I'll only add a postscript short,
'Bout him they did elect-
And make a very brief report
Of those they did reject—

The last must here be mention'd first-
Two men of high renown!!

Their glorious deeds were all rehears❜d—
Their like was never known
Before this day.

One, "firm as rocks," was orthodox,
The other 'd been to Spain-
But oh! hard knocks of ballot box
What hero can sustain ?
A father's deeds! a country's debt,
The spending all at Freedom's call!
A sun in glorious honor set,
Were told, but disregarded all
By some, that day.

I think that one had done much better,
But for his warmest friends-
They read a Washingtonian letter,
All letters! seize ye fiends!!—
This letter told of blood and wounds,
Plots by the Federal gentry,

And how John Adams meant, by zounds,
To bribe the Upper Country,
With roads, some day.

A western man jump'd up in doubt,
And asked to hear't again,

He caught a glimpse of cloven foot,
And wish'd to see it plain-

Oh, do not take your specks, Smyth out,
But prithee take a gag—

The cat has clearly turn'd about,

And jump'd from out the bag,
Quite plain, this day.

You've run your friend upon a ledge,
He's dead to-day as Chelsea,

As dead as Smith could kill with sledge,
As every one may well see;

"Oh that mine enemy would write
A book," cried Job of old-
Translated wrong-we should indite,
"A letter," I will hold

A bet, this day.

But here my muse her wing "maun cower,'
Like Burns, in Tam O'Shanter;
They gave old warrior Giles the power,
And off they all did canter-
His "blushing honors" thickly borne,
No frost of age can wither;

They bloom as fresh as when full blown,
And more he yet may gather,
I hope, some day.

His body's worn by ruthless time,
His head is now grown hoary,
But still his mind is in its prime,
His sun will set in glory-
He's saved of late, our good old State,
And pluck'd her honor drowning,
And when thus great, he yields to Fate,
May angels there be crowning
His head that day.

One word for what came after;
I vow 'twas most amusing,
Some dying were with laughter,
And some were heard abusing-
Some said it was a happy choice,
And some "the most infernal;"
And some drawl'd out, in dol❜rous voice,
Good-by to things internal
This blessed day.

Some got a squeeze, and some a jog,
And fain would they have curst ye,
And some push'd on to get their grog,
They were so dev'lish thirsty-
They had not ta'en a single drop

For almost half an hour,

A

Such abstinence would break them up,
"Twas far beyond their power
To stand't each day.

The girls came tripping down the stairs,
Midst rattling and thumping—
And each play'd off her pretty airs
To set our hearts a jumping-
Fair Ladies all, I make my bow,
And hope from bottom of my soul,
Tho' distance must divide us now,
We'll find you at the Capitol,
Some other day.

POETS AND POETRY.

Poetry's unnatural; no man ever talked in poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin' day, or Warren's blackin', or Rowland's oil, or some o' them low fellows. Never you let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy.-Weller, senior.

MR. EDITOR:-Although named after the wisest man that ever lived, I am afraid that you will think me very foolish to be troubling you with my complaints; yet seeing that my great namesake did not always the thing that was right, and moreover, that you did not despise my former communication, but put it down in black and white, I am tempted again to address you. I have given up travelling as I told you, but somehow or other, this world is so strangely constituted, that do as we will, there must be something to perplex and annoy us, and how to get rid of my present grievance I cannot divine. It is therefore that I fly to you in my distress, hoping that your superior wisdom may suggest some way of relief.

Almost all your contributors, I observe, stick up a kind of sign-board at the top of their writings, and you see I have followed their example; I think it a good custom. It answers a useful purpose, because your readers may be considered as a sort of travellers, who like to know which way they are going. Whether they be in search of business or pleasure, they can take the one road or the other; according to the sign, and by these useful contrivances, they can always know

where to stop for "cakes and, beer," or more solid fare. Let nobody stop with me, who cannot be satisfied with the humblest cheer.

When I tell you, Mr. Editor, that I am like the man who never made but one rhyme in his life, and that was "Thumpin and Dumpling," missing it then too, you may well wonder that poetry should be my theme; but I have been so much vexed and worried by poets, that I am almost as mad as Hogarth's "enraged musician ;" and, if I may judge from the manner in which they have beset you, I have no doubt, if you could come out openly, you would wish the whole fraternity at the bottom of the sea; and I have a shrewd notion that you think with my Lord Byron, that if they have drunk of the true Castalian, "it has a villainous twang."

I have somewhere read of an old gentleman, who estimated his books according to their ponderousness. The folios were the best because they gave him the soundest naps; and, for my part, I never read poetry but for the purpose of going to sleep; for positively, I can hardly understand half of it. The words are so transposed for the sake of the rhyme, and the thoughts are so far-fetched, that it fatigues me to death to find out what the writer means. Blank verse especially, is to me, more incomprehensible than the demonstration we used to call at school-Hot Hell-and shall I confess it? Yes, and a thousand others would do the same, if they were as candid as I am. I never could get through the divine Milton in my life. As old Tom Mann Randolph once said, of his opponent in debate, "I cannot follow the gentleman; he is too erratic-he shakes hands with the comets." I never attempt to read Paradise Lost, without being convinced of my fallen state, when I awake, and find myself on the floor. Is there any conceivable subject, much less the devil and his imps, upon which human attention can be kept awake through twelve tedious books? If I could read by steam, I should feel as if I were dragging along twelve burthen cars. I have selected Milton to illustrate my feelings, because he is of unquestioned eminence; and if it be thus with me at the fountain head,

what must I endure upon the tempest-tost ocean of modern poetry? By-the-by, blank verse! What is the meaning of the word blank? Like the fellow who had been writing prose all his life, without knowing it, here have I been reading blank verse all my life, without once inquiring into its meaning. I suppose I was satisfied from not comprehending it, that it was all a blank; but let us see what the dictionary says, for people now-a-days, I believe, are fed upon the dictionary. Blank-white, unwritten, confused, without rhyme; truly, an excellent definition! It is confused indeed, and Milton's verse is, to use his own words, "confusion worse confounded." Can any sober man like you or I, Mr. Editor, read his account of Hell and the Devil, Sin and Death, Old Night and Chaos, without feeling his head a perfect chaos? What monstrous conceptions! What inconceivable descriptions! What unutterable horrors! Was the man mad? No wonder he was blind; for the bare imagination of such sights as he describes was enough to make any body blind. Indeed, it seems to me to be absolutely necessary to be blind, or at least to shut one's eyes, to imagine such a multitude of devils-more I dare swear than "vast hell can hold." Just shut your eyes for a moment, and observe the variety of objects you will see of all shapes and sizes. It must have been in this way that his imagination "bodied forth the forms of things unknown." Some of his descriptions are really so ludicrous that one cannot forbear laughing outright; I am sure I cannot. For instance, Sin, in giving an account of her birth, says, that all at once Satan had the head-ache, and his head threw forth flames thick and fast, till the left side of it opened, and out she jumped-a goddess armed; what followed then, is too horrible for decent people to talk about. Again, when Moloch proposes to attack the Almighty with "infernal thunder, and for lightning to shoot black fire and horror," among the angels, who can refrain from smiling at this new kind of ammunition. I should think black fire must be the least destructive sort. I know that I hate to see my fire look black of a cold day, and as for horror, where it was to