Classic Poem

TO VISIT THE REV. W. WHITER, OF CLARE HALL .

The rude South-wester from his den
Comes raving o'er a range of fen;
The window frame of massy cast,
Unhinged, unpullied, never fast,
Trembles and jostles to the blast;
The drops still standing on the pane,
The shivering twigs that drip with rain,
The prospect of the distant plain,
Obscure and undistinguish'd furnish
No motive for cross country journeys.
Besides — with waiting for the post —
The morning is already lost.
While Reason pauses to decide,
Let Fancy paint the future ride.
From famed Winfarthing's lonely pound
To Buckenham's huge mysterious mound,
How dull and dismal is the scene —
Dreary, monotonous, and mean.
Its ancient Common, wide and bare,
Dissected into straight and square,
How cheerless and devoid of grace!
With painful interrupted pace,
The drooping Peasantry retire
Stumbling and staggering thro' the mire:
From scattered huts the transient rays
Betray their frugal evening blaze;
The wintry sun's descending beam,
With chilly melancholy gleam,
Reflected from the stagnant drains
Illummates those endless lanes:
Such scenes absorb my thoughts and bring 'em,
Prepared with joy to enter Hingham;
Her stately steeple strikes the sight,
And cheerful sounds and lively light,
My past antipathies requite;
Again, afraid to miss the mark,
I plunge thro' turnings close and dark,
Immerging among trackless acres
I hope to light upon the Quakers.
The Quakers — sure it must be so —
The stream lies glimmering there below,
Look on — the steeple stands in view —
The parsonage and the steeple too —
The clattering gate returning hard,
Announces guests within the yard;
I see the worthy priest rejoice —
With open face and hearty voice,
His old acquaintance kindly hailing,
With hand outstretched across the paling.
Alighting now, we pass the hall
And view the parlour snug and small,
The fire of logs, the tapestry wall;
Huge volumes prostrate on the floor;
A parsonage of the days of yore.
Our dinner ended, we discourse
Of old traditions and their source,
Of times beyond the reach of history,
Of many a mythologic mystery,
Of primitive records and acts,
Their traces and surviving facts,
Of tribes, of languages, and nations,
Of immemorial old migrations;
Hence our digressive chat enquires
Of justices, divines, and squires,
Of births, and marriages, and deaths,
Enclosures of the neighbouring heaths,
Of ancient friends at Caius and King's.
And such like sublunary things.
Again — we soar to the sublime,
On pinions of recited rhyme,
While you persuade me to proceed
With " Well, " or " Very well, indeed! "
A long continued recitation,
Epistle, fable, or translation,
Exhausting all my last year's stock,
Conducts us on to twelve o'clock.
So be it then — In spite of weather,
I'll take the good and bad together;
So George put up of shirts a pair,
And bid them saddle me the mare.