered it was, by-the-way,
In the life of the Cockneys, a glorious day.

For we all had been taught, by tradition and reading,
That to gain what admits us to levees of kings,
The gentleness, courtesy, grace of high breeding,
The only sure way was to "visit the Springs."
So the whole city visited Swamp Spring en masse,