Zephaniah Doolittle :: :: University of Virginia Library

English, Thomas Dunn (1819-1902)

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Though my rhyme be iagged,
Tattered and ragged,
Rudely rain beaten,
Rusty moth-eaten;—
If ye talke well therewithe,
Ye will find in it some pith.
Skelton's Colyn Clow.

ZEPHANIAH DOOLITTLE.

Hail muse,” etc.—though each bardling sings
Of noble deeds of which he always knew little,
My soul shall mount on Poesy's sounding wings
T' exalt the name of Zephaniah Doolittle!
A man was he, though great in many things,
In stature small, for in his size he grew little.
His mind was kneaded well with holy leaven;
And in its boundless thought was huge as heaven;
His length was just five feet, age twenty-seven.

It is the custom, which I shan't adhere to.
To sing about a hero's early days—
About the parents whom the boy was dear to.
How oft the youngster studies, how oft plays;
How his bold spirit made his teachers fear to
Correct his manners, or amend his ways
I'll overlook the days of his minority,
As also six long years of his majority,
And hold for this, myself, as good authority.

Our hero thought, (a very curious notion,)
That he could preach an edifying sermon,
Such as would draw from out the vasty ocean
All monstrous things, from whales down unto mermen;
Make lacing belles forsake their Almond Lotion,

Dandies their lisp, philosophers their German;
In short, upset each foul and knavish trick,
Of he whom preachers from the world would kick,
That monstrous scamp and master de'il—old Nick.

Who has not felt thy fierce and wild desire,
In works a demon, and in thought a God—
Ambition! e'en thy name awakes a fire
Within our souls that bends us to thy nod:
If thou were not, all striving would expire,
And mankind think of nothing but to plod.
Some grope through life unnoticed and unknown,
But bolder spirits bend before thy throne,
Seeking for fame e'er life and hope be flown.

The man who creeps amid the common throng,
Within whose breast dwells not ambition's form,
Who heeds not, hears not emulation's song,
Is but a worm—a vile, degraded worm.
Smile if you will, my reader. Gad! ere long,
You'll own me right. Ambition is the germ
From whence all growth of nobleness proceeds;—
A blooming flower amid a host of weeds,
It proves a goad, which prompts to glorious deeds.

Inspired by this, the poets numbers roll
From off the lyre, in tuneful harmony,
Causing his swelling thought and raptured soul
To soar in regions of blest poesy,
Spurning the clods that would his mind control,
And roving with imagination free.
Why does he this? say what the mighty laws
Bind him to leave the world? its sordid cause?
Does not ambition urge that world's applause

But not alone the monarch of the lyre,
Whose words are melody, whose voice is song,
Dost thou with feelings emulant inspire;
For see! a mortal from the plodding throng
Has heard thy voice, has felt thy startling fire,
And men of might and master souls among,
Has snatched a station with a grasping hand.
A nation trembles at his bold command,
His frown alarms, his anger shakes the land.

The painter and the sculptor feel thy power.
It is thy mandate calls their bodyings forth,
All bow thy magic influence before,
Thou mighty monarch o'er the great of earth;
Cynics at thee may snarl each passing hour,
Fools may deride, and grovellers scorn thy worth,
Still of thy mighty power will poets sing,
By thee allured, forget their sorrowing,
And crown thee monarch! undisputed king.

Our hero took the fitting steps, and made
Due preparations for his first appearance
Upon that depot of the preaching trade—
The pulpit. Now, I'll give my muse a clearance
From all uncouth rhyme, whether sung or said,
Or else I'll scarcely merit much forbearance.
For though the measure's modelled after Dorset,
The rhyme is rather in a strain en corset,
Unyielding, stern, stiff, rascally, and forced.

There's one alone on earth whose dulness read is,
'Tis Benny Brandreth, curer of all ills—
He, quite successful at the quacking trade is,
And, storing cash by selling off his pills,
Defies the ire of all blue-stocking ladies,
Seeming to wield at least a thousand quills.

He is the man that jokes and champagne cracks,
All known diseases with success attacks,
Lord of empirics, potentate of quacks!

There's oculist John Williams, great eye-curer,
Inserting eyes where none had been before,
Making the blindest to see firmer, surer,
And those that much do see, to see the more.
He gulls the public, and what judge or juror
Imprisons him as rogue, or thief, or bore?
Why none at all. The herd and vulgar mass
Will have it not, but let him onward pass,
Riding triumphant on the public ass.

And there's Monsieur, the An'mal Magnetizer.
And his half score of “petite demoiselles,”
Who when asleep than waking folks are wiser,
Knowing of aught. (What sage and potent belles!)
Hence and begone, Stokes, Stockton, Reeside, Keyser.
No more you're wanted, so sage Poyen tells,
His air-rides favor of a “no-go” motion,
Or at the best, a very slow-go notion,
And much beneath our old steam locomotion.

Though to be sure it would be quite convenient,
(Lord, how the country folks would gape and stare
Whene'er beholding such a sage expedient,)
To start express mails through the upper air—
Our Congress, to the peoples voice obedient,
Must have a sapient magnetizer there,
Our doings to report. Then they, (the elves)
Would know our thoughts much better than our selves.
('Twould save the mire in which that body delves.)

But to talk serious—what is this famed science
Which makes the blind to see, the deaf to hear,
Transforming idiots into mental giants,
Making their thoughts no more confused, but clear,
And bidding rules of common sense defiance?
'Tis something strange, and therefore 'tis more dear
To some than was to Egypt's Queen, the asp,
Which brought her death. Fond fancy fain would clasp
The pleasures fate hath placed far, far beyond her grasp.

Now to our tale. A day had been appointed,
On which good Zephy should a sermon preach;
That sermon he had written, framed and jointed
Some time before—it had five headings; each
With the bright dulness of his brain anointed;
Prepared good manners to the world to teach,
It talked of sin, and sorrow, and transgressing,
Of hope and piety, and wrongs confessing,
And ended, as they all do, with a blessing.

The day arrived—“big with th' impending fate,”
Though not of Cato nor of “Mason's Blacking,”
But Zephaniah. The good people met,
Of all the villagers not one was lacking;
Arrived at church, and in their pews well set,
The women's tongues soon gave their mouths a thwacking;
A buzzing noise rose loud and louder. Each her
Own good opinion gave, upon the preacher
That was to be their sage and ghostly teacher.

Long did they hum, and longer still the hum
Would've been continued, had not deacon Schneipt
Rose up and whispered to squire Currycomb,
Whilst with his sleeve his glowing face he wiped,

“Why, squire, Lord bless me, won't the preacher come?
I raly think Old Nick the man has griped.”
The squire, in slow and cautious manner speaking,
While flamed his nose as glowing as a beacon,
Replied, “I cannot tell now, really, deacon.”

Now let us leave this prurient congregation,
With curiosity and wonder fretting,
Them, and their anxious, curious agitation,
And to our good friend Zephani' be getting.
But first we'll fill the verse with meditation,
To imitate the lay of 'Tony Etting;
Or talk most learnedly on Sancho Panza,
On Louis Philippe, Bordeaux, or Braganza—
But stay! we've reached the bottom of the stanza.

Sage Zephaniah left his own good mansion—
In one coat pocket he had cheese and crackers,
The other held two books which de'ils might dance on,
Videlicet, “The Cottage Hymns of Packer's,”
And that, to which all men should pay attention,
The Book of Heaven. This, though defaced by wreckers,
Who, in their calling clerical, presume
Its clearest truths to darken into gloom,
Is still the light, man's darken'd mind t' illume.

The Bible! 'tis a name which fills our heart
With hope, with charity, and thoughts of heaven;
A blessed peace and comfort doth impart,
And heals the soul that hath with wo been riven.
Let deists, 'gainst the dictates of their heart,
Say “it was ne'er by inspiration given,”
E'en though 'twere not, still 'twould have highest place

Over all other works. In it we trace
A thousand guides for our most sinful race.

We'll preach no more, but hasten to our hero,
Whose courage rose at times to boiling heat,
Now sank to blood, and thence below to zero,
As he thought on the toils which must him greet.
He thought (and then he doffed his worn Montero,
And scratched awhile his partly vacant pate,)
Upon the things which most men's fancy tickle, as
Fighting “the fight of faith” with wicked Nicholas,
And making sin look hideous and ridiculous.

He thought some more, and would much more have thought,
Had not his vision loomed athwart the church-yard,
(Which was by some called a “neat burying spot,”
Others, half French and English, called it “mort-yard.”)
He saw that he was late, so thought he'd cut
The distance shorter, by squire Bumble's orchard;
He scaled the wall, sans aid, help, or assistance,
Save arms and legs much like an engine's pistons,
And soon with lengthened strides abridged the distance.

As he proceeded with devotion full,
He heard a furious bellowing behind him;
And turning 'round, he saw a monstrous bull,
Pawing as though beneath his feet he'd grind him.
He ran, you may be sure, to “save his wool”—
Who would not, if such motives had inclined him?
Zephy could run, and did run at a pace
As swift as might be, but we always trace
The thought that four legs win, from two, a race.

He dropped his sermon, but no living creature
When anger reigned to reason was inclined;
The bull, with angry look and twisted feature,
Whisked with his tail the paper to the wind.
Fast ran the bull, and fast did run the preacher—
All Zephy dropped the bull did never mind,
But chased away right lustily, (that's flat!)
Next Zephy dropped his bible, even that
Checked not his foe; next, but in vain, his hat.

He yielded up for lost, when lo! his eyes
Beheld a tree, the kind so oft named “Eve's,”
Its knotty limbs before him did uprise,
Covered with Newtown pippins and with leaves;
He thought he'd gain this tree of mighty size,
And bid defiance unto bulls and beeves.
'Twas so—he leapt—no moment then was lost,
For had he tarried 'twould have been with cost,
On Bumble's bull's sharp horns he'd have been tost.

He seized the nick of time—but not the Nick
That dwells below and ne'er on earth is heard,
Although 'tis said, in mischief ever quick,
He interposes many a wicked word,
Tempting to sin, Tom, Arthur, Jack, and Dick;
Neither the one described by doctor Bird—
To whom in reverence we might this thing say:
Nick of the Woods! great devil must thou be,
Old Nick below will yield the palm to thee.

Neither was it the Nick, or rather Nicholas,
Who reign'st within his marble hall in state,
Whom foes endeavor still to make ridiculous,
And friends and merchants to make wise and great
Whose smiling face and manners bland doth tickle us,
And make good-humored thoughts rise in our pate.

Who, praise of friends and foeman's ire, both scorning
Sets in his chair, “calm as a summer's morning;”—
But the bright time success is still adorning

This, then, he seized, and mounted in the tree,
He kept the bellowing animal at bay;
But what astonishment it was to see
That the proud brute still seemed inclined to stay.
Zeph felt enraged. What! was it so? was he
From his loved sermon to be kept that day?
'Twas so, alas! and he was forced to gulp it.
How oft he wished the brute's huge horn-capt skull split,
Or hurled unto the bottom of a coal-pit.

He saw from out his seat within the tree
That all the audience, far and wide, were scattering;
He saw, but could do nothing else but see,
For probable escape was not so flattering;
And well he knew this single fact—if he
Jumped down, the bull would try his head at battering,
Alas! his congregation little knew
That he was prisoner made by Taurus, who
Made him to tremble at his hollow “boo!”

Zephy sat still, and chewed the bitter quid,
Not of reflection, but Virginia weed,
To wait intending, until night had hid
The earth in darkness; till the sun his steed
Had ta'en to stable, and the earth was rid
Of that great fright to men of wicked deed,
That tell-tale vagabond, informing light.
A something inward said, “All will be right.”
And hope outspread her sunny flag of light.

Hope! smiling genius! whose gladsome reign
Brightness and love unto the heart extending,
With the dark shades of sorrow and of pain,
The light relief of joy and beauty blending.
All nations love thee, spirit! all would fain
Allure thy smile. The Ethiop, when wending
His darksome way 'midst ignorance and despair,
Knows thy loved form will chase away his care,
Dispersing sorrow in illusive air.

Who would not love thee owns a heart as cold
As is the icebergs of the frigid north—
Stern, as if cast in dark affliction's mould,
And nursed within a cavern of the earth—
Gloomy, as though from hell's sulphurous fold,
At Pluto's mandate, it had issued forth.
Who would not list to thy light words of gladness,
Which cheer the soul, and chase the dark imp, sadness,
Should dwell alone 'mid hate, revenge and madness.

Such were the thoughts of Zephy as in station
Sublime and high, upon a crooked limb,
He thought on hope, and sermons, eke salvation
From the dread might and mighty power of him
Who held below a watchful observation,
And seemed to make a duty of a whim—
Squire Bumble's bull, the bull of esquire Bumble.
“If,” thus spoke Zephy, “I should chance to tumble
From height just here, his horns would make me humble.”

He raised his eyes and saw a party stalking
Across the field, headed by deacon Tottle,
Who famous was in all parts for his talking,
Likewise his deep devotion to the bottle;
In company with him, was also walking,

Squire Tumblewell, who two stout men could throttle;
Next deacon Schneipt, who was quite pious, very;
Then Peter Dumps, who grinning was and merry;
Then Sammy Snakeroot and lieutenant Berry.

He raised his eyes, and then he raised his voice,
And like an owl, in ruined castle hall,
That in the darkened midnight does rejoice,
And whoop and halloo, he did shout and bawl;
Till they, attracted by the shrilly noise,
Approached quite close unto the orchard wall.
They stared and stared—the deuce! what made them stare so?
To see a preacher set up as a scare-crow?
Zounds! nonsense! why, sirs, that is not a “rare-go.”

Many there are who at the present day
Raise themselves up as marks for fools to squint on
And by odd things, out of the common way,
Make them notorious; there is Avery, Hinton,
Irving, Fitz Clarence—lord knows, I might say
A thousand names as I my verses went on,
But that my temper is quite merciful,
And loves not at their name or fame to pull,
Save to compare the mass with Bumble's bull.

Who, though no member of our pious clergy,
Resembled them in some things at the least,
In hunting up a sinner, as e'en heard ye
In a back stanza, roaring like a beast.
As some divines, who think that they have cured ye
Of woful sin, by spreading out a feast
Of hell's dread agony and torments dire,
Of brimstone, scorpions, burning flames and fire,
And every fright that demons could desire.

But that is not the manner to convert
From sin to piety the stubborn heart;
The mode is bad—by terrors, you but hurt
The young repentance, and no good impart
Unto the soul. Just so 'tis with a shirt,
(Excuse the simile, peruser smart,)
In the West Indies, where the negroes wash,
They seize two stones, and with them beat and slash,
Until they pound the linen into “smash.”

Meanwhile the band did gaze and gape upon
A sight which unto them was strange to see;
They asked of Zeph, if he would downward come,
And not stay, like a scare-crow in the tree.
“I can't,” said Zeph, “for he won't let me down.”
“He! who mean you?” said they, “pray, who is he?”
(The bull, meanwhile, was hid behind a bush,
Waiting, in ambuscade, to give a rush,
Whene'er this holy band should forward push)

Then did they scale the wall, and then advance
Unto the aid of their “demented” minister,
Whom they imagined, from the first quick glance,
To be endued with purpose bad and sinister;
Else why, without “malicious thought prepense,”
Would he engage to preach, and then not in it stir?
Their train of thought, howe'er, was quickly ended,
And with “confusion, worse confounded,” blended,
The bull soon scattered thoughts, sublime or splendid

For with loud roar and most horrific bellow,
The bull was soon the thickest group among.
Lord! how they ran! from the short, dumpy fellow,
Pete Dumps, to he whose legs were thin and long,
Squire Tumblewell, and as they ran did halloo.
Rushing in fright, “a wild, tumultuous throng,”

Here was no place for friends to bill and coo;
For here, to use the “lingo parly voo,”
The general cry was “Messieurs, sauve qui peut.”

Which last, when in the English tongue translated,
Doth read, “the bull may gore the hindmost man,”
And (odd enough) at this fell time 'twas fated
The proverb should be true—and truer than
Most proverbs are. The bull with anger baited
No doubt at laying under Zephy's ban,
Gave to Squire Sammy Snakeroot such a butting
Upon that part which from the rear is jutting,
That strength and thoughts were scarcely worth a—button.

The next one to the bull was Peter Dumps,
Whom first he struck, intending but to serve him
As he had served squire Snakeroot, by two bumps,
Which could or would not tend t'unnerve him,
But which would make him stir his solid stumps,
And from his usual lazy stride would swerve him.
Alas! the waistband of Pete's inexpressibles
Hooked on the bull's horns, who soon made them whisk-ables,
And gave to Pete a spasm of distressables.

Many the tales which eastern bards relate,
In which the wizard might of woman's love
Shines like the brilliant guiding star of fate,
Sparkling and bright, high in the heavens above.
We know not if Pete's wife were small or great,
Or whether one at all he had, by Jove;
However, if he had one, she should teach us,
By her good spouse's woful jerks and pitches,
Never to wear a waistband on our breeches.

The bull went scouring on across the field,
With Peter Dumps suspended to his horn,
Whom like a waxen puppet he did wield,
Making him rue the day that he was born;
Causing his wits with fear to be congealed,
And laughing all his struggles unto scorn.
'Twas just as bad (to use a well-worn trope)
As dangling at the end of Ketch's rope,
That you ne'er may, pray, and in praying hope.

The bull brought up against the orchard wall,
And slung friend Peter Dumps across the road.
The rest—and pray, what of the rest?—why, all
Sprang from the field in manner a la mode.
But when escaped from out his bullship's thrall,
Then they began his rising ire to goad;
They raged, and talked, and looked as large as giants,
Or famous lawyers 'fore admiring clients,
Bidding to bulls, both tame and wild, defiance.

Along the road another party came,
And now, supported by this new addition,
They did commence a war of holy fame,
A pious crusade, (by your good permission,)
To save their preacher. In their breasts, a flame
Like that which lighted he of holy mission,
Peter, the hermit, did arise, and burned
As bright as candles, which of late are spurned
For brilliant gas-lights, and unjustly scorned.

Sticks forward flew in dense and woody shower,
And stones that had for years in terra grown
Now were torn up, and hurled with force and power
At Bumble's bull, upon whose face was shown

Contempt and scorn, and where the most did lower
His foeman's fury, most was heard his groan.
Bellowing and bawling with a rage-fraught wail
That made the fiercest of his foemen quail,
He whisked in rage his anger-straightened tail.

Now grew the battle fiercer—and the rage
Of Bumble's bull and his redoubted foes
Grew fiercer also. Naught could it assuage.
(Always excepting death's terrific throes;)
His foes, like heroes on the Thespic stage,
Who dress in tin-pots and in tinselled clothes,
Rushed on in dread array. Leading the van,
Came captain Swagger; he (the gallant man)
Had been the foremost since the fight began.

The ambuscade placed in the apple-tree
Saluted Taurus with a galling fire
Of Newtown pippins, by the way, d'ye see,
Of small shot. Very high uprose the ire
Of Bumble's bull. What of it? Although he
Waxed high in anger, his foe's rage rose higher.
They formed en masse, they charged (the gallant men)
To beard the bull within his own dark den.
How firm and doughty! (Peter, nib my pen!)

They charged, they broke, they charged again, and rallied,
And with a loud huzza, they onward sprang;
And then the bull did chase 'em back—those allied
Powers of Snagsville—while the orchard rang
With his loud roarings, as he onward sallied,
Not on his foes, but on the wall. Then, bang!
Came missiles of all sorts and sizes, show'ring
Upon the shoulders of the brute, who, low'ring,
Withstood their power, sans fear or signs of cow'ring.

Bravest of bulls! whose mighty power, and so forth,
Did I but sing, soon, scouring through the land,
Praises of thee and thine, great bull, would go forth,
Chaunted and squealed by all the bardling band.
Said I the word commanding it, and lo! forth
Issuing, like fiends 'neath Freischutz's magic wand.
Odes would be piled on odes, wrote by Bianca,
Numps, H. N. M., Elora, and Satanca,
And songs by scores, in all not worth a “thank'ye.”

But I have mercy on the public ears,
And will not make these fellows wield their pens;
Therefore, my readers, banish all your fears,
They shan't lay odes, as eggs are done by hens,
One on each day, and two on Sunday. Where's
The bardling living who will do't? and when's
This great infliction to be done or made?
These poems splendid to be sung or said?
This cloud-capt acme of the scribbling trade?

Why, nowhere! There's an “end on't!” So we'll back
Unto those noble men whom we left fighting,
Nor once we'll wander from our beaten track
Till you no more are reading, or we, writing;
No more on scribbler's heads our thunders crack,
But to our scribe our verses be inditing.
Not that we fear the bardling's power—not we;
But want no broils, although the truth, perdie,
Is, that—we—lack—a share—of bravery.

Loud grew the noise. Another reinforcement
Arrived, the former gallant band to aid;
Composed of village beaux, who smelt of horsemint
And tallow-candles—the perfuming trade

Had not yet reached their village—they of course meant
To smell quite sweet, and charm each village maid.
You sure can't blame them. Not at all. For vanity
Is at all places shown. Ay! all humanity
Are much afflicted with this sad insanity.

The allied army charged. They scaled the wall
And drove the brute triumphantly away;
Using no guns, nor swords, nor ball, save bawl,
And coming off “the winners of the day.”
They took friend Zephy from his bullship's thrall,
And made, if not the bull, the de'il to pay.
Poor Zephaniah! he was downcast quite;
His face was just as lightly pale with fright
As is the paper sheet on which I write.

“A long farewell to” preaching. When he'd think
If such a thing could e'er again be borne,
One recollection would still make him shrink—
It was the memory of the bull's sharp horn.
And then before his eyes, which fain would wink,
Would come the sorrows of that fatal morn.
His hopes were wrecked. (But, prithee, let that go,
Wrecks are quite common in this sphere below;
“This world,” so says an adage trite, “is full of wo.”)

“Talking of wrecks,” once on a certain time,
I saw a wreck, and once I saw a ghool;
Of the first subject will I talk in rhyme,
Although no member of the lofty school.
Perhaps, you think no thoughts, great or sublime,
Enter my pate. Good reader, you're a fool.

I'll try to prove you liar, too. What then?
Naught that I know of. (Pete, bring here that pen,)
Here goes for bombast. Now, great muse, begin!

Fast falling was the blazing light of day,
And the sun cast upon the placid ocean,
Which, like a mass of molten beryl, lay
Stilly and calm, deprived of aught like motion—
A redd'ning gleam, a solitary ray,
Fading and transient as is man's devotion.
The paly moon shone dimly, half afraid
Of her own light, and some in truth dismayed
At seeing all o'ercast with dark'ning shade.

Far on the outmost verge of that huge dome
Which rears its ether arch above the world,
And pleasant is to bards, as gems to some,
Lay a black cloud, like a damned spirit, hurled
By God's high hand, from out its heavenly home.
Far in the ether, its huge mass was curled
In forms uncouth; the herald of the storm,
Whose black, fantastic, and misshapen form
Would soon with lightning flash be riven and torn.

The sky grew darker. Soon came booming on
The deep-voiced thunder, whilst at distance rolled
The wild winds dirge-like and yet tempest tone;
The lightning's evanescent sheet of gold,
Flooding its light the air, the sea, upon,
Burst in its anger from the clouds huge fold.
At first they came full slow. The lightning's glare
Was charged with gloom, as though it held in air
Some spirit bold, writhing in proud despair.

Then came they swifter, with a threatening clash,
As though the very elements were warring;

And noise sought noise, and crash succeeded crash,
As the wild winds the thunder-clouds were jarring.
Then came the rainy torrent in a dash,
The many charms of air and ocean marring.
Then from the mountains, to the beach below,
Which with the lightning's transient fire did glow,
Ten thousand torrent streams in wrath did flow.

The dark-green ocean blanched to whitest foam,
And seemed a plain of ever-drifting snow;
Whilst all the wildest terrors seemed to roam
From their true places, gath'ring over now,
Ready to burst from out their cloud-built home
With noise indignant and with angry glow.
These were the terrors of the tempest. Breaking
Upon the moaning wind, the shrilly speaking
Of treacherous water-maid came wildly shrieking.

A stately bark, with eastern riches laden,
Came dashing proudly o'er the foaming brine
Of ocean. List'ning to the water-maiden,
Whose song of joy did float upon the wind,
Stood th' affrighted seamen. Naught could deaden
That song's effect on their untutored mind.
They yielded up for lost. Their coward ear
No hopeful omen could succeed to cheer,
And every noise became a sound of fear.

Muttered the clouds—then fierce and redly flashed
Across the skies, the war-bolt of our God,
The sheeted flame of heaven. Wild it dashed
Its flame into the vessel, which did nod
As though t' acknowledge that the power which crashed
Its form, high heaven's jewelled court had trod.

And whilst the sound of heaven's ordnance rung
Through air, the shrouds, and sails, and masts among,
The curling flame did thrust its forked tongue.

The huge spars crackled, whilst the vessel grew
Close to the flame, as though it meant to lave
Its form within the element. Her crew—
Some sprang in fright into th' illumined wave,
To meet the death less cruel of the two.
Dread choice! a wat'ry or a flaming grave!
The shrieks of hardy men and women fair,
Rose in a general shout upon the air,
While hope and firmness sank before despair.

Now rose into the tempest-darkened night,
As flashes sunshine through a black'ning cloud,
A lengthened flame, which showed a fearful light,
And then a roaring crash, deaf'ning and loud—
'Twas covered o'er with gloom, where late 'twas bright!
[OMITTED]
Son waits for sire upon the sandy shore,
And mother stays for son—their race is o'er!
Nor son, nor sire, bereaved ones! meet ye more!

And so my jingling poem, tale, or strain,
Or what you choose to call't, at length is ended;
As I shall not oft trouble you again,
Excuse me if with rhymes a saw is blended;
I cannot help myself, though I would fain
Not do in this, as long ago most men did.
Ne'er cross an orchard without knowing well
Whether a bull within its precincts dwell—
With this advice, dear reader, fare-thee-well.

Blockley, August 10th, 1838.