University of Virginia Library

'Twas at an Inn, in calm repose, Heedless of human joys or woes,
That Syntax pass'd a quiet night
In pleasing dreams and slumbers light;—
But in the morn the thunder roar'd,
The clouds their streaming torrents pour'd;
The angry winds impetuous blew, The rattling casement open flew;
Scared at the noise, he rear'd his head;
Then starting quickly from the bed,
“Is it,” he cried, “the day of doom?”
As he bestrode the trembling room.
The houses' tops with water stream'd, The village-street a river seem'd;
While, at the tempest all amaz'd,
The rustics from their windows gaz'd.
“I'm not,” he said “dispos'd to fear, But 'tis not time to loiter here;
I'll change the scene and quick retire From flaming flash to kitchen fire,
Nay, while rude Nature's threats prevail,
I'll lose the storm in toast and ale.”
Half-dress'd he made a quick retreat, And in the kitchen took his seat,
Where an old woman told the host What by the lightning she had lost:
How a blue flash her sow had struck,
Had kill'd a cock and lam'd a duck!
With open mouth another came, To tell a rick was in a flame,
And then declar'd that on the spire He saw the weathercock on fire:
Nay, that so loud the winds were singing
They'd set the peal of bells a-ringing!
A dripping tailor enter'd next And preach'd upon the self-same text:
He swore that sitting on his board,
While the wind blew and thunder roar'd,
A kind of fiery flame came pop, And bounc'd and ran about his shop;
Now here, now there, so quick and nimble,
It sing'd his finger through his thimble;
That all about his needles ran, If there was any truth in man:
While buttons, at least half a score,
Were driven through the kitchen door!
The Sexton, with important mien, Gave his opinion on the scene;
And, to the Doctor drawing near, Thus gently whisper'd in his ear:
“The Devil himself his cell has burst,
To fly away with Lawyer Thrust.”
Now having with due patience heard
The story which each wight preferr'd,
Syntax was to the parlour shown, Where he might breakfast all alone.
“I see,” said he, “I here must stay And at the Dragon pass the day:
And this same Dragon, on my life, Just hints that I have got a wife;
Nor can I pass the morning better Than to indite this wife a letter.”
He paus'd and sigh'd e'er he began, When thus the fond epistle ran.
Thus he his kindest thoughts reveal'd—
But scarce had he the letter seal'd,
When straight appear'd the trembling Host
Looking as pale as any ghost:—
“A man's just come into the town,
Who says the castle's tumbled down:
And that with one tremendous blow,
The lightning's force has laid it low.”
“What castle, friend?” the Doctor cried.—
“The castle by the river side;
A famous place, where as folks say,
Some great king liv'd in former day:
But this fine building long has been A sad and ruinated scene,
Where owls, and bats, and starlings dwell,—
And where, alas, as people tell,
At the dark hour when midnight reigns,
Ghosts walk, all arm'd, and rattle chains.”
“Peace, peace,” said Syntax, “Peace, my friend,
Nor to such tales attention lend.
—But this new thought I must pursue: A castle and a ruin too;
I'll hasten there and take a view.”
The storm was past and many a ray
Of Phœbus now reviv'd the day,
When Grizzle to the door was brought
And this fam'd spot the Doctor sought.
Upon a rock the castle stood, Three sides environ'd by a flood,
Where confluent streams uniting lave
The craggy rift with foaming wave.
Around the moss-clad walls he walk'd,
Then through the inner chambers stalk'd,
And thus exclaim'd with look profound,
The echoes giving back the sound.
“Let me expatiate here awhile: I think this antiquated pile
Is, doubtless, in the Saxon style.
This was a noble spacious hall, But why the chapel made so small?
I fear our fathers took more care Of festive hall than house of prayer.
I find these Barons fierce and bold, Who proudly liv'd in days of old,
To pray'r preferr'd a sumptuous treat,
Nor went to pray when they could eat.
Here all along the banners hung;
And here the welcome minstrels sung:
The walls with glitt'ring arms bedight Display'd an animating sight:
Beneath that arch-way, once a gate,
With helmed crest, in warlike state
The bands march'd forth, nor fear'd the toil,
Of bloody war that gave the spoil.
But now alas! no more remains Than will reward the painter's pains:
The palace of the feudal victor Now serves for nought but for a picture.
Plenty of water here I see, But what's a view without a tree?
There's something grand in yonder tower,
But not a shrub to make a bower;
Howe'er I'll try to take the view, As well as my best art can do.”
An heap of stones the Doctor found,
Which loosely lay upon the ground,
To form a seat, where he might trace The antique beauty of the place:
But, while his eye observ'd the line That was to limit the design,
The stones gave way, and sad to tell,
Down from the bank he headlong fell.
The slush, collected for an age, Receiv'd the venerable Sage;
For, at the time, the ebbing flood Was just retreating from the mud:
But, after floundering about, Syntax contriv'd to waddle out,
Half-stunn'd, amaz'd, and cover'd o'er As seldom wight had been before.
O'erwhelm'd with filth, and stink, and grief,
He saw no house to give relief;
And, thus amid the village din, He ran the gauntlet to the inn.
An angler threw his hook so pat, He caught at once the Doctor's hat:
A bathing boy, who naked stood, Dash'd boldly in the eddying flood,
And, swimming onward like a grig, Soon overtook the Doctor's wig.
Grizzle had trac'd the barren spot, Where not a blade of grass was got:
And, finding nought to tempt her stay, She to the Dragon took her way.
The ostler cried: “Here's some disaster—
The mare's return'd without her master!”
But soon he came amid the noise Of men and women, girls and boys:
Glad in the inn to find retreat From the rude insult of the street.
Undress'd, well wash'd and put to bed,
With mind disturb'd, and aching head,
In vain poor Syntax sought repose, But lay and counted all his woes.
The friendly Host, with anxious care,
Now hastes the posset to prepare:—
The cordial draught he kindly gives;
Which Syntax with a smile receives:
Then seeks, in sleep, a pause from sorrow,
In hopes of better fate to-morrow.