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 Of veterans? nursed in that Free School of glory, The New York State Militia. From Bellevue, E'en to the Battery flag-staff, the proud story Of their manœuvres at the last review Has rung; and Clinton's "order" told afar He never led a better corps to war.

What, Egypt, was thy magic, to the tricks Of Mr. Charles, Judge Spencer, or Van Buren? The first with cards, the last in politics, A conjuror's fame for years have been securing. And who would now the Athenian dramas read, When he can get "Wall Street," by Mr. Mead.

I might say much about our lettered men, Those "grave and reverend seigniors," who compose Our learned societies—but here my pen Stops short; for they themselves, the rumor goes, The exclusive privilege by patent claim, Of trumpeting (as the phrase is) their own fame.

And, therefore, I am silent. It remains To bless the hour the Corporation took it