Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO A POETICAL TRIO IN THE CITY OF GOTHAM, by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO A POETICAL TRIO IN THE CITY OF GOTHAM, by                 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"!





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