The Poetry Corner

The Dog-Star Rages.

By George Pope Morris

Unseal the city fountains, And let the waters flow In coolness from the mountains Unto the plains below. My brain is parched and erring, The pavement hot and dry, And not a breath is stirring Beneath the burning sky. The belles have all departed-- There does not linger one! Of course the mart's deserted By every mother's son, Except the street musician And men of lesser note, Whose only earthly mission Seems but to toil and vote! A woman--blessings on her!-- Beneath my window see; She's singing--what an honor!-- Oh! "Woodman, spare that tree!" Her "man" the air is killing-- His organ's out of tune-- They're gone, with my last shilling, [See Notes (1)] To Florence's saloon. [See Notes (2)] New York is most compactly Of brick and mortar made-- Thermometer exactly One hundred in the shade! A furnace would be safer Than this my letter-room, Where gleams the sun, a wafer, About to seal my doom. The town looks like an ogre, The country like a bride; Wealth hies to Saratoga, And Worth to Sunny-side. [See Notes (3)] While fashion seeks the islands Encircled by the sea, Taste find the Hudson Highlands More beautiful and free. The omnibuses rumble Along their cobbled way-- The "twelve inside" more humble Than he who takes the pay: From morn till midnight stealing, His horses come and go-- The only creatures feeling The "luxury of wo!" [See Notes (4)] We editors of papers, Who coin our brains for bread By solitary tapers While others doze in bed, Have tasks as sad and lonely, However wrong or right, But with this difference only, The horses rest at night. From twelve till nearly fifty I've toiled and idled not, And, though accounted thrifty, I'm scarcely worth a groat; However, I inherit What few have ever gained-- A bright and cheerful spirit That never has complained. A stillness and a sadness Pervade the City Hall, And speculating madness Has left the street of Wall. The Union Square looks really Both desolate and dark, And that's the case, or nearly, From Battery to Park. Had I a yacht, like Miller, That skimmer of the seas-- A wheel rigged on a tiller, [See Notes (5)] And a fresh gunwale breeze, A crew of friends well chosen, And all a-taunto, I Would sail for regions frozen-- I'd rather freeze than fry. Oh, this confounded weather! (As some one sang or said,) My pen, thought but a feather, Is heavier than lead; At every pore I'm oosing-- (I'm "caving in" to-day)-- My plumptitude I'm losing, And dripping fast away. I'm weeping like the willow That droops in leaf and bough-- Let Croton's sparkling billow Flow through the city now; And, as becomes her station, The muse will close her prayer: God save the Corporation! Long live the valiant Mayor! [See Notes (6)]