Travels through America. A poem. / By Michael Forrest.

Travels Through America.

MY native home, and dear companions all, Juvenile pleasures and the ev'ning ball, The prancing steed, and the quick-scenting hound, I bade adieu, and thus began my round.

From fair Hibernia's healthy, verdant plain, With Captain Stone, I rush'd into the main. At th' age of seventeen and nine months more, I bade adieu unto my native shore. I soon beheld the lofty billows roll, And light'ning flash, while thunder shook the pole; Our vessel tossed thro' the stormy main; Then oft I wish'd to be at home again. Alas! how vain my fruitless wishes were, 'Midst seas of trouble, far from parent's care; Where thunders clash'd, and seas roll'd mountain high, Which made me heave 'till I thought I should die.

Now Aeolus ceases—Neptune rules alone— The sky is clear—the sea is all in foam;

Boreas shuts his magazine of storms; The glass goes round, and we sing Wars-alarms. Thus pass'd the time for half a day or more, 'Till, loud on deck, we heard the trumpet roar, 'All hands aloft—loosen every sail' The wind then blowing a delightful gale. All-hands arose and lent a willing hand; And now we steer, due-west, for Newfoundland. Six weeks elapsed, ere we reach'd the Banks, Where the rude sailors shew their active pranks. Here each youngster had to pay a fine, As seamen do when first they cross the Line: A rastic youth who did not soon agree To pay his bottle, was immediately To the yard-arm hois'd, with rapid motion; Thence headlong plung'd down into the ocean! Thus pass'd the time, while we were on the banks; The youngsters suffer'd by the sailor's pranks, 'Till from mast-head, we heard one loudly call, "A fleet a-head!" which rous'd us one and all. But lo! from deck, we soon did plainly see, That such huge vessels never cross'd the sea! "Islands of Ice" the Captain loudly cries: "About ship, Ho! Ere I be tak'n a prize "By these huge monsters, tyrants of the main, "Whose touch is Death, I'll e'en go back again," The man of war * 1.1 now fir'd a signal gun, And steer'd due south 'till setting of the sun,

When from aloft a sailor gladly spy'd The distant shore, and "Land oho!" he cry'd.

Seven long weeks (I thought them full a score) We plow'd the deep before we came on shore. I soon forgot my troubles on the main, And with surprize gaz'd on the woody plane † 1.2. Nor Cows, nor Horses here attract the eye; Nor verdant fields of Barley, Wheat, or Rye; Nor meadows green, nor gentle-gliding stream; Nor rural pleasures here are ever seen. Nor does the huntsman ever wind his horn, And give his game a timely loud alarm; Nor do we hear the music of the groves, The woodland Thrushes, nor the Turtle-Doves; Nor purling stream, nor the loud water-fall, Are ever heard in Newfoundland at all. Nor do sweet odours float and scent the air; Nor primrose flowers deck the virgin's hair; Nor ought to please the palate have I found, In all my travels thro' this desert ground. Nor is the air agreeable to the touch; But, here, perhaps, you'll think I say too much, As it is healthy—that I don't deny; But the cold winters cause many to die: Once I myself beheld a dismal sight, A man found frozen, in the dead of night, Within a small mile of his native home,

On the white path extended stiff alone! A place of worship here is scarcely found, But W—s, Gin and Grog, swarm the country round. Whoever drinks the most indecent toast, Believe me, sir, of him they think the most.—

A land displeasing to each virtuous mind, My muse abhors and gladly leaves behind: For FREE COLUMBIA next I'll sound the lyre, Where Freedoms cause poetic thoughts inspire.

Once more I ventur'd on the stormy main, And four long weeks I plow'd the sea again, Ere I arrived at the blessed land, Where PEACE and FREEDOM now do wave the wand. My former suff'rings, thro' th' Atlantic wide, Were but pleasures compar'd to Fundy's * 1.3 tide; For, here the sea rolls roaring mountain-high; And bursts of thunder rend th' encumber'd sky! Quick-lightnings flash, and light the stormy main, As if the gods were fighting for domain! Neptune his bursting billows rolls so high, That all on board conjecture they must die. A sudden surge throws us on our beam-end; We now prepare to meet our fatal end! But lo! she rights, and stems the stormy wave! And now, once more, we hope our lives to save.

Now Boreas, with a brisk and pleasant gale, Triumphant rides, and fills each spreading sail; The waves subside—we with mutual ardour, Sail S. West, 'till we make Boston harbour—

HAIL COLUMBIA! and thy martial sons, Who dar'd oppose, with undisciplin'd guns, The British troops, tho' long inur'd to arms, And rush to battle from your peaceful farms! Oft have I wish'd to join you in the toil, Of gaining FREEDOM for your native soil. Delightful task! tho' it was laborious, To conquer tyrants and reign victorious; To save a nation from base tyranny, And to gain freedom for posterity!

BOSTONIANS, HAIL! your valour will resound Thro' foreign climes, and thro' this country round; Posterity on marble will inscribe, An Era new! from your throwing in the tide, The tea on which England laid a duty, In hopes to get, by clandestine booty, An immense sum of money, to defray The D'—I knows what, from North-America. Let Briton know that all her pomp was vain, And that Americans would Death sustain, Ere they'd submit to bear the British yoke, Which, they well knew, their liberty would choke.

HAIL BUNKER's HILL! thou once a bloody plain, Posterity will sing each hero's fame, Who on thee bled, and died full of gore; Fought for COLUMBIA 'till they were no more. BOSTONIANS will on thee, on future days, Fire thirteen guns and celebrate their praise; The tuneful choir will join their lively song; The groves and woodlands echo to the throng, An Era new!—an Era new'll resound, From woods, and rocks, and heroes under ground!

Five days have I, with busy eye, survey'd This martial town, renowned for its trade, And now, more south, the country to explore, With Captain Pillsb'ry sail'd for Baltimore. With pleasure I, for three weeks and a day, Survey'd the coast thence to Chesepeak-Bay; Nor blust'ring storms, nor billows loud do roar, But ocean smiles along this blissful shore. The woodland pine, in sign of freedom, waves Its lofty head, and thus old England braves; The woods and groves now echo to the main, An Era new! Columbia's born again! Then Neptune answers from his oozy bed, An Era new! the British troops have fled— Now up the Chesepeak we quickly sail'd, And at Annapolis ourselves regal'd;

The rural prospects thence along the shore, Are highly pleasing up to Baltimore, Which town improves like Rome in days of yore. Early next day, I did a seat engage To Philadelphia in the flying stage; My muse was mute till we reach'd Brandiwine, Whose bloody plain did rouse the sacred nine!

Hail purling stream, * 1.4 once tinctured with the gore Of heroes brave, who for Columbia bore The pangs of death, on yon polluted plain, To free their country from the tyrants reign! You lofty pine beheld young heroes fall, Who in obedience to their country's call, Left rural sports, and love's encircling arms, When Columbia call'd her injur'd sons TO ARMS! Resound ye groves, resound each heroe's name, Echoes convey to foreign climes their fame, Who fought for freedom on yon bloody field, And dar'd to die, ere they'd to Britain yield!— Once more, I quit the muses warbling lyre; But soon again am rous'd by yonder spire, † 1.5 Whose lofty top, o'er the woodland, I see Erected to a very high degree.

I now behold Schuylkill's silver stream, Whose verdant banks would grace a poet's theme;

Here the brave youth, to cool his ardent blood, Plunges headlong into the circling flood; With lusty sinews, thence to yonder shore, He works his way, nor dreads the waves no more. Behold him now, frisking about the plain, Void of those robes which Eden did disdain; And now, quick-stepping to the water-side, Headlong again, he dives into the tide. Behold the prancing steed, with nostrils wide, Snuffing the surge, and snorting thro' the tide; The active boy fast holding by his mane, Now sinking low, now rising high again; His mighty heart, brac'd by the cooling flood, Bounds fearless on, until he tips the mud; Then, to the shore, the boy directs the steed, And gladly boasts of his heroic deed.

Hail nymphs and swains, sporting along the shore, Now from the flood to you my muses soar; Sport on ye swains, these happy hours enjoy; Nor let old age innocent mirth destroy. When nature prompts the sprightly youth to play, Her sacred callings let him quick obey; For she, unerring calls for nought in vain, But always is, and e'er will be the same. I must not omit yon sequester'd shade, Where rural lovers sing their serenade, When all is mute, save the purling stream, Which joins harmoniously their warbling theme.

Hail PHILADELPHIA! I now behold Thy regularity, as I've been told; But more majestical thou dost appear, More grand, more regular, and far more clear, Than my ideas were of thy grand form, Or even now my pen can well inform: Governor PENN first its plan begun, In imitation of old Babylon. The streets are wide, and in a line direct; The angles right where they do intersect; The footway pav'd nicely with bricks and tiles, From north to south, nearly two English miles; And from both rivers * 1.6 to the centre street, Nam'd, first, second, and so on till they meet; That half alone joining the Delaware, Is built out nearly to the centre square; The buildings shew no great variety, But the most pleasing regularity; Void of extremes, the houses friendly join, Nor cottage low, nor palace, rouse the nine, To sound the warbling lyre. Upon the whole, From the Arctic, to the Antarctic pole, View all the cities round this flying ball, Their commerce, shape, and regulations all; Compare their climates, and situation, Their buildings, cleanness, and navigation. Then judge impartially, and you will find That Philadelphia most will please your mind—

Here I resided more than half a year, During which time I've shed many a tear, For an only brother, who, as I've heard, Was nightly slain, and at St. John's inter'd. Oft have I to the lonely fields retir'd, To pay a tribute nature oft requir'd. The gloomy rocks, and desolates unknown, Have often heard my solitary moan. Nor purling streams no more divert my mind, Nor woodland music floating in the wind; Pensive I pass the heavy hours away; Nor pleasure find in either night or day— As sadly musing on the dire event, Which caus'd my grief, with body downward bent, A walk'd the streets, careless whither I stray'd, A lady's servant call'd to me and said, "Please to walk in—here is a gentleman Who wishes much to see you"—in I ran— Amaz'd and speechless, as some statues stand, I stood and gaz'd, nor words cou'd I command! Such pleasing raptures fill'd my glowing breast, As cannot well by language be express'd— The stranger rose, and tears of joy we shed— It was my brother, who, I thought, was dead. But seeing him in visions oft by night, I fear'd some phantom now deceiv'd my sight; Fond nature ceas'd—and now, with language meek, And trembling voice, I thus to him did speak:

Do I dream, or did the heav'nly powers, To 'bate my grief, restore thy vital pow'rs? My dearest brother! art thou still alive? Ah! how dist thou the mortal blow survive? He now inform'd me of the false report, And down we sat and drank a bottle of port. Ravish'd with joy, I seize the flowing bowl, And in it drown the sorrows of my soul.

Ye good distressed, learn from this t' indure Those earthly troubles which ye cannot cure; And doubt not but the great, almighty Jove, Will in due time your troubles all remove. Some you may see who suffer to the end; But can you tell to what their suffirings tend? Or can you prove them useless to that whole, 'Whose body Nature is, and God the soul?' If not, believe, the universal cause, Constantly acts by wise, unerring laws. In the small circle of your transient years, You oft will meet with troubles, sorrows, fears; For these are passions, natural to man, You may depress, but, shun them, never can: Oh, let not these prevent your being wise, And the great end, Eternal Bliss, to prize! For know, fond man, thou soon wilt reach the goal, Thy race will end, and thy immortal soul, To realms unknown to human passions fly, Where it will never, never, never die!—

O! how important is this truth divine! O, may it ring thro' ev'ry earthly clime! May all our actions ever please the Lord; And may our souls enjoy his blest reward!—

Delaware's tide doth next attract my song, While, on the shore, methinks I see a throng Of British soldiers, officers and flags, Preparing to engage the floating kegs * 1.7. Sure such a battle ne'er was known before, As floating kegs, against the British corps! Descend ye nine, and strike each warbling string, Let groves and woodlands, rocks and mountains, sing This glorious battle 'twixt the British troops, And a few floating kegs with wooden hoops! Which side conquer'd I'll not pretend to say; But report says that Britons ran away! Others, in favour of the British, swear, They did the rebel kegs to pieces tear; And do maintain, they stood their ground till night, Briskly engaged in the busy sight; But that at length, for want of something t'eat, They were, by hunger forced to retreat— One truth is clear, their cannons roar'd all day, But, what exploits they've done, I cannot say; Let others praise those men of sterling courage, Whose groat a day will searcely buy them porridge!

I now did leave this city of renown, And in a stage-boat sail'd for Bordentown; The wind was fair—passengers all merry; Fore and aft pass'd porter, punch and sherry. Thus as we sailed merrily along, One of the ladies sang a lover's song; The phrase was simple, and the subject plain; It was Amanda and her rural swain. Her charming voice excell'd (I don't say wrong) The warbling numbers of Italian song. When she began, methought the atmosphere Did ring with sounds seraphic in mine ear. I gaz'd and listen'd—wish'd—and gaz'd again— Hop'd—fear'd and doubted—sigh'd, but all in vain. What else had follow'd, I must not reveal; It is most prudent folly to conceal.

The verdant shores afford a pleasing sight, To all who do in rural scenes delight. On the green margin of this silver stream, The rural swains and rural nymphs are seen, Frisking about, void of affectation; Rul'd by nature, more than education. Thrice happy they who thus can spend their days, In scenes of pleasure, not in search of praise; Contented with what Providence has giv'n They fill their happy circle mark'd by heav'n; Strangers to all the busy scenes of life, To liberal arts and domestic strife;

And more contented in their narrow sphere, Than the rich monarch is in his, or peer. What tho' the cause of things to them 's unknown, And all those mountains said to be 'n the moon? What tho' they ne'er thro' optic tube, by nights, View'd Jupiter and his four satellites? What tho' Saturn's ring be to them unknown, And the volcanoes Hershel saw'n the moon? Or, what if they ne'er plow'd the stormy main, In search of knowledge, or in search of gain? Nay, what if they have never seen the town, Grand buildings, shipping, or a silken gown? Contentment still is theirs—and that is more To be esteemed, than Mexican ore. Let others, thro' long optic tubes descry The course of planets thro' th' aerial sky; And determine all their revolutions, When direct, when retrogade their motions; And labour to explain the cause of this, By experiments, or hypothesis— I say let others, for to spread their fame, Thus spend their days to gain a learned name; And when they've done the utmost in their pow'r, Let them reflect only a single hour, On all their labours, how they've spent their days; Wasted their health in hopes of gaining praise; Then turn their thoughts to those nymphs and swains, Fondly sporting along yon verdant plains; And, if they can, let them deny this hint, The less man knows, the greater his content!

What cares yon swain if Mars were headlong hurl'd Into the sun, or 'gainst some other world? Or if great Jupiter was whirl'd and toss'd From his bright orb, and in oblivion lost? Or, what cares he, if Aetna's blazing bowl, Spouted its wild fire to the southern pole? Or if the demons of the ocean rise, And toss the foaming billows to the skies; Then hurl poor sailors 'gainst a savage shore, Where they are never, never, heard of more? Contented still, the swain wou'd frisk along, Sport with his nymph, and sing his rural song; Nor feel a blow from the hand of heaven, Before it was absolutely given. But the Astronomer, with busy eye, Wou'd view with terror, the injured sky, And fear the earth, now rolling in her sphere, Wou'd meet her doom before another year; Perhaps conjecture, as she's next to Mars, She'd next be hurl'd into some of the stars; Knowing that scripture says, 'At the last day, Earth will be burnt, th'elements melt away.' Thus discontent wou'd arise from knowledge, And pleasures dwell in a country cottage.—

Thus was I musing on the former hint, "The less man knows the greater his content," When Burlington appeared full in sight, A prospect which I view'd with great delight.

My mose would fain remain here pretty long, It doth afford such subjects for a song: The gliding stream, and the sequester'd grove; The verdant landscape, and the grazing drove; The fishes sporting in their element; Now springing from it, and in their descent, Lashing the water sidelong as they fall, Are subjects pleasing to the muses all: The pleasant prospect of this silver stream, And vessels sailing, all shou'd swell my theme; But the fair wind wafts us so quick along, That Bristol next attracts my humble song. This town, tho' small, is pleasant to the eye, This I observed as we glided by, And built upon a pleasant spot of land, Which rises gradually from the strand.

To BORDENTOWN, soft numbers to diffuse 'Midst vernal shades, now hastes my panting muse. With equal wing, our vessel sails along, The town appears, and now the decks we throng. "Down mainsail ho!" the captain loudly cries, "Stand by to haul the Jibb down, d—n your eyes— Let go the hallyards—see the anchor clear— Haul down the Jibb, d—n her, she'll not wear— Let go the anchor—get the boat on shore— D—n your eyes, be guick, you son of a w—e." This language was displeasing to the fair; For we all know that ladies cannot bear To hear a sailor madly curse and swear.

They call him wicked, vulgar, and so forth, Because they know not his intrinsic worth. Oh, erring reason, mix'd with erring pride, The man who labours for their good, to chide!

But, I haste on shore 'midst the sylvan groves And curling fountains, where Vallonia roves.— Ye sacred nine, on speedy wing descend, And thou, Vallonia, all thy graces lend; Assist me, while I sing 'midst rural shades, And purling streams, ere nature's beauty fades.

'Twas now that season of the circling year, When burning Sol in Cancer did appear; As I sat musing on a pleasant hill, Pleas'd with the music of a purling rill, Which ran beneath thro' a sequester'd vale, And seem'd to tell some fond, endearing tale; A tale more soft than lovers can invent, Whene'er they seek for reason to repent: While thus I sat, breathing ambrosial air, I saw a damsel, slender, tall, and fair, With modest steps, approaching to the stream; More like a goddess than a Grecian queen. A milk white dress she wore, a silken gown, And to her waist her hair hung flowing down; A branch of laurel in her hand she bore; And with quick ••••••ces sidelong view'd the shore. She now arrived at her sylvan pool, And quick disrob'd, her lovely limbs to cool.

Meanwhile she fearful glances cast around, And trembling view'd th' inverted blue profound. But when the falling lawn expos'd the fair, No longer then, no longer cou'd I bear The sole-distracting view—I trembling strove, For to retire into the silent grove; But, oh! I strove in vain—What shall be done? 'Twas now precisely setting of the sun; And the full moon, majestically bright, Shone thro' the woods, and seem'd to hail the night; But, far less fair, her splendent face did seem, Than this fair maid half-shaded in the stream. Now struggling nature fain wou'd have her way; But sacred honour will not her obey; Alternate passions quickly rise and fall; Oh! wretched me! why came I here at all; Bear me, ye gods, from this distracting sight; Or quickly shade me with the veil of night! And thou, O moon, shed not thy borrow'd rays, That I no longer on this scene may gaze! Lo, now, with fearful eye, she look'd around, As if surprised with some distant found; With hasty steps then trembling gain'd the shore, Afraid, methought, to stay one moment more: With modest mien, she quickly did array, In careless haste, and nimbly step'd away. No longer to the hill was I confin'd, I now cou'd go where e'er I had a mind. Night coming on, I left this beauteous hill. And bade Vallonia name this purling rill,

The haunt of rural maids—and that ere long, In yonder grove, once more, she'd hear my song.

Now bright Virgo receives the solar ball, From Leo's claws, into her maiden hall; And mlder rays shine thro' the atmosphere, Which add new beauty to the circling year.

As Chanticleer joyfully hail'd the morn, The howling hounds and the echoing horn, From their soft slumber rous'd the tuneful train; Which fill'd the groves with their melodious strain; Pleas'd with their notes, I slowly to'rds the grove, O'er dewy lawns, with careless steps did rove; When, at some distance, to my great surprise, A youthful damsel sat before mine eyes. Amaz'd at this quite unexpected sight, I quickly stop'd, and view'd her with delight. Half afraid to approach her sylvan bow'r, I stood aloof a quarter of an hour; At length, resolved for to hail the maid, I gently walked to her sylvan shade; And with modest mien, and a loving air, Held her white hand, and thus address'd the fair: Be not amazed, fair, angelic maid, My wand'ring steps have led me to thy shade, Not to deprive thee of thy rural bliss, But Oh! my fair, this milk-white hand to kiss. "Alas!" she said, and trembled as she spoke, "Some other person best would suit your joke:

Too late, alas! too late, I've learn'd to know, By sad experience, what young men can do."— Now sobbing sighs prevented her to speak; And the big tears roll'd quickly down her cheek. Again I spoke: Fair damsel have I caus'd Thy sudden grief?—and for an answer pans'd. "No sir," she said, with still more trembling voice, "But woe is me since I approv'd his * 1.8 choice; "He from my arms far, alas! is fled, "And I, forlorn, must live in yonder shed. "My aged parents both do me disown, "Because I lov'd—lov'd alas! too soon— "How oft has he, under this shady bow'r, "To me declar'd, a minute seem'd an hour, "While he was absent from his heart's delight, "Or when ROLANDA † 1.9 did not bless his sight. "And, ah! how often have I heard him say, "His fondness for me never wou'd decay; "But he is false, and I am left forlorn— "Oh! would to God I never had been born."— O, cease fair maid, cease thy pathetic strain; Perhaps thy lover may return again; Or, shou'd he not, pray think of him no more, And a truer swain soon will you adore. She rose, and to her sylvan shed did go; And there she sang the story of her woe— Nor turtle dove after losing its mate, Nor woodland thrush, bemoaning her sad fate,

When the rude school-boy robb'd her of her young, A more pathetic strain had ever sung: The tuneful songsters jointly sing her tale, 'Till songs of sorrow echo thro' the vale!—

Ye blooming fair, ye strangers yet to man, Ah! learn in time your lover's mind to scan; Ere you permit the freedom of a kiss, Or something else, which some think not amiss, Let sacred wedlock join you to your swain; For without this, your love may be in vain. That words prove not the heart to be sincere, The sobbing sigh, and the big rolling tear, Of poor ROLANDA, plainly do declare, Who was not of deceitful man aware. Ah! poor hapless maid, in vain did I try To cheer thy mind, or stop the heavy sigh Which swell'd thy loving breast—Adieu poor maid! Heaven preserve thee in thy sylvan shade!

But ere I enter the sequester'd grove, I do invoke the great, almighty Jove, To grant me patience to address the swain, Who thus has caus'd ROLANDA to complain.

O, faithless swain, who thus deceiv'd thy love, Dost thou not know there is a pow'r above, Who may for vengeance throw the fatal shaft, And in a moment thee to JUDGMENT waft?

Oh! think how awful to be headlong hurl'd, From th' imperial throne, to the nether world; With flaming vengeance, mid the dread abyss, Where Satan's legions all do howl and hiss! There, shrieking to dwell, midst infernal cries, In burning flames, where the worm never dies! Oh! think of this, and shun the wrath of Jove, Whose thund'ring bolts, methinks, about thee rove, Half determin'd for to strike thee dead, If thou dost 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Rolanda quickly wed. I convey'd these lines to ROLANDA's swain; And then returned to the grove again.

Now Ceres spreads her mantle all around, And with her bounty covers o'er the ground; In autumn's lap, she leaves her golden store, With busy man, and thinks of it no more: The bending trees discharge their heavy load, And Boreas whistles from his bleak abode. All the tuneful reluctant quit the grove, And each in search of winter-quarters rove; Quick to'rds the south to meet the genial ray, On hasty pinions, some do bend their way; Others, less knowing, or as fate design'd, In hollow trees, seek shelter from the wind; 'Till the genial ray, and the smiling spring, Dispel the gloom, and call them forth to sing.

Now in the north, I saw a tempest rise, With threat'ning aspect, grumbling thro' the skies;

Still op'ning wider, and disgorging fire, With hideous roar, and aspect yet more dire; The trembling cattle quick for shelter ran, Into the houses of their guardian, man. More hideous still, the swelling gloom appears; And louder yet, the thunder fills our ears; Earth trembles under its tremendous sound, And gloomy darkness covers all around! Now, in the Zenith, bursts the mighty roar Of clashing elements; and then doth pour, Thro' stormy blazes down, the rapid rain, Till ruddy torrents rush into the main! Thus having spent its blaze and thund'ring shafts, BOREAS more south the growling remnant wafts. The sturdy Oak, and the proud, lofty Pine, Yield to his blast, and to'rds the south recline. The purling stream which glided from the well, Is now imprison'd in an icy cell. The verdant lawn is cover'd o'er with white; And grazing cattle shudder at the sight; A snowy mantle lastly hides the plain; And Boreas whistles o'er his bleak domain: All nature trembles at his piercing sound; And gloomy winter draws his curtain round!—

Let not frail man now blame the pow'r divine, Whose wisdom thro' his various works doth shine; For, even now, when winter's piercing cold, Makes nature shrink to'rds her primeval mould,

A renovating pow'r runs thro' the whole, From Cancer's claws, to the frore arctic pole: The storms of winter shortly will be o'er, And all the tuneful hail the Spring once more. As a sprightly youth, after nightly rest, Wakes in the morning with new vigor bless'd; With cheerful aspect, nimbly treads the plam, As he pursues the round of day again; Or, as the Sun, after a tedious night Of darkness spent, hails the morning bright, And all around us spreads the welcome day, Dispels the gloom, and drives each mist away; So will the Spring from her cold slumber rise, And with new beauty ravish all our eyes. While thus I spake, bright Sol in full career, Came rolling on and finished the year. The sturdy Ram * 1.10 looks back, but dares not face His blazing aspect, nor obstruct his race. The headstrong Bull † 1.11 now hears him rolling near, And roars aloud to hail the blazing sphere! O'er his wide back, Sol rolls his fi'ry wheels, Nor dares bright Taurus even spurn his heels. The lovely Twins ‡ 1.12 now feel the genial ray; And all the tuneful hail the blooming may. Meanwhile the shepherd haunts the shady grove And purling stream, loud-singing to his drove. All nature smiles with us in northern clime, While all decays on t'other side the line;

So wills the Lord, whose all-directing hand, Rolls worlds and seasons round at his command!

Oft on these blissful nights, for to descry The course of planets thro' th' aerial sky, Or the spotted disk of Luna t'explore, To lofty turrets th' optic tube I bore. Thence view'd Mercury, next the solar ball, But seldom seen his body is so small, In torrid circle, round the lamp of day, Quickly flying in his annual way.

And next him, Venus, the bright evening star, But more remote from Sol's celestial car, Reflecting copiously her borrow'd light, Ere Luna rose, bright ruler of the night.

And then proud Mars, the ruddy god of war, High in the zenith, in his fi'ry car; Fierce-driving round the distant solar sphere; Yet ends not soon the circle of his year: Be'ng more remote than we are from the sun, He takes more time his yearly course to run.

Next I beheld that great and thund'ring god, (Who, the heathens say, cou'd shake with his nod, The Earth's foundation, and celestial pole; Nay, what is more, annihilate the whole!) Great Jupiter, just rising in the East, Whose body doth twelve hundred times at least,

In magnitude, exceed this flying ball, Which we inhabit and the WORLD do call; But when compar'd with that, how very small! With cloudy belts, this celestial sphere, Thro' optic tube, tight-girded doth appear; And round it move in sacred, mystic dance, Four smaller spheres, which oft are seen to glance From th' opake side of this once rev'renc'd Jove, And o'er his pallid disk in order move; Meanwhile the whole move lab'ring round the Sun, And thirty thousand miles an hour do run! What rapid motion! yet, how long his year!— Eleven of our's and ten months, very near! Nor will his tedious year you more amaze, Than, will, the shortness of his fleeting days, Which scarce are five hours long: for in that time, Revolves half round, his majesty sublime.

Lastly, Saturn, remotest of the whole, Whose torrid zone is colder than our pole. Sublimest planet seen thro' optic glass, Whose body doth six hundred times surpass, In magnitude, this terrestrial ball, Invites my muse into his frozen hall. What a vast distance from the solar rays (O, who can tell, Almighty God, thy ways!) Is this huge orb compar'd with Mercury! How torrid this, how frigid that must be, Which, tho' so large, from Earth we scarcely see! Five moons in order round his body dance, As if to guard him 'gainst the quick advance

Of blazing comets, in their full career, Which else, perchance, wou'd crush that noble sphere. These moons, on him, reflect the rays of light. As on the Earth, doth Luna, queen of night. Nor does he solely trust his flying guard, A rampart huge, some say of matter hard, We see all round him, to our great surprise, Built twenty-nine thousand miles in the skies! This, all astronomers do call his ring; But, of its use, I cannot truly sing. Whether 'twas made in order to supply That distant planet, in that frigid sky, With heat by reflex beams; (Hypothesis If you'll allow, this reason's not amiss.) Or whether it be not a satellite, Whose rapid motion, to our feeble sight, Makes an apparent ring (which is not more, To me, improbable than that before) Is yet unknown to man—nor need we try, Its sacred use, or substance to descry. Thus surrounded on his aerial car, Thro' optic tube, I view'd this distant star; Tho' quick his motion, yet so long his race, That thirty years but shew his annual face!—

Return my wand'ring muse, nor seek to climb Beyond the bounds of knowledge—Orbs sublime, Beyond this system, lead the muse astray; Approach not therefore e'en the milky-way. Obeying quick, my muse on speedy wing, Flies headlong down, once more on Earth to sing.

Ye verdant scenes, well-pleas'd I quit the skies, And, 'midst you rove, to ease my wand'ring eyes, With you I find more happiness by far, Than when I rode on Sol's celestial car; Or sail'd thro' aether on poetic wing, And saw the planets make their yearly ring. With you my muse, tho' of a wand'ring mind, Cou'd always sing, nor think herself confin'd.

Bright Sol now thro' the lovely Twins had ran, And his flow course thro' Cancer just began; I bade adieu to rural pleasures all, And rode to Trenton's academic hall—

Ye curling fountains, and harmonious vales, Fost ring breezes, and aromatic gales, Verdant lawns, and woodland towering groves, Tuneful songsters, and all ye grazing droves, Shepherds and swains, & thou sweet-blooming spring, Whose cheerful aspect makes all nature sing, Reluctantly from you my muses part, To touch a theme less pleasing to the heart, The roaring peals of War! Hail, Trenton, hail! To thee my muse quick-rushes from the vale. Nor learned halls, nor gentle-gliding stream, Nor ought but War, now swells my roving theme: Methinks I see illustrious Washington, Rous'd by the bloody plain of Lexington, Fearless and brave, with martial sounds advance, While trembling Hessians run, a crazy dance,

To seek for refuge, howling thro' the town, Closely pursu'd by freemen of renown. Into steep sellers, ovens, and hogsties, They headlong tumble, groaning fearful cries. Meanwhile their drums as timid beat to-arms, With broken sound; not sound of War's Alarms. Now the loud-roaring cannons rend the sky, 'Till bleeding Hessians "QUARTERS!" loudly cry, And strike the British colours to the ground, While shrieks of mercy echo all around!— But hark!—brave Washington loudly cries: "Spare, spare the sword! nor slay these Hessian flies; Only deprive the insects of their stings; I'll send them where they cannot use their wings." Thus have nine hundred men, inur'd to arms, To martial sounds, and roaring wars alarms, In wild confusion, laid down all their guns, To Washington and Columbia's darling sons.

I'd not pass over his immortal name, Without attempting for to sing his fame; But my infant muse, and imperfect lays, Can ill express the Heroes matchless praise. Then let some Shakespear strike the founding lyre, Or some brave Milton, with poetic fire, And soar aloft with some new strain sublime, Beyond the reach of each dull-creeping rhyme; From high Olympus, let the gods descend, And to this poet their assistance lend;

While he, in strains heroic, sings the fame Of Washington, and gilds his noble name. O, let the sacred nine their aid diffuse, In strains sublime, t' inspire his chanting muse: And may his song the sleeping echoes raise, From their soft slumber to resound his praise; 'Till his glorious theme reaches ev'ry soul, From the arctic, to the antarctic pole! But if a genius with such matchless strain, Cannot be found to sing our hero's fame, The Sons of Freedom will, I hope, excuse This imperfect strain, from a willing muse: Come then, ye sacred nine, inspire my song With phrase sublime, and gliding numbers strong; Heroic measure, teach me to command, And justly praise, the glory of this land, GEORGE WASHINGTON! who, tho' advanc'd in years, Disdained subjection to bold British peers; But, when Columbia loudly call'd him forth, Display'd at once, his galantry and worth; Of her land-forces, took the chief command, And wisely rul'd them with his martial hand; Check'd England's pride—broke her despotic band— And gained Freedom for his native land !— O, cou'd I sing, his conduct thro' the whole, His feeling heart and sympathetic soul; His love of Freedom, and his martial skill; His pride to conquer, and dislike to kill;

His perseverance in his country's cause, To banish tyrants and despotic laws; And, in a word, his patriotic zeal For his native land, and the public weal; My glorious theme should then, on golden wing, Thro foreign climes, and distant nations ring! But to do this requires a wiser hand, And higher strains than I can now command. O, may no trifling bard, with creeping lays, Ever attempt to sing his matchless praise; But may some Milton, full of lyric sound, Whose matchless strain whole nations will astound, To sing his praises, speedily be found!

Now rural songs invite my roving theme, To the green margin of yon purling stream, Where the young student, to unbend his mind, Leaps lively round, and quaffs the evening wind.

Bright sol was sinking thro' the western grove, The shepherd homeward singing to his drove, Bissected Luna (may I use the phrase?) Was just emerging from the solar rays; The tuneful songsters all had quit their strain, When Daphne thus to Strephon did complain: "Oh, my Strephon, to you alone I'll tell, The mournful tale, what late to me befel— But, do not startle at the tragic sound, Nor let my tears your manly sense astound—

Last night as we, well pleas'd, did walk along This verdant lawn, and sang a mutual soug, Our voice was heard by some designing clown, Who, with the news, ran quickly into town; And told my parents, a malicious tale, That he had seen us in yon lonesome vale."— She could no more—her sobbing sighs express'd, With flowing tears, to Strephon all the rest. Then fir'd with noble ardour, thus the youth, With manly voice exclaim'd: "O, sacred truth! Thou only know'st, how falsely w're accus'd; And the just Gods how Daphne's been ill-us'd! But, cease my Daphne, cease to shed those tears; And know, thy Strephon soon will end thy fears: Ere to-morrow's sun sinks beneath the plain, By all the Gods! I'll end a life of pain, Or he shall die who dar'd defile thy name!" "Not so my Strephon," Daphne gently cry'd, "The gods are witness that we are bely'd.— Why wou'dst thou then venture to end thy days, To be aveng'd of what a blackguard says? Our mutual bliss depends not on his fall, But on ourselves, and the great God of all."— Thus Daphne spoke t' appease her lovers heart; And thus again young Strephon did impart: My life, my Daphne, my all that I prize, Can, then; thy Strephon stop those heavy sighs? Say, does our future happiness depend On nuptial bands which nought but death can rend? If so, let Hymen, ere th'approach of day,

With torches bright, thro' the high milky-way Descend, and wave his ever-binding wand O'er both our heads and tie the nuptial band: O, speak my Daphne, let me know your mind, Or if you fault with my proposals find. The charming Daphne blush'd a silent hint, Which from the fair sex always means consent. This happy pair are strangers now to strife, And bless the day they became man and wife.

To rural scenes once more I bid adieu, The southern states and martial plains to view; And down the Delaware's majestic tide, With sails all full, harmoniously we ride. Now round Henlopen with a pleasant gale, For Carolina, south, we brisky sail; On Hatteras our bark was nearly stranded, But scapeing safe in Charleston we landed. On a peninsula of sandy lands, Between two rivers, this proud city stands; Rich in her commerce, prodigal of wealth, Gay in appearance, but no friend to health. In summer scorching with the solar rays, Each blooming beauty rapidly decays; The sprightly youth and the more active man, Forget their springs, and court the ladies fan. And ah, how many in the prime of life, Are snatch'd from father, brother, sister, wife! How many orphan children here are left, By cruel death, of ev'ry friend bereft!—

But lo, I see a superstructure rise, Magnificently grand it meets the skies; An asylum for the distressed young, T' improve their minds and cultivate their tongue; To screen the helpless orphan from all harm, From summer heat and the cold winter storm. This pride of Carolina * 1.13 will command, The free donation from the gen'rous hand, While there's a helpless orphan in the land. This sickly clime (if I may speak the truth) Can scarcely rear a likely, active youth; And if you travel Carolina round, Where wealth and luxury so much abound, A rosy cheek is scarcely to be found! But yet the fair possess those other charms, Which please the lover and his bosom warms; A graceful marriage and genteel attire; A modest mien that sets his soul on fire; Accomplish'd manners and education, With th' art of pleasing in conversation; They feel compassion for a lovers flame; But int'rest—int'rest, is their ruling aim! Here let me shew how once I felt those charms, And wish'd a fair Car'linean in my arms.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Our Convoy.
• † 1.2

  Newfoundland.
• * 1.3

  A stormy Bay between Halifax and New-Hampshire.
• * 1.4

  Brandiwine Creek.
• † 1.5

  Christ church's steeple Philadelphia.
• * 1.6

  Schuylkill, and Delaware.
• * 1.7

  Those kegs were, sall of powder and combuslibles, sent down the river Delaware, on float, by the Americans, in order to set sire to the British ship∣ping at Philadelphia.
• * 1.8

  Her inconstant swain.
• † 1.9

  Her own name.
• * 1.10

  Constellation Aries.
• † 1.11

  Constel. Taurus.
• ‡ 1.12

  Constel. Gemini.
• * 1.13

  Orphan house.