from Fanny

I

Fanny was younger once than she is now,

   And prettier of course: I do not mean

To say that there are wrinkles on her brow;

   Yet, to be candid, she is past eighteen—

Perhaps past twenty—but the girl is shy

About her age, and Heaven forbid that I

II

Should get myself in trouble by revealing

   A secret of this sort; I have too long

Loved pretty women with a poet’s feeling,

   And when a boy, in day dream and in song,

Have knelt me down and worshipp’d them: alas!

They never thank’d me for’t—but let that pass.

V

Her father kept, some fifteen years ago,

   A retail dry-good shop in Chatham-street,

And nursed his little earnings, sure though slow,

   Till, having muster’d wherewithal to meet

The gaze of the great world, he breathed the air

Of Pearl-street—and "set up" in Hanover-square.

VI

Money is power, ’tis said—I never tried;

   I’m but a poet—and bank-notes to me

Are curiosities, as closely eyed,

   Whene’er I get them, as a stone would be,

Toss’d from the moon on Doctor Mitchill’s table,

Or classic brickbat from the tower of Babel.

VII

But he I sing of well has known and felt

   That money hath a power and a dominion;

For when in Chatham-street the good man dwelt,

   No one would give a sous for his opinion.

And though his neighbours were extremely civil,

Yet, on the whole, they thought him—a poor devil,

VIII

A decent kind of person; one whose head

   Was not of brains particularly full;

It was not known that he had ever said

   Any thing worth repeating—’twas a dull,

Good, honest man—what Paulding’s muse would call

A “cabbage head”—but he excelled them all

IX

In that most noble of the sciences,

   The art of making money; and he found

The zeal for quizzing him grew less and less,

   As he grew richer; till upon the ground

Of Pearl-street, treading proudly in the might

And majesty of wealth, a sudden light

X

Flash’d like the midnight lightning on the eyes

   Of all who knew him; brilliant traits of mind,

And genius, clear and countless as the dies

   Upon the peacock’s plumage; taste refined,

Wisdom and wit, were his—perhaps much more.

’Twas strange they had not found it out before.

XXV

Dear to the exile is his native land,

   In memory’s twilight beauty seen afar:

Dear to the broker is a note of hand,

   Collaterally secured—the polar star

Is dear at midnight to the sailor’s eyes,

And dear are Bristed’s volumes at “half price;”

XXVI

But dearer far to me each fairy minute

   Spent in that fond forgetfulness of grief;

There is an airy web of magic in it,

   As in Othello’s pocket-handkerchief,

Veiling the wrinkles on the brow of sorrow,

The gathering gloom to-day, the thunder cloud to-morrow.

XLI

Since that wise pedant, Johnson, was in fashion,

   Manners have changed as well as moons; and he

Would fret himself once more into a passion,

   Should he return (which heaven forbid!), and see,

How strangely from his standard dictionary,

The meaning of some words is made to vary.

XLII

For instance, an undress at present means

   The wearing a pelisse, a shawl, or so;

Or any thing you please, in short, that screens

   The face, and hides the form from top to toe;

Of power to brave a quizzing-glass, or storm—

’Tis worn in summer, when the weather’s warm.

XLIII

But a full dress is for a winter’s night.

   The most genteel is made of "woven air;"

That kind of classic cobweb, soft and light,

   Which Lady Morgan’s Ida used to wear.

And ladies, this aërial manner dress'd in,

Look Eve-like, angel-like, and interesting.