A Collection of Original Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Being forc'd, dear Frank, to part in haste,
It vex'd me that I could not waste
An hour, in bidding friends adieu;
The first of whom I reckon you.
But in return I shall relate
My travels, toils, and dangers great,
Escapes too—such you will not doubt them,—
For who e'er travel'd yet, without them?

The captain press'd, a sturdy gale
Sprung up, and quick we hoisted sail:
But e're the port we reach'd, the wind
Chop'd quick about; and we confin'd,
Chearless and sad, our anchor cast,
Bound three long days by fortune fast.

Not Sancho, when in blanket tost,
Was more perplex'd than we thus cross'd.
Still as the vessel heav'd or tower'd,
Libations I to Neptune pour'd;
Nor eat, resolv'd each offering shou'd
Be pure as stream of vital blood.
Not Sybil, in prophetic fits,
Nor Delphic priestess, void of wits,
Work'd more her frenzy to relieve,
Than I my offering pure to give.

At last a western gale arose,
The softest, kindest wind that blows;
And shew'd the hills of Cambro-Britain,
Hills which impending tempests sit on,
Bidding th' indecent off'ring cease,
And Cloacina quit the place.

See th' impatient goddess flies,
Hygeia fair her place supplies;

Quick pies and pullets fill the board,
And punch and wine!—delicious hoard!
While gentle breezes round reviving,
Set ev'ry hungry stomach striving,
To clear the place of meat and trencher,
One, more than Trojan, eat his bench, sir.

For this, be Zephyre, thou ador'd,
Who kindly didst thy breeze afford,
To waft us to the happy shore,
Ne'er trod by foot of mine before:
May'st thou be still the poet's theme,
In fame's bright lists be thou supreme;
May'st thou by lovers be caress'd,
No other breeze fan Celia's breast;

May nought but sweetest odours rise
Upon thy pinion to the skies.

Behold my wat'ry toils got o'er!
See me safe landed on the shore.
The carriers croud: “Sir, horses, here;
“Sir, I've a handsome chaise and pair:
“Are you for London, or for Chester?
“Here, put my horse but to the test, Sir;
“Walk, trot, or gallop, I'll be bound,
“He beats all nags the country round;
“Hedge, ditch, or dale, he'll nothing baulk;
“Sir, he'll do any thing—but talk.”

At last, to rid me of their clatter,
And to decide th' important matter,
I took one out, and got astride,
Worse, grant, oh fate! I ne'er may ride:
Hard, for a journey, 'twas to sit him;
His furniture not made to fit him;

The saddle broken, and uneasy,
The girth half loose, the stirrup crazy.
Hard such another, sure, to find!
Starv'd, broken-winded, lame, and blind.
In vain I lash'd, in vain I spur'd;
He felt it not, nor faster stir'd.
Finding how fruitless 'twas to flog,
At his own rate I let him jog:
When, like my palfrey, founder'd quite,
Behold the Falcon, joyous sight!

Long as I draw this vital air,
Ye gods! the Falcon I'll revere:
Here, to receive us, Miss Kenea,
As prim a dame as you shall see-a,
Gave welcome, with an air demure;
A hearty one, you may be sure:
With her we sup'd, and drank some claret,
And I with water chose to mar it.

No Justices, tho' of the Quorum,
Cou'd have been serv'd with more Decorum;
Her ready hand this lady fair
Extends to ev'ry customer;
Courteous to all, but most to those
Whose first appearance money shows.
Well; supper's done—I'll go to bed—
You're tired too, you droop your head:
Good night then, for I'll quit my pen,
Nor pester you with rhime again,
Till somewhat chance that's worth your notice,
Then I shall scrawl, and tell you how 'tis;
Whether we for Augusta steer,
Or how much longer sojourn here.

In the mean time, dear friend of mine,
Quick, quick, dispatch me one short line;
Tell me, what most I want to know,
When we may hope to meet, and how;

Whether from quarters you can come,
And bless, a while, my humble home:
Till then, my Frank, I shall disown
All the gay pleasures of the town;
For pleasures sure they cannot be,
If not enjoy'd and shar'd by thee.

One of the passengers, who sat on a large stale loaf, for want of a better seat, was obliged to eat it, to satisfy his appetite. In this he did more than the Trojans mentioned in the sixth book of Virgil, who only eat their trenchers.