There, though the sour inhospitable clown
Returned our smiles with many a surly frown,
Compelled by Hunger, that imperious lord,
We cooked our game, and shar'd our little hoard;
And left the savage boor, whose looks convey'd
Dark hate and murder every move they made.
Still through rude wilds with silent steps we steer, Intent on game, all eager eye and ear;
Each opening turn, each dark recess survey,
Each mouldering heap that round tumultuous lay,
As o'er those Alpine steeps we slowly past;
But all was silent, solitary, vast!
No sound of distant farm assail'd the ear;
No rising smoke; no opening fields appear;
But each high summit gain'd, the eye was shown
Hills pil'd on hills in dreary prospect thrown.
So, from the mast, when boisterous tempests roar,
And the tost vessel labours far from shore,
The toil-worn sailor all around him spies
One sea of mountains mingling with the skies.
At length with vast descent we winding go,
And see the river gliding deep below;
And up the vale, suspended o'er the path,
A signboard waving o'er the hut beneath;
The straggling characters, with soot portrayed,
Defy'd a while all efforts that we made;
At length we spelt this precious piece of lore,
Pat Dougherty's Hotel and Drygood store.
Blest tidings! welcome to the wandering wight,
As shelter'd harbours in a stormy night;
And thou, sweet Muse! in lofty numbers tell
The matchless comforts of this log hotel.
Here streams of smoke the entering stranger greet;
Here man and beast with equal honours meet;
The cow loud bawling fills the spatter'd door;
The sow and pigs grunt social round the floor;
Dogs, cats, and ducks in mingling groups appear,
And all that Filth can boast of riots here.
Happy the hungry souls who hither speed!
Here, like cameleons, they may freely feed;
Here champ, with vigorous jaws, the empty air;
Without a bottom find one broken chair;
On dirty benches snore the night away,
And rise like thieves upon their judgment day.
Ye threadbare pilgrims! halt as ye pass by,
This gorgeous store will all your wants supply;
Three long tobacco-pipes the shelf adorns;
Two rusty penknives fit to saw your corns;
One rag of calico in musty folds;
A stick of liquorice-ball for coughs and colds;
And one half keg of brandy, glorious cheer!
Arrives from Philadelphia once a year.
What boundless wealth! what can they wish for more
Who such a tavern meet, and such a store?
To crown the whole-defil'd from ear to ear,
Behold the majesty of clouts appear!
The ragged lord of all this costly scene,
Whose hands and face old ocean scarce could clean;
Whose sunburnt legs and arms and shoulders bore
What once was coat and trowsers-such no more!
But shapeless fragments, gash'd with holes profound,
And rag-form'd fringes dangling all around.
Bent o'er a tub that once tobacco knew,
And still from whence the dear effluvia flew,
Pat grumbling stood; and while he eager view'd
Each nook and seam, the scanty gleanings chew'd;
His busy mouth such savoury joys exprest
That scarce our stifled laughter we supprest.
On this foul mass of misery as we gaz'd,
The man of rags his brandy loudly prais'd;
Leech sought the door, disgusted with the scene,
And Duncan follow'd, grasping hard his cane;
Our bard, alone, with pleasure in his face,
Silent surveyed the wonders of the place,
In whose vile groups he but a picture saw,
That all might marvel at; but few could draw.
Though long and rough the road before us rose,
And toil and evening urged us to repose,
Yet were the forest glooms at once prefer'd
To this vile Hottentot's most beastly herd.
So thence, up towering steeps again we scale,
And trace the depths of many a darksome vale;
While oft some oak's huge, antiquated form,
That through long ages had defy'd the storm;
Whose hollow trunk had lodg'd the skulking bear,
While owls and possums found concealment there,
Rose, like the ruins of some reverend pile,
While moss and lichens its hoar arms defile;
Great in distress it mouldering drops away,
Time's mournful monitor of life's decay.
Night's shades at last descend-the stars appear-
Dull barking dogs proclaim the village near;
Soon Wihaloosing round us we survey,
And finish'd here the labours of the day.
The inn was silent, not a mortal there,
Before the fire each plants his crazy chair,
When slow down stairs a cautious step was heard,
And Job, the landlord, soberly appear'd;
Begg'd our excuse-bewail'd his luckless lot,
Wife in the straw, and every thing forgot;
So finding honest Job so hard bestead,
We skinned our squirrels, supp'd, and went to bed.
The morning dawn'd, again we took the road,
Each musquet shoulder'd o'er the lighten'd load,
Through Wihaloosing's plains we gayly pass,
Midst matted fields of rank luxuriant grass.
Here Nature bounteous to excess has been;
Yet loitering hunters scarce a living glean;
Blest with a soil, that even in winter gay,
Would all their toils a hundred fold repay,
Few cultur'd fields of yellow grain appear;
Rich fenceless pastures, rot unheeded here.
Huge from the vale the towering walnuts grow,
And wave o'er wretched huts that lie below.
No blossom'd orchards scent their opening May;
No bleating flocks upon their pastures play;
The wolves, say they, would soon bur flocks destroy;
And planting orchards is a poor employ.
The hungry traveller, dining on this plain,
May ask for fowls, and wish for eggs in vain;
And while he dines upon a flitch of bear,
To wolves and foxes leave more gentle fare.
Now down through hoary woods we scour along,
Rousing the echoes with our jovial song,
Through paths where late the skulking Indian trod,
Smear'd with the infant's and the mother's blood.
Their haunts no more; far to the setting day...
In western woods their prowling parties stray,
VOL. II.
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Where vast Superior laves his drifted shores;
Or loud Niagara's thundering torrent roars;
Gaul's exil'd royalists, a pensive train,
Here raise the hut and clear the rough domain;
The way worn pilgrim to their fires receive,
Supply his wants; but at his tidings grieve;
Afflicting news! forever on the wing,
A ruined country and a murdered king!
Peace to their lone retreats, while sheltered here;
May these deep shades to them be doubly dear;
And Power's proud worshippers, wherever placed,
Who saw such grandeur ruined and defaced,
By deeds of virtue to themselves secure
Those inborn joys, that, spite of kings, endure,
Though thrones and states from their foundations part;
The precious balsam of a blameless heart.
IT having been remarked and regretted by the admirers of the justly celebrated poet Collins, that in his highly finished Ode on the Passions, he had omitted to personify Love, the following supplementary stanza was offered by the Rev. Mr. Pentecross, Rector of Walingford. As it has never yet appeared in print, I present it to you for The Port Folio.
Another sweetly palid maid was there;
Of downcast, melting eye;
Her head alternate o'er each shoulder laid,
Her bosom orb'd with many a deep-drawn sigh;
LOVE was her name.
She touch'd the strings,
But thought the while, on other things;
And, desultory as she played,
Dear sweetest swain!" full oft she said,
"Dear sweetest swain for whom I pine,
"Would mine thou wert, and I was thine!"
She started, sighed, and talked alone;
And ever as she said
"Dear sweetest swain !"
Her looks were motionless as stone.
I talk'd of the woes of the days that are past—
Of afflictions and trials severe ;
How the May morn of life was with storms overcast,
How the blossoms of hope were all nipt by the blast,
And Beauty sat list'ning to hear.
Of hardships and dangers and many a wrong,
And of toils which beset me so near,
Of Treachery's snare and Ingratitude's tongue
I told;-and 'twas pleasant the tale to prolong-
For Beauty repaid with a tear.
Ah! soft form of Beauty that gladdens the soul,
Is aught as thy sympathy dear?—
When thy bright beaming eyes, with benignity roll,
When heaves thy full bosom at Pity's control,
And thy roses are wash'd with a tear.
When dark roll the clouds which o'ershadow our doom,
When toils and when dangers appear
When the storm threat'ning waves all their terror assume, Then, the sunbeam of hope breaking bright thro' the gloom, O Beauty! must shine through a tear.
Yes, Beauty-thy tear that from sympathy flows,
To manhood shall ever be dear;
'Tis the balm of all ill, and the cure of all woes;
And the heart rankling wounds of remembrance shall close, Which Beauty has wash'd with a tear.
When lovely Anna was betray'd,
The thought, her bosom could not bear;
She raised her weeping eyes and pray'd;
O Death! come save me from Despair.
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