| |
| THE CLOCK has struck, we mean St. Paul’s— | |
| And hark! there goes the City Hall’s; | |
| ’Tis noon, a sunny noon in May, | |
| The park is cloth’d in early green, | |
| While beauty, floating through Broadway, | 5 |
| In dyes of ev’ry shade is seen! | |
| Upon the lofty steps behold, | |
| Of the “American” or “Astor,” | |
| Groups of the gallant and the bold— | |
| Mustached and strapp’d, of fashion’s mould; | 10 |
| Their glances after beauty cast, or | |
| As often turned themselves to view, | |
| A set of precious beauties too, | |
| From boot to castor! | |
| The ’Busses roll by dozens by, | 15 |
| The cabs, and hacks, half crazy, rattle; | |
| The private carriage solemnly | |
| Glides on in dignity of cattle; | |
| The City Hall, too, loftily, | |
| Above the trees is soaring; see! | 20 |
| A glow upon its marble face, | |
| Gives it a sort of modest grace, | |
| As though it blush’d for its inferior | |
| And unillumined brown posterior! | |
| While Justice, perchèd high in air, | 25 |
| And smiling in the pleasant ray, | |
| Seems just as light of conscience there, | |
| As if it were not “sentence day.” | |
| |
| Three hours—it lacks three hours of dark— | |
| What murmur rises on the air— | 30 |
| The sound of many voices—hark! | |
| And from the Astor steps, look there! | |
| That crowd investing the old “Park,” | |
| As if half mad they were! | |
| And Blake has had a busy time, | 35 |
| The “first tier” gone, the boxes private; | |
| The “second,” “third,” yet rings the chime | |
| Most welcome—“places” still they strive at. | |
| And now the rosy day descends— | |
| The Jersey flats, the bay, and islands | 40 |
| Are bathed in the rich light it lends; | |
| Weehawken too, and Brooklyn highlands; | |
| And, lingering, thy lofty spire | |
| And ball, St. Paul’s, are wreathed in fire— | |
| The longing glances of the Sun, | 45 |
| That thence, “Old Drury” look upon! | |
| But, “La Déesse,” thy hour is night, | |
| By magic made than day more bright; | |
| Go, lagging beams, the struggle vain, | |
| Resplendent gas usurps thy reign. | 50 |
| |
| Too eager fool! we find ourselves | |
| Scrouged in a corner of the pit; | |
| While carried out by tens and twelves | |
| The fainting fair the boxes quit. | |
| The overture!—oh, agony | 55 |
| Of pressure and of expectation; | |
| Hats off—sit down—get up—dear me! | |
| Toes—elbows—struggle—suffocation; | |
| The orchestra’s invaded, and | |
| The stage behold them now a-cramming; | 60 |
| While, louder than the music band, | |
| Is heard remonstrance, prayer and d—g! | |
| But what is this which stills the roar, | |
| Which bids the groaning groan no more; | |
| Which, like an angel’s glance below | 65 |
| Into the murky pits of woe | |
| Bids sound of sin and blasphemy | |
| Subside into an anxious hope | |
| That one so rare and heavenly | |
| Hath come the fatal gates to ope! | 70 |
| What is it? La Déesse! ’tis she! | |
| As ne’er before, she smileth now, | |
| An angel promise certainly, | |
| And she hath still’d the row! | |
| An airy, fairy wingèd thing! | 75 |
| With drapery, untaught to fling | |
| A veil o’er aught so bright, so fair: | |
| A film, made of imagining, | |
| She seems to wear! | |
| As faintly floating round the moon. | 80 |
| By poet seen at starry noon, | |
| Or silv’ry mist, a shifting sheen. | |
| Frenzy and love each change between, | |
| Is seen! | |
| In mazy beauty only clad, | 85 |
| She moves—we’re mad! | |
| |
