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 HERE are laurels our temples throb warmly to claim,
 * Unwet by the blood-dripping fingers of War,

And as dear to the heart are the whispers of fame,
 * As the blasts of her bugle rang fiercely and far;

The death-dirge is sung o’er the warrior’s tomb,
 * Ere the world to his valor its homage will give,

But the feathers that form Notoriety’s plume,
 * Are plucked in the sunshine, and live while we live.

There’s a wonderful charm in that sort of renown Which consists in becoming “the talk of the town;” ’Tis a pleasure which none but your “truly great” feels, To be followed about by a mob at one’s heels; And to hear from the gazing and mouth-open throng, The dear words “That’s he,” as one trudges along; While Beauty, all anxious, stands up on tip-toes, Leans on her beau’s shoulder, and lisps “There he goes.”

For this the young Dandy, half whalebone, half starch, Parades through Broadway with the stiff Steuben march; A new species of being, created, they say, By nine London tailors, who ventured one day