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TO JOHN LANG, ESQ.37
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!
