The Dog-Star Rages.

Unseal the city fountains,         And let the waters flow     In coolness from the mountains         Unto the plains below.     My brain is parched and erring,         The pavement hot and dry,     And not a breath is stirring         Beneath the burning sky.     The belles have all departed--         There does not linger one!     Of course the mart's deserted         By every mother's son,     Except the street musician         And men of lesser note,     Whose only earthly mission         Seems but to toil and vote!     A woman--blessings on her!--         Beneath my window see;     She's singing--what an honor!--         Oh! "Woodman, spare that tree!"     Her "man" the air is killing--         His organ's out of tune--     They're gone, with my last shilling, [See Notes (1)]         To Florence's saloon. [See Notes (2)]     New York is most compactly         Of brick and mortar made--     Thermometer exactly         One hundred in the shade!     A furnace would be safer         Than this my letter-room,     Where gleams the sun, a wafer,         About to seal my doom.     The town looks like an ogre,         The country like a bride;     Wealth hies to Saratoga,         And Worth to Sunny-side. [See Notes (3)]     While fashion seeks the islands         Encircled by the sea,     Taste find the Hudson Highlands         More beautiful and free.     The omnibuses rumble         Along their cobbled way--     The "twelve inside" more humble         Than he who takes the pay:     From morn till midnight stealing,         His horses come and go--     The only creatures feeling         The "luxury of wo!" [See Notes (4)]     We editors of papers,         Who coin our brains for bread     By solitary tapers         While others doze in bed,     Have tasks as sad and lonely,         However wrong or right,     But with this difference only,         The horses rest at night.     From twelve till nearly fifty         I've toiled and idled not,     And, though accounted thrifty,         I'm scarcely worth a groat;     However, I inherit         What few have ever gained--     A bright and cheerful spirit         That never has complained.     A stillness and a sadness         Pervade the City Hall,     And speculating madness         Has left the street of Wall.     The Union Square looks really         Both desolate and dark,     And that's the case, or nearly,         From Battery to Park.     Had I a yacht, like Miller,         That skimmer of the seas--     A wheel rigged on a tiller, [See Notes (5)]         And a fresh gunwale breeze,     A crew of friends well chosen,         And all a-taunto, I     Would sail for regions frozen--         I'd rather freeze than fry.     Oh, this confounded weather!         (As some one sang or said,)     My pen, thought but a feather,         Is heavier than lead;     At every pore I'm oosing--         (I'm "caving in" to-day)--     My plumptitude I'm losing,         And dripping fast away.     I'm weeping like the willow         That droops in leaf and bough--     Let Croton's sparkling billow         Flow through the city now;     And, as becomes her station,         The muse will close her prayer:     God save the Corporation!         Long live the valiant Mayor! [See Notes (6)]