Alexandria Gazette & Daily Advertiser

From the Boston Centinel.

'There is more wit, pith and poetry
in the following ballad, from the Mobile
Gazette, than are usually found in the
light poetry of the times. The hit will
be seen to be aimed at the city of Blake.
ly, the rival city of the Mobile.

AN ODE,
Wherein the Lyrick Bard warneth his
fellow citizens of the dangers attend-
ing commerce and agriculture, and
pointeth out a short and sure road to
wealth.

Merchant! I think it time to stop,
When every house becomes a shop,
For Groceries or Dry Goods;
If all men undertake to sell,
It's somewhat difficult to tell
Who can be found to buy goods.

Our planters too, I'm much afraid,
Will find their labor poorly paid,
When they depend on cotton ;
It grows luxuriantly, I grant,
But what avails this thriving plant,
If every bowl proves rotten.

Let such as feel a proper pride,
Set those ignoble trades aside-
For he's beneath one's pity,
Who puts up with the merchant's toil,
Or meanly stoops to grub the soil,
When he can own a city.

What, own a city! you'll exclaim,
Yet, own the spot, that's just the same,
On which the place must stand ;
For if on maps it's once laid down,
It's just as genuine a town
As any in the land.

Town-Making now is quite a trade.
Of which the rules are ready made,
For those who stand in need :
Thus when a sea-port is intended,
If these ingredients be blended,
It cannot but succeed.

First choose an elevated bluff.
Just where the river's deep enough
For ships of largest mould ;
(If there should be a bar below,
O'er which these vessels cannot go,
The fact need not be told.)

You next must find a limpid spring,
For this is an important thing,
And answers vastly well
To lengthen out the wondrous tale,
And aid, when other reasons fail,
To make the city sell.

The most important point, perhaps,
Lies in the drawing of the maps;
The painter there must try,
By mingling yellow, red and green,
To make the most delightful scene
That ever met the eye.

The site itself must not be known,
That no description but your own
May shine forth in the papers;
You then may raise an eastern breeze,
Or any other wind you please,
To drive off noxious vapors.

Of this obscure spot you may swear
There never was a purer air;
And if you're not believed,
At least you cannot be belied,
For none can prove that men have died
Where no man ever lived.

This puffing must not be omitted,
For where you'll find one man that's
fitted
To think and act alone-
You'll find a thousand timid fools,
Just formed, 'twould seem, to be his tools,
And do as he has done.

'Tis when the rage is at its height,
The knowing ones will quit the site,
While those that stop behind,
Of this desertion can't complain,
For what they lose in wealth, they gain
In knowledge of mankind.