Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker,
Help me sing of Knickerbocker!
BOUGHTON, had you bid me chant
Hymns to Peter Stuyvesant!
Had you bid me sing of Wouter,
( He! the Onion-head! the Doubter! )
But to rhyme of this one,— Mocker!
Who shall rhyme to Knickerbocker?
Nay, but where my hand must fail
There the more shall yours avail;
You shall take your brush and paint
All that ring of figures quaint,—
All those Rip-van-Winkle jokers,—
All those solid-looking smokers,
Pulling at their pipes of amber
In the dark-beamed Council-Chamber.
Only art like yours can touch
Shapes so dignified... and Dutch;
Only art like yours can show
How the pine-logs gleam and glow,
Till the fire-light laughs and passes
‘ Twixt the tankards and the glasses,
Touching with responsive graces
All those grave Batavian faces,—
Making bland and beatific
All that session soporific.
Then I come and write beneath,
BOUGHTON, he deserves the wreath;
He can give us form and hue —
This the Muse can never do!