To A New England Poet

Though skilled in Latin and in Greek,

And earning fifty cents a week,

Such knowledge, and the income, too,

Should teach you better what to do:

The meanest drudges, kept in pay,

Can pocket fifty cents a day.

Why stay in such a tasteless land,

Where all must on a level stand,

(Excepting people, at their ease,

Who choose the level where they please:)

See Irving gone to Britain's court

To people of another sort,

He will return, with wealth and fame,

While Yankees hardly know your name.

Lo! he has kissed a Monarch's—hand!

Before a prince I see him stand,

And with the glittering nobles mix,

Forgetting times of seventy-six,

While you with terror meet the frown

Of Bank Directors of the town,

The home-made nobles of our times,

Who hate the bard, and spurn his rhymes.

Why pause?—like Irving, haste away,

To England your addresses pay;

And England will reward you well,

Of British feats, and British arms,

The maids of honor, and their charms.

Dear bard, I pray you, take the hint,

In England what you write and print,

Republished here in shop, or stall,

Will perfectly enchant us all:

It will assume a different face,

And post your name at every place,

From splendid domes of first degree

Where ladies meet, to sip their tea;

From marble halls, where lawyers plead,

Or Congress-men talk loud, indeed,

To huts, where evening clubs appear,

And 'squires resort—to guzzle Beer.