TO JOHN MINSHULL, ESQ.,32
POET AND PLAYWRIGHT: FORMERLY OF MAIDEN LANE, BUT NOW
ABSENT IN EUROPE.
h! bard of the West, hasten back from Great Britain,
Our harp-strings are silent, they droop on the tree;
What poet among us is worthy to sit in
The chair whose fair cushion was hallowed by thee?
In vain the wild clouds o’er our mountain-tops hover,
Our rivers flow sadly, our groves are bereft;
They have lost, and forever, their poet, their lover!
And Woodworth and Paulding are all we have left.
Great Woodworth, the champion of Buckets and Freedom,
Thou editor, author, and critic to boot,
I must leave thy rich volumes to those that can read ’em,
For my part I never had patience to do’t.
And as for poor Upham (who in a fine huff says
He’ll yield to no Briton the laurel of wit),
Alas! they have “stolen his ideas,” as Puff says,
I had read all his verses before they were writ.
