Many, many thanks my friend,
For those sweet verses thou didst send,
So good they were and witty;
And now I will confess to thee,
Mixed up with bad, much good I see
Within the crowded city.
Boston, "with all thy faults I love
Thee still," though much I disapprove--
See much in thee to blame;
Yet to be candid, I'll allow
Thy equal no one can me show
From Mexico to Maine.
It is my boast, perhaps my pride,
To be to English blood allied,
Warm in my veins it's flowing;
And when I see the homage given
To foreign men and foreign _women_,[1]
_That blood with shame is glowing_.
I hope when Kossuth fever's cool
And we have put our wits to school,
And sober senses found;
When the Hungarian's out of sight
And shattered brains collected quite,
We may be safe and sound.
But what simpletons, should we choose,
With nought to gain and much to loose,
'Gainst Austria to war;
What greater folly, when we know
By doing this, we'll get a blow
From the ambitious Czar.
But you may not with me agree,
And I am getting warm I see,
So here I bid adieu
To Kossuth and to Hungary,
To Russia and to Germany,
And the great Emperor too.
And now my friend a word I'd say
Before I throw my pen away,
On subject most important;
In doing this I need not fear
I shall offend the nicest ear,
Or strike a note discordant.
Oh! had I true poetic fire,
With boldness would I strike the lyre
So loud that all might hear;
But ah! my harp is tuned so low,
Its feeble strains I full well know
Can reach no distant ear.
Yet I rejoice that harps on high,
And voices of sweet harmony,
Are raised to bless the name
Of Him who sits upon the throne,
Rejoicing over souls new born,
Who soon will join with them,
Eternally His name to adore
Who died, yet lives forevermore.
Weston, May 8, 1852.
[1] By this I do not mean to include all foreigners, for some of
them I consider among the very best of our population, but
dancers, &c., &c.