Page:Halleck.djvu/316

 E’VE twined the wreath of honor
 * Round Doctor Mitchill’s brow;

Though bold and daring was the theme,
 * A loftier waits us now.

In thee, immortal Lang! have all
 * The Sister Graces met,

Thou Statesman—Sage—and Editor
 * Of the New-York Gazette!

A second Faustus in thine art!
 * The Newton of our clime!

The Bonaparte of Bulletins!
 * The Johnson of thy time!—

At thy dread name, the terriers bark,
 * The rats fly to their holes!

Thou Prince of “Petty Paragraphs,”
 * “Red Notes,” and “Signal-Poles!”

There’s genius in thy speaking face,
 * There’s greatness in thine air;

Take Franklin’s Bust from off thy roof,
 * And place thine own head there!