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lxv.

Of veterans? nursed in that Free School of glory,

The New York State Militia. From Bellevue,
E'en to the Battery flag-staff, the proud story
Of their manœuvres at the last review
Has rung; and Clinton's "order" told afar
He never led a better corps to war.

lxvi.

What, Egypt, was thy magic, to the tricks

Of Mr. Charles, Judge Spencer, or Van Buren?
The first with cards, the last in politics,
A conjuror's fame for years have been securing.
And who would now the Athenian dramas read,
When he can get "Wall Street," by Mr. Mead.

lxvii.

I might say much about our lettered men,

Those "grave and reverend seigniors," who compose
Our learned societies—but here my pen
Stops short; for they themselves, the rumor goes,
The exclusive privilege by patent claim,
Of trumpeting (as the phrase is) their own fame.

lxviii.

And, therefore, I am silent. It remains

To bless the hour the Corporation took it