University of Virginia Library

Luck speed the wanderers! for at morning dawn
The lowly pilgrims from their home were gone,
The house was lifeless, not a breathing wight
Abided there at earliest peep of light,
Clos'd were the windows, barr'd the rustic door,
The fire was quench'd, to lighten never more.
The wife and little ones together rode,
While Basil walk'd, for heavy was the load,
And meet it was to spare the nag the while,
Whose pilgrimage was many a weary mile.
The mother's heart was like to die away,
As looking on the nestling one that lay
Sleeping, in smiles, fast in her circling arms,
And budding forth in all its infant charms;
The brisk boys laugh'd to think they'd have a ride,
Nor reck'd whatever else might hap beside;
While on the father's brow sat anxious care,
And brave resolve his fated lot to bear,
Whether mishap betide, or bright success,
With full fruition his high purpose bless.

Dark was the early dawn, dun vapours chill,
Cover'd the earth, and hid the distant hill,
A veil of mist obscur'd the struggling day,
That seemed to grope its slow uncertain way;
No insect chirp'd, or wakeful twitt'ring bird,
Within the copse, or briery dingle stirr'd.
Anon, far in the East light streaks of red
O'er the gray mists a tint of morning shed,
Brighter and still more bright their hues unfold,
Till all the sky was fring'd with burnish'd gold;
Up rose the gallant Sun! the mists away
Vanish'd, like spectres, at the dawn of day;
No silence now was in the waken'd groves,
For every bird began to chant his loves,
And all the liveried rabble insect crew,
That crawl'd upon the jewell'd earth, or flew,
Muster'd their merry notes and frisk'd away,
In many colour'd vestments—who but they!

'Twas sweet the morning minstrelsy to hear,
And Basil felt it to his heart most dear,
Although it was no bright unsullied joy,
But deeply tinctur'd with a sad alloy;
For, as with painful effort, faint and slow,
He gain'd the height that look'd o'er all below,
And stopt to rest, and turn'd to gaze behind,
A thousand tender thoughts throng'd on his mind.
Home look'd so happy in the Morning's smile,
He quite forgot his suff'rings there erewhile,
And but for honest shame, that makes us fear
The pointed finger, and the taunting sneer,
That never fail to greet the wav'ring man
Who weakly swerves from any settled plan,
He had return'd, though certain there again
To meet his old associates, Want and Pain.
Ah! there is something in the name of home,
That sounds so sweetly as afar we roam!
And who has worried through this world so lone,
But in his wand'rings this sad truth has known,
Whate'er may happen, wheresoe'er we roam,
However homely, still there's nought like home.

In truth it was a landscape wildly gay
That 'neath his lofty vision smiling lay;
A sea of mingling hills, with forests crown'd,
E'en to their summits, waving all around,
Save where some rocky steep aloft was seen,
Frowning amid the wild romantic scene,
Around whose brow, where human step ne'er trode,
Our native Eagle makes his high abode;
Oft in the warring of the whistling gales,
Amid the scampering clouds, he bravely sails,
Without an effort winds the loftiest sky,
And looks into the Sun with steady eye:
Emblem and patron of this fearless land,
He mocks the might of any mortal hand,
And, proudly seated on his native rock,
Defies the World's accumulated shock.
Here, mid the piling mountains scatter'd round,
His winding way majestic Hudson found,
And as he swept the frowning ridge's base,
In the pure mirror of his morning face,
A lovelier landscape caught the gazer's view,
Softer than nature, yet to nature true.
Now might be seen, reposing in stern pride,
Against the mountain's steep and rugged side,
High Putnam's battlements, like tow'r of old,
Haunt of night-robbing baron, stout and bold,
Scourge of his neighbour, Nimrod of the chase,
Slave of his king, and tyrant of his race.
Beneath its frowning brow, and far below,
The weltering waves, unheard, were seen to flow
Round West Point's rude and adamantine base,
That call'd to mind old Arnold's deep disgrace,
Andre's hard fate, lamented, though deserv'd,
And men, who from their duty never swerv'd—
The HONEST THREE—the pride of yeomen bold,
Who sav'd the country which they might have sold;
Refus'd the proffer'd bribe, and, sternly true,
Did what the man that doubts them ne'er would do.
Yes! if the Scroll of never-dying Fame,
Shall tell the truth, 'twill bear each lowly name;
And while the wretched man, who vainly tried
To wound their honour, and his Country's pride,
Shall moulder in the dirt from whence he came,
Forgot, or only recollected to his shame,
Quoted shall be these gallant, honest men,
By many a warrior's voice, and poet's pen,
To wake the sleeping spirit of the land,
And nerve with energy the patriot band.
Beyond, on either side the river's bound,
Two lofty promontories darkly frown'd,
Through which, in times long past, as learned say,
The pent up waters forc'd their stubborn way;
Grimly they frown'd, as menacing the wave
That storm'd their bulwarks with its current brave,
And seem'd to threaten from their shatter'd brow,
To crush the vessels all becalm'd below,
Whose white sails, hanging idly at the mast,
O'er the still waves a deep reflexion cast.
Still farther off, the Kaatskill, bold and high,
Kiss'd the pure concave of the arched sky,
Mingled with that its waving lines of blue,
And shut the world beyond from mortal view.

Poor Basil gaz'd with dim and sorrowing eyes,
And seem'd again the morning mists to rise,
While every object that in happier hour
Had often charm'd him with its wak'ning power,
Shot but a keener pang through his sad heart,
And made him more unwilling to depart.
So, to the dying man, the fairest scene
But marks his fate with agonies more keen;
The Sun's bright rays, the Morning's mellow smile,
Potent to sooth his hours of health erewhile;
The willow tufted stream, that shuns the day,
Yet by soft murmurs does its haunt betray;
The warblers of the woodland, sweet and wild,
That oft, in better days, his steps beguil'd;
The forms he loves that round him weeping stand,
Grasping with fond solicitude his hand,
As if with tender violence to stay
The tiptoe spirit on its airy way;—
All, all combin'd, but give the fatal dart
A deadlier venom, and a keener smart;
Dearer each friend, each object than before,
Just as we leave them, ne'er to see 'em more:
'Tis this which makes the bitterness of death,
Which else were nothing, but the loss of breath.

Now speed we on our way, nor stay to tell
What little rubs, or small mishaps befel,
As all through Jersey's pleasant land they wend,
And many a valley cross, and hill ascend;
What smiling scenes they saw, and what did not—
Scenes that, by me, will never be forgot!
Or where they stopt to rest, or sleep at night,
Who took their money, who refus'd outright:
Suffice, they reach'd one eve of Sabbath day,
Where Delaware pursues his winding way
Parting the sister states, that side by side
Smile on each other in the limpid tide.
'Twas just where rambling Lehigh—pleasant stream!
Fit haunt for bard to wander and to dream—
Ev'n like a gentle, all confiding maid,
By true Affection's fondest impulse sway'd,
Glides into Delaware's encircling arms,
And silently surrenders all her charms,
Gives up her very being evermore,
And that sweet virgin name of old she bore.

'Twas sunset's hallow'd time—and such an eve
Might almost tempt an angel Heaven to leave.
Never did brighter glories greet the eye,
Low in the warm, and ruddy Western sky,
Nor the light clouds at Summer eve unfold
More varied tints of purple, red, and gold.
Some in the pure, translucent, liquid breast
Of crystal lake, fast anchor'd seem'd to rest,
Like golden islets scatter'd far and wide,
By elfin skill in Fancy's fabled tide,
Where, as wild Eastern legends idly feign,
Fairy, or genii, hold despotic reign.
Others, like vessels, gilt with burnish'd gold,
Their flitting airy way are seen to hold,
All gallantly equipt with streamers gay,
While hands unseen, or Chance, directs their way;
Around, athwart, the pure ethereal tide,
With swelling purple sail, they rapid glide,
Gay as the barque, where Egypt's wanton queen
Reclining on the shaded deck was seen,
At which as gaz'd the uxorious Roman fool,
The subject world slipt from his dotard rule.
Anon, the gorgeous scene begins to fade,
And deeper hues the ruddy skies invade;
The haze of gathering twilight Nature shrouds,
And pale, and paler, wax the changeful clouds.
Then sunk the breeze into a breathless calm,
The silent dews of evening dropt like balm;
The hungry nighthawk from his lone haunt hies,
To chase the viewless insect through the skies;
The bat began his lantern loving flight,
The lonely whip-poor-will, our bird of night,
Ever unseen, yet ever seeming near,
His shrill note quaver'd in the startled ear;
The buzzing beetle forth did gayly hie,
With idle hum, and careless blund'ring eye;
The little trusty watchman of pale night,
The firefly, trimm'd anew his lamp so bright,
And took his merry airy circuit round
The sparkling meadow's green and fragrant bound,
Where blossom'd clover, bath'd in balmy dew,
In fair luxuriance, sweetly blushing grew.

O! holy Nature! goddess ever dear,
What a fair scene for human bliss was here!
What pleasant rural sports, what calm delights,
Dear happy Summer days, and Winter nights,
Might in such tranquil nestling place be spent,
Lull'd in the downy lap of sweet Content!
But vain it is, that rich and bounteous Heav'n,
To wretched man this smiling Earth has giv'n,
And all in vain its winning face displays
Such beauties to allure his reckless gaze,
While this same rash, malignant, reas'ning worm,
Bereft of all that's human but the form,
Pollutes her bosom with his kindred blood,
Turns to rank poison all her proffer'd good,
And plays before his Maker's sick'ning eyes
The serpent of this blooming Paradise.
Who that had gaz'd upon a scene so fair
Had dream'd this world a world of endless care,
Where evil deeds lurk ever in our way,
And Piety has nought to do but pray;
While all that lures to ill before us lies,
And all that tempts to good, is in the skies?
Not with wing'd angels good men wrestle here,
Like him of old, whom Israel's tribes revere;
But with a train of imps, in angel guise,
That sometimes even cheat the wary wise:
If one is foil'd, another still succeeds,
For victory but to harder trials leads,
Till tired at last, we quit the hopeless field,
Or to the weakest of the tempters yield,
And all the hard earn'd trophies thus restore,
Rather than fight one puny battle more.

The op'ning eyelids of the blue ey'd day
Saw our industrious pilgrims on their way;
For Spring was waning fast, the Summer near,
And Time would soon evolve the passing year;
Winter might come ere yet the houseless band
Had found a refuge in the promised land.
No idle fools, or idle knaves are they,
Who cannot stay at home their pray'rs to say;
No barefoot beggars, cloth'd in rags and dirt,
With leathern thong equipt, and sackcloth shirt,
Leaving the sacred duties of their home
In search of shrines or holy land to roam,
As if the God who hears the whisper'd pray'r,
Gave not his equal presence every where;
No! they were those who strove with gen'rous aim,
To 'scape the jaws of Beggary and Shame;
To gain amid the forest wild and drear
That competence to honest Worth so dear.
Surely such pilgrims seek a purer shrine
Than tombs of men, by priestcraft made divine,
And surely Heav'n will smile upon their way,
Ev'n though they seek not holy land to pray.

Now all through Pennsylvania's pleasant land,
Unheeded past our little roving band,
—For every soul had something here to do,
Nor turn'd aside our cavalcade to view—
By Bethlehem, where Moravian exiles bide,
In rural paradise, on Lehigh's side,
And York and Lancaster—whose rival rose
In this good land, no bloody discord knows.
Not such their fate!—the ever grateful soil
Rewards the blue-ey'd German's patient toil;
Richer and rounder every year he grows,
Nor other ills his stagnant bosom knows
Than caitiff grub, and cursed Hessian fly,
Mildews, and smuts, a dry or humid sky;
Before he sells, the market's sudden fall,
Or sudden rise, when sold—still worse than all!
Calmly he lives—the tempest of the mind,
That marks its course by many a wreck behind;
The purpose high that great Ambition feels,
Sometimes perchance upon his vision steals,
But never in his sober waking thought
One stirring, active impulse ever wrought.
Calmly he lives—as free from good as blame,
His home, his dress, his equipage the same,
And when he dies, in sooth, 'tis soon forgot
What once he was, or what he once was not—
An honest man, perhaps,—'tis somewhat odd,
That such should be the noblest work of God!

So have I seen in garden rich and gay,
A stately cabbage waxing fat each day;
Unlike the lively foliage of the trees,
Its stubborn leaves ne'er wave in Summer breeze,
Nor flower, like those that prank the walks around,
Upon its clumsy stem is ever found;
It heeds not noontide heats, or Evening's balm,
And stands unmov'd in one eternal calm.
At last, when all the Garden's pride is lost,
It ripens in drear Autumn's killing frost,
And in a sav'ry sourkrout finds its end,
From which detested dish, me Heaven defend!

Now reach'd they Susquehanna's classic stream,
Well worthy of the poet's lay I deem,
And sweetly is it sung by him whose verse
Erewhile did Wyoming's sad tale rehearse,
In simple, plaintive, melancholy lay,
Worthy the sweetest minstrel of our day:
No need that I should tell his gentle name,
You'll find it on the roll of deathless Fame.
In toilsome journey many a mile they past,
And reach'd long Alleghany's foot at last;
Wild, endless chain! that rising in the North,
Where stout St. Lawrence heaves his waters forth,
Pursues its devious course, firm bas'd and high,
Dark barrier of the East and Western sky,
And knits the sister states in one great band,
Ne'er to be sever'd by a mortal hand.
Here, seated where the first and last bright ray
Of morn and ev'ning round his footing play,
By past time, present, and the future bless'd,
Besides the genius of the glowing West.
High thron'd amid the pure ethereal skies,
The East and West with equal ken he eyes,
Watches with equal care each sister state,
The new and old, the little and the great;
With equal pleasure sees the Sun arise
In ruddy East, or set in Western skies,
And joys, from petty local feelings free,
In ALL the Land's combin'd prosperity.

Here, too, the god of mighty rivers bides,
And his exhaustless urn pours down its sides;
Some westward roll, and, gathering on their way,
Through untrack'd glens and shady labyrinths stray,
Whence stealing from their woods to fruitful plains,
Where gen'rous Plenty greets industrious swains,
They meet at last on fair Ohio's side,
And lose their being in that ample tide.
Others, far eastward wending, find their way
To Pennsylvanian landscapes rich and gay,
Or through long devious vales, meandering slow,
To southern lands, still gathering on they flow,
Till cent'ring in Potomac's ample wave,
The sister states on either side they lave,
And in the deep Atlantic's breast at last,
Through Chesapeake's wide op'ning all are cast.

Hard was the tugging up that mighty hill,
Full oft the sturdy pony stood stock still;
And had not Basil watch'd the wheel right well,
Back they had tumbled—where, no soul can tell.
At last they reach'd the summit rough and high,
Just as the stars began to gem the sky,
And twinkle, as if weeping those light dews
Which pale-ey'd Evening o'er the parch'd Earth strews:
They sought the hut where lowly trav'llers bide,
And nestling close together, side by side,
Napp'd it right sweetly till the Morn's gay smile
Rous'd to another long, long day of toil.

Hail, blessed Night! tir'd Nature's holiday!
When all the lab'ring world has leave to play;
Thou smooth'st the sweating workman's wrinkled brow,
The galley slave, and peasant at the plough,
The stooping sitheman, and the axeman good,
Whose weapon's like a whirlwind in the wood,
Love thy pale shadows, as with watchful eye
They trace the Sun adown the western sky,
Thou mak'st them sweet amends for toilsome pain
By the light rest they find beneath thy reign.
Not so th' ill-neighbour'd lids of Discontent;
They hold no fellowship—and night is spent
In dull repinings at our wayward fate,
Or quarrels with that world we love and hate,
And while rough Labour sleeps on rocks alone,
To such the downy pillow seems a stone.

Our Basil beat the lazy Sun next day,
And bright and early had been on his way,
But that the world he saw e'en yesternight,
Seem'd faded like a vision from his sight.
One endless chaos spread before his eyes,
No vestige left of Earth or azure skies,
A boundless nothingness reign'd every where,
Hid the green fields, and silent all the air.
As look'd the trav'ller for the world below,
The lively morning breeze began to blow,
The magic curtain roll'd in mists away,
And a gay landscape laugh'd upon the day.
As light the fleeting vapours upward glide,
Like sheeted spectres on the mountain side,
New objects open to his wondering view
Of various form, and combinations new,
A rocky precipice, a waving wood,
Deep winding dell, and foaming mountain flood,
Each after each, with coy and sweet delay,
Broke on his sight, as at young dawn of day,
Bounded afar by peak aspiring bold,
Like giant capt with helm of burnish'd gold.
So when the wandering grandsire of our race
On Ararat had found a resting place,
At first a shoreless ocean met his eye,
Mingling on every side with one blue sky;
But as the waters, every passing day,
Sunk in the earth, or roll'd in mists away,
Gradual, the lofty hills, like islands peep,
From the rough bosom of the boundless deep,
Then the round hillocks and the meadows green,
Each after each, in freshen'd bloom are seen,
Till, at the last, a fair and finish'd whole
Combin'd to win the gazing patriarch's soul.
Yet oft he look'd, I ween, with anxious eye,
In lingering hope somewhere, perchance, to spy,
Within the silent world, some living thing,
Crawling on earth, or moving on the wing,
Or man, or beast—alas! was neither there,
Nothing that breath'd of life in earth or air;
'Twas a vast silent mansion rich and gay,
Whose occupant was drown'd the other day;
A church-yard, where the gayest flowers oft bloom
Amid the melancholy of the tomb;
A charnel house, where all the human race
Had pil'd their bones in one wide resting place;
Sadly he turn'd from such a sight of wo,
And sadly sought the lifeless world below.

Now down the mountain's rugged western side,
Descending slow, our lowly trav'llers hied,
Deep in a narrow glen, within whose breast
The rolling fragments of the mountain rest;
Rocks tumbled on each other, by rude chance,
Crown'd with gay fern, and mosses, met the glance,
Through which a brawling river brav'd its way,
Dashing among the rocks in foamy spray.
Here, mid the fragments of a broken world,
In wild and rough confusion, idly hurl'd,
Where ne'er was heard the woodman's echoing stroke,
Rose a huge forest of gigantic oak;
With heads that tower'd half up the mountain's side,
And arms extending round them far and wide,
They look'd coeval with old mother Earth,
And seem'd to claim with her an equal birth.
There, by a lofty rock's moss-mantled base,
Our tir'd advent'rers found a resting place;
Beneath its dark, o'erhanging, sullen brow,
The little bevy nestled snug below,
And with right sturdy appetite, and strong,
Devour'd the rustic meal they brought along.

The squirrel ey'd them from his lofty tree,
And chirp'd as wont, with merry morning glee;
The woodcock crow'd as if alone he were,
Or heeded not the strange intruders there,
Sure sign they little knew of man's proud race
In that sequester'd mountain biding place;
For wheresoe'er his wandering footsteps tend.
Man never makes the rural train his friend;
Acquaintance that brings other beings near,
Produces nothing but distrust or fear;
Beasts flee from man, the more his heart they know,
And fears, at last, to fix'd aversion grow.
As thus in blithe serenity they sat,
Beguiling resting time with lively chat,
A distant, half heard murmur caught the ear,
Each moment waxing louder, and more near,
A dark obscurity spread all around,
And more than twilight seem'd to veil the ground,
While not a leaf ev'n of the aspin stirr'd,
And not a sound, but that low moan was heard.
There is a moment when the boldest heart
That would not stoop an inch to 'scape Death's dart,
That never shrunk from certain danger here,
Will quail and shiver with an aguish fear;
'Tis when some unknown mischief hovers nigh,
And Heav'n itself seems threat'ning from on high.

Brave was our Basil, as became a man,
Yet still his blood a little cooler ran,
'Twixt fear and wonder, at that murmur drear,
That every moment wax'd more loud and near.
The riddle soon was read—at last it came,
And Nature trembled to her inmost frame;
The forest roar'd, the everlasting oak
In writhing agonies the storm bespoke,
The live leaves scatter'd wildly every where,
Whirl'd round in madd'ning circles in the air,
The stoutest limbs were scatter'd all around,
The stoutest trees a stouter master found,
Crackling, and crashing, down they thund'ring go,
And seem to crush the shrinking rocks below:
Then the thick rain in gathering torrents pour'd,
Higher the river rose and louder roar'd,
And on its dark, quick eddying surface bore
The gather'd spoils of Earth along its shore,
While trees that not an hour before had stood
The lofty monarchs of the stately wood,
Now whirling round and round with furious force,
Dash 'gainst the rocks that breast the torrent's force,
And shiver like a reed by urchin broke,
Through idle mischief, or with heedless stroke;
A hundred cataracts, unknown before,
Rush down the mountain's side with fearful roar,
And as with foaming fury down they go,
Loose the firm rocks and thunder them below;
Blue light'nings from the dark cloud's bosom sprung,
Like serpents, menacing with forked tongue,
While many a sturdy oak that stiffly brav'd
The threat'ning hurricane that round it rav'd,
Shiver'd beneath its bright resistless flash,
Came tumbling down amain with fearful crash.
Air, Earth, and Skies, seem'd now to try their pow'r,
And struggle for the mastery of the hour;
Higher the waters rose, and blacker still,
And threaten'd soon the narrow vale to fill.

Where are the little bold wayfarers now
We left, erewhile beneath the rude rock's brow?
Does that same Pow'r, whose voice in thunder roars,
Whose breath, the whirlwind, might the waters pours,
Still watch amid this hour of wild alarm,
And shield the trembling wanderers from harm?
Yes! there they sat like lambs within their fold,
While all around the swelling waters roll'd,
Making an island of the little space
Where they had found their pleasant resting place:
Close to their pent up feet the torrent past,
And every moment seem'd as 'twere the last;
For still the rain in gathering fury pour'd,
And still the river rose, and louder roar'd.

The trembling wife and boys sat moveless by,
Watching, in breathless stillness, Basil's eye,
Perchance to see if from its orb there broke
A ray that bright deliverance bespoke,
For still in Danger's most besetting hour,
There is a lofty and resistless power
Thron'd in the steady visage and calm eye
That knows what danger is, yet dares to die.
'Tis here when Hope with long exertions tires,
The fainting spirit lights its waning fires,
'Tis here that Weakness, when the blood is froze,
Turns her dim eyes, when these she dare unclose,
And infant instinct aye to reason true,
Looks, and still feels its confidence renew.

As raving madness, when the fit is o'er,
Sinks fainting down, still weaker than before,
Sudden tir'd Nature sunk in calm repose;
The storm subsided rapid as it rose;
The dark clouds sail'd behind the mountain's head,
The river shrunk within its wonted bed;
The laughing sunbeams on its surface play,
And blithe as birds our pilgrims wend their way,
For as upon the wrecks their eyes they cast,
Their hearts grew lighter for the danger past.
Few days now brought them to their journey's close,
And gave the weary wand'rers short repose,
Ohio's gentle stream before them lay,
In tranquil silence gliding on its way,
And parting, with its current as it ran,
The prowling savage from the christian man.

Here lay dark Pittsburgh, from whose site there broke
The manufacturer's black and sparkling smoke,
Where Industry and useful Science reign'd,
And man, by labour, all his wants sustain'd;
There, mid the howling forest dark and drear,
Rov'd the wild Indian, wilder than the deer,
King of the woods—who other blessings priz'd,
And arts and industry alike despis'd:
Hunting the trade, and war the sport he loved,
Free as the winds, the dauntless chieftain rov'd,
Taunting with bitter ire, the pale-fac'd slave,
Who toils for gold from cradle to the grave.
Extremes of habits, manners, time and space,
Brought close together, here stood face to face,
And gave at once a contrast to the view
That other lands and ages never knew;
Pass but the river, and that world where meet
Of bland society each courteous sweet,
Is left behind, for manners wild and rude,
And scenes of death, or deathlike solitude.

Sweet river of the West! a purer wave,
A fairer region never yet did lave!
Tranquil, and smooth, and clear, its current roves
Through flowery meadows, and long sylvan groves;
Winding in silence on its destin'd way,
Idly it lingers with a sweet delay,
And often turns, as if its course to find,
Back to the smiling scenes it left behind.
Sweet river of the West! though yet unsung
By native bard, thy native vales among—
Though yet no strains of native music pour,
To wake the sleeping echoes of thy shore,
Ere long some minstrel from thy banks shall spring,
And track thy wand'rings with a loftier wing,
In worthier strains thy various charms rehearse,
And in oblivion drown my weaker verse.

Yes! the bright day is dawning, when the West
No more shall crouch before old Europe's crest,
When men who claim thy birthright, Liberty,
Shall burst their leading-strings and dare be free,
Nor while they boast thy blessings, trembling stand,
Like dastard slaves before her, cap in hand,
Cherish her old absurdities as new,
And all her cast-off follies here renew;
Statesmen no more from thence their precepts draw,
And borrow both their reason and their law,
Like advertising quacks, right wond'rous sage,
With the same nostrums cure both youth and age,
And blundering up the lofty steeps of fame,
Break down the vigour of our youthful frame,
With stimulatives, fitted to revive
Some worn out profligate, scarce half alive;
When Mind at last shall break its rusty chain,
And here, our chosen monarch, freely reign.