Thomas's Massachusetts spy, or, Worcester gazette. [volume] (Worcester, Mass.) 1811-1821, 1821-04-18
sFANNY! twas with hern name my song be

Hudson Wing.
"FANNY! twas with hername my song be-
gan;
IT'S proper and polite her name should end
it..
If in my story of her woes, or plan
Or moral can be trac'd, twas not intended !;
And if I've wrong'd her, can only tell her
I'm sorry for it-so is my bookseller.
met her yesterday-her eyes were wet
She family smil'd, and said she had been
reading
The Treashrer's Report, in the Gazette,
M'Intyre's Speech, and Campbell's Lore
lies bleeding.
She had a shawl on, twas not cashmere one !;
And, if it cost Eve dollars, twas dear one.
Her father sent to Albany prayer
For ofice-told, how fortune bad abus'd
him
And modestly requested to be Mayor.
The Council very ciyilly refus'd him,
Because, however much he might desire it,
The pubiek good, it seems, did not require it.
Some evenings since, he took a lonely stroll
Along Broadway, scene of past Joys and
evils:
He felt that whitening bitterness Of soul,
Quaintly denominated the blue derils
And thought of Buonaparte and Bellisarius,
Pompey, and Col. Burr, and Caius Marius.
And, envying the loud playfnlness and mirth
OF those who pass'd him, gay in youth and
hope,
He took, at Jupiter's, a shilling's worth
Of gazing through the show-nan's telescope.
Sounds as of far-off bells came on his ears
He fancied twas the musick of the spheres.
"a Al.
Twas yankee doodle, play'd by Scudder's
band.
He mutter'd, as he lnger'd listening,
Something of freedom, and our happy land:
Then sketchsd, as to his home he hurried fast,
This sentimental snno--his saddest and his last.
Young thoughts have musick in them, love
And happiness their theme:
And musick wanders in the wind
That luis morning dream.
And there are angel voices heard,
In childhoods frclick hours,
When life IS but an April day
Of sunshine and of showers.
There's musick in the forest leaves
When summer winds are there
And in the laugh of forest girls,
That braid their sunny hair.
The first wild bird that drinks the dew,
from vloiets OF the spring,
Has musick in his song, and in
The futtering of his wing.
There's musick m tie dash Of waves,
When the swift bark cleaves their foam;
There's musick heard upon her deck,
The mariners song of home,
When moon and star beams smiling meet,
At midnight, on the sea-
And there is musick, once a week,
In Scudder's balcony.
But the musick Of young thoughts too soon
Is faint, and dies away;
And from oar morning dream we wake
To curse the coming day.
And childhood's frock hours are brief;
And oft, in after years,
Their memory comes to chill the heart,
And dim the eye with tears.
To-day the forest leaves are green,
They'll witber on the morrow,
And the maidens laugh be chang'd, ere long,
To the widows wall of sorrow.
Come with the winter SHOWS, and ask
Where are the forest birds?
The answer 10 a silent one,
More eloquent than words.
The moonlight musick of the wates
In storms IS heard no more,
When the living lightning moclxs the wreck
At midnight on the shore.
And the mariners song of home has ceas'd,
His corse is on the sea
And musick ceases when it rains
In Scuddcr's balcony.
~A-A>@--s---.-a--,----------- ----'---.--a
MISCELLANY.
zzzzzzz