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,
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 Acropolis,
And we, in Swamp Place, 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,

From attorney to sweep, from physician to pavior, To drink of cold water at sixpence a glass,

And learn true politeness and genteel behavior. Though the crowd was immense till the hour of departure, No gentleman's feelings were hurt in the rush, Save a grocer's, who lost his proof-glass and bung

starter,

And a chimney-sweep's, robbed of his scraper and

brush.

They lingered till sunset and twilight had come,
When, wearied in limb, but much polished in manners,
The sovereign people moved gracefully home,

In the beauty and pride of " an army with banners."

As to politics-Adams and Clinton yet live,

And reign, we presume, as we never have missed 'em, And woollens and Webster continue to thrive

Under something they call the American System. If you're anxious to know what the country is doing, Whether ruined already or going to ruin,

And who her next president will be, please heaven, Read the letters of Jackson, the speeches of Clay,

All the party newspapers, three columns a day,
And Blunt's Annual Register, year 'twenty-seven.

***

His shop is a grocer's-a snug, genteel place,

Near the corner of Oak-street and Pearl;

He can dress, dance, and bow to the ladies with grace, And ties his cravat with a curl.

He's asked to all parties-north, south, east, and west,
That take place between Chatham and Cherry,
And when he's been absent full oft has the "best
Society" ceased to be merry.

And nothing has darkened a sky so serene,
Nor disordered his beauship's Elysium,

Till this season among our élite there has been
What is called by the clergy 66 a schism."

'Tis all about eating and drinking-one set

Gives sponge-cake, a few "kisses

or so,

And is cooled after dancing with classic sherbet, "Sublimed" (see Lord Byron) "with snow.”

Another insists upon punch and perdrix,
Lobster-salad, Champagne, and, by way

Of a novelty only, those pearls of our sea,
Stewed oysters from Lynn-Haven bay.

Miss Flounce, the young milliner, blue-eyed and bright,

In the front parlor over her shop,

Entertains," as the phrase is, a party to-night,

Upon peanuts and ginger-pop.

And Miss Fleece, who's a hosier, and not quite as young,

But is wealthier far than Miss Flounce,

She "entertains" also to-night with cold tongue,
Smoked herring, and cherry-bounce.

In praise of cold water the Theban bard spoke,
He of Teos sang sweetly of wine;

Miss Flounce is a Pindar in cashmere and cloak,
Miss Fleece an Anacreon divine.