Classic and Contemporary Poetry
TO A POETICAL TRIO IN THE CITY OF GOTHAM, by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Bards of the island city! - where of old Last Line: "ye shall be blessed with, and not ""damned to fame""!" Subject(s): Bryant, William Cullen (1794-1878); Jackson, Andrew (1767-1845); Lawson, James (1799-1880); Leggett, William (1801-1839); New York City; Poetry & Poets; Manhattan; New York, New York; The Big Apple | ||||||||
BARDS of the island city! -- where of old The Dutchman smoked beneath his favorite tree, And the wild eyes of Indian hunters rolled On Hudson plunging in the Tappaan Zee, Scene of Stuyvesant's might and chivalry, And Knickerbocker's fame, -- I have made bold To come before ye, at the present time, And reason with ye in the way of rhyme. Time was when poets kept the quiet tenor Of their green pathway through th' Arcadian vale, Chiming their music in the low sweet manner Of song-birds warbling to the "SoftSouth" gale; Wooing the Muse where gentle zephyrs fan her, Where all is peace and earth may not assail; Telling of lutes and flowers, of love and fear, Of shepherds, sheep and lambs, and "such small deer." But ye! lost recreants -- straying from the green And pleasant vista of your early time, With broken lutes and crownless skulls -- are seen Spattering your neighbors with abhorrent slime Of the low world's pollution! Ye have been So long apostates from the Heaven of rhyme, That of the Muses, every mother's daughter Blushes to own such graceless bards e'er sought her. "Hurrah for Jackson!" is the music now Which your cracked lutes have learned alone to utter, As, crouching in Corruption's shadow low, Ye daily sweep them for your bread and butter, Cheered by the applauses of the friends who show Their heads above the offal of the gutter, And, like the trees which Orpheus moved at will, Reel, as in token of your matchless skill! Thou son of Scotia! -- nursed beside the grave Of the proud peasant-minstrel, and to whom The wild muse of thy mountain dwelling gave A portion of its spirit, -- if the tomb Could burst its silence, o'er the Atlantic's wave, To thee his voice of stern rebuke would come, Who dared to waken with a master's hand The lyre of freedom in a fettered land. And thou! -- once treading firmly the proud deck O'er which thy country's honored flag was sleeping, Calmly in peace, or to the hostile beck Of coming foes in starry splendor sweeping, -- Thy graphic tales of battle or of wreck, Or lone night-watch in middle ocean keeping, Have made thy "Leisure Hours" more prized by far Than those now spent in Party's wordy war. And last, not least, thou! -- now nurtured in the land Where thy bold-hearted fathers long ago Rocked Freedom's cradle, till its infant hand Strangled the serpent fierceness of its foe, -- Thou, whose clear brow in early time was fanned By the soft airs which from Castalia flow! -- Where art thou now? feeding with hickory ladle The curs of Faction with thy daily twaddle! Men have looked up to thee, as one to be A portion of our glory; and the light And fairy hands of woman beckoned thee On to thy laurel guerdon; and those bright And gifted spirits, whom the broad blue sea Hath shut from thy communion, bid thee, "Write," Like John of Patmos. Is all this forgotten, For Yankee brawls and Carolina cotton? Are autumn's rainbow hues no longer seen? Flows the "Green River" through its vale no more? Steals not thy "Rivulet" by its banks of green? Wheels upward from its dark and sedgy shore Thy "Water Fowl" no longer? -- that the mean And vulgar strife, the ranting and the roar Extempore, like Bottom's should be thine, -- Thou feeblest truck-horse in the Hero's line! Lost trio! -- turn ye to the minstrel pride Of classic Britain. Even effeminate Moore Has cast the wine-cup and the lute aside For Erin and O'Connell; and before His country's altar, Bulwer breasts the tide Of old oppression. Sadly brooding o'er, The fate of heroes struggling to be free, Even Campbell speaks for Poland. Where are ye? Hirelings of traitors! -- know ye not that men Are rousing up around ye to retrieve Our country's honor, which too long has been Debased by those for whom ye daily weave Your web of fustian; that from tongue and pen Of those who o'er our tarnished honor grieve, Of the pure-hearted and the gifted, come Hourly the tokens of your master's doom? Turn from their ruin! Dash your chains aside! Stand up like men for Liberty and Law, And free opinion. Check Corruption's pride, Soothe the loud storm of fratricidal war, -- And the bright honors of your eventide Shall share the glory which your morning saw; The patriot's heart shall gladden at your name, Ye shall be blessed with, and not "damned to fame"! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...READY FOR THE CANNERY by BERTON BRALEY TRANTER IN AMERICA by AUGUST KLEINZAHLER MEETING YOU AT THE PIERS by KENNETH KOCH FEBRUARY EVENING IN NEW YORK by DENISE LEVERTOV ON 52ND STREET by PHILIP LEVINE THREE POEMS FOR NEW YORK by JOSEPHINE MILES NEW YORK SUBWAY by HILDA MORLEY AMY WENTWORTH; FOR WILLIAM BRADFORD by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER |
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