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)]