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The only other instance of such a poem to my knowledge, is one addressed to the subject of this sketch by Fitz-Grccne Halleck, and although it is merrily satirical, the Recorder had no reason to complain of it, for it forms his only passport to immortality on earth. It is one of the series called "The Croakers," written by Halleck and Joseph Rodman Drake, mostly under the pseudonymn of "Croaker," and published in the " New York Evening Post" previous to 1828. The poems are on social and politi cal topics of local interest, and are filled with merry banter, sharp satire, and personalities both good humored and biting. They are marked by grace, wit, vigor and imagination, and contain some of the finest serious pas sages in American poetry. Among the most famous is the apostrophe to the "American Flag," by Drake, the concluding and best stanza of which, however, begin ning, " Forever float that standard sheet," was written by Halleck in place of a very tame one by Drake. "The Recorder" is known of course to the oldest members of our profession, but probably only to them, for Halleck has gone rather out of fashion; even " Marco Bozarris " is no longer spouted by schoolboys nor embraced in school-read ers, and the poet will chiefly be known to posterity by a few bones piously preserved in one of those mausoleums known as gen eral collections of poetry, which are mainly used for pressing leaves and mislaying papers in. It may be interesting therefore to have this beautiful poem reproduced in these columns as a whole, with some explanatory notes, and I make no excuse for such a pious office at once to the poet and to the lawyer.

THE RECORDER.— A POETICAL EPISTLE. By Thomas Castaly. "On they move In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood Of flutes and soft Recorders."— Milton. "Lived in Settles numbers one day more! "— Pope.

My dear Dick Riker, you and I Have floated down life's stream together, And kept unharmed our friendship's tie, Through every change of fortune's sky. Her pleasant and her rainy weather. Full sixty times since first we met. Our birthday suns have risen and set,1 And time has worn the baldness now Of Julius Caesar on your brow; Your brow — like his, a field of thought, With broad, deep furrows, spirit-wrought, Whose laurel harvests long have shown As green and glorious as his own; And proudly would the Casar claim Companionship with Hiker's name, His peer in forehead and in fame. Both eloquent and learned and brave, Born to command and skilled to rule, One made the citizen a slave, The other makes him more — a fool. The Caesar an imperial crown, His slaves' mad gift, refused to wear; The Riker put his fool•s cap on, And found it fitted to a hair. The Caesar, though by birth and breeding. Travel, the ladies, and light reading, A gentleman in mien and mind, And fond of Romans and their mothers. Was heartless as the Arab's wand, And slew some millions of mankind, Including enemies and others. The Riker. like Bob Acres, stood Edgeways upon a field of blood, The where and wherefore Swartwout knows. Pulled trigger, as a brave man should. And shot, God bless them — his own toes.2 The Caesar passed the Rubicon With helm and shield and breastplate on. Dashing his war-horse through the waters; The Riker would have built a barge Or steamboat, at the city's charge, And passed it with his wife and daughters. But let that pass. As I have said, There's naught, save laurels, on your head, And time has changed my clustering hair. And showered the snowflakes thickly there, And though our lives have ever been As different as their different scene; Mine more renowned for rhymes than riches. Yours less for scholarship than speeches; 1 This was an impudent fabrication, for the poet was only thirty eight-years old, and the Recorder was sixteen years older. 2 The Swartwout duel arose from a political quarrel, Riker being an adherent of E)e Witt Clinton, and Swart wout an ardent friend of Col. Burr.