And Washington, Columbia’s son,
    Whom every nature taught, sir,
  That grace which can’t by pains be won,
    Or Plutus’s gold be bought, sir.

  Now hand in hand they circle round
    This ever-dancing peer, sir;
  Their gentle movements soon confound
    The earl as they draw near, sir.

  His music soon forgets to play—­
    His feet can move no more, sir,
  And all his bands now curse the day
    They jigged to our shore, sir.

  Now Tories all, what can ye say? 
    Come—­is not this a griper,
  That while your hopes are danced away,
    ’Tis you must pay the piper?

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

MONTEREY.

[Mexico, September 19, 1846.]

  We were not many,—­we who stood
    Before the iron sleet that day;
  Yet many a gallant spirit would
    Give half his years if but he could
  Have been with us at Monterey.

  Now here, now there, the shot it hailed
    In deadly drifts of fiery spray,
  Yet not a single soldier quailed
  When wounded comrades round them wailed
    Their dying shouts at Monterey.

  And on, still on our column kept,
    Through walls of flame its withering way;
  Where fell the dead, the living stept,
  Still charging on the guns which swept
    The slippery streets of Monterey.

  The foe himself recoiled aghast,
    When striking where he strongest lay,
  We swooped his flanking batteries past,
  And, braving full their murderous blast,
    Stormed home the towers of Monterey.

  Our banners on those turrets wave,
    And there our evening bugles play;
  Where orange boughs above their grave,
  Keep green the memory of the brave
    Who fought and fell at Monterey.

  We are not many,—­we who pressed
    Beside the brave who fell that day;
  But who of us has not confessed
  He’d rather share their warrior rest
    Than not have been at Monterey?

CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.

* * * * *

COMING.

[April, 1861.]

  World, art thou ’ware of a storm? 
    Hark to the ominous sound;
  How the far-off gales their battle form,
    And the great sea-swells feel ground!

  It comes, the Typhoon of Death—­
    Nearer and nearer it comes! 
  The horizon thunder of cannon-breath
    And the roar of angry drums!

  Hurtle, Terror sublime! 
    Swoop o’er the Land to-day—­
  So the mist of wrong and crime,
  The breath of our Evil Time
    Be swept, as by fire, away!

HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

* * * * *

IN STATE.