Classic Poem

Inspir'd with hope of giving pleasure,
By tale disastrous, told in measure;
I mean, dear miss, from facts diurnal,
To write a kind of sleighing journal;
And minute how I came across, back
From Pomfret to the Sound on horseback.

 Suppose (to save the pain of parting)
Your friends (the trouble past of starting)
Far on their way—the muse will find us—
Our hearts, with you, as far behind us:—
No wonder, then, we soon were lost on
The roads that go direct from Boston ,
And came, erroneous where they lead in,
From Brush-Hill down to Dedham-meeting;
From whence we turn'd our steeds to Wrentham ,
And drove as if the devil sent 'em,
Till nine—nor made a single check first—
At nine, we stopp'd to take our breakfast.

 Here I might use poetic fiction,
With all the tropes and flow'rs of diction,
To change (since flatt'ry half our trade is)
The tavern-girls to sky-born ladies:
Or give, in number new and rare,
With Homer's fire, a bill of fare;
Or turn, with Ovid's art bewitching,
To rooms of state, a bar or kitchen:
But facts, perhaps, by way of letter,
May shorter be express'd and better;
As, how the woman first denied us
A breakfast; how she scowl'd and eyed us;
And how we slily manag'd matters,
And coax'd the dame, and squeez'd the daughters;
Till breakfast serv'd, with kinder looks,
Left no pretext to kiss the cooks.

 Our meal complete—'ere we departed,
We paid the club—then off we started—
But now the clouds began to low'r,
And threat of rain no drizzly show'r:
It dropp'd—we came to Attleborough—
The mist increas'd, as did our sorrow.

 I cannot choose, with Homer's haste,
To say, “we snatch'd a short repast.”
We din'd , and spent an hour in reading
The news—from hence, through show'rs proceeding
To Providence —'ere it grew dark,
Your friend, the major, call'd on Clark,
Deliver'd your commands in form,
Then came to Rice's in the storm;
For now the storm, that long impended,
In downright cataracts descended.

 Here I must take, for episodes,
Such as I find—by no means gods—
For here some half-score strangers met,
I never saw a stranger set:
Our pleasant scene may soon be sketch'd,
We stretch'd and yawn'd—then yawn'd and stretch'd.

 With doubts (where one can clear the mystery)
I would not puzzle future history:
At dawn (the fact you might suppose)
We wak'd—got up—put on our clothes:
And then, to use our technics arch,
Again took up our line of march,
Through paths of snow, too thin and soft,
Our horses flounder'd deep and oft:
Sev'n miles we drove, not over fast,
And reach'd the eighth—the eighth and last—

 Thou muse, oft call'd at latest shift,
To help poor bards at some dead lift;
Now, let thy succours not be scanted,
They ne'er can be more sadly wanted;
Come to our aid, thou muse of fire,
And drag us through the rhime and mire!

 No vagrant wights, or true knights-errant,
E'er saw such perils, I dare warrant;
Not Homer's hero fac'd such dangers,
By land or sea, with friends or strangers;
Not Bunyan's pilgrim found such pond,
Quite badly wet in Slough Despond;
Nor Satan, in his various way, was
So plagued (as Milton sings) in chaos;
Nor ev'n the son of old Anchises
Was brought to such a fatal crisis,—
No Charon here, we found to ferry us
Over a villain lake, like Erebus.

 The dismal vale we now 'gan enter,
And down we plung'd towards the centre—
Above mid-sides the horses slump in,
Nor stir a step, except by jumping—
Again they plunge—and here full sadly
For our poor driver, honest Bradley,
The pole snapp'd short—then quickly falling,
It went down, with the horses, all in—
The worst of scrapes to make the best on,
And raise the pole, was now the question—
Bradley (hence nam'd the lion-hearted)
His utmost skill and strength exerted:
While poles we placed across the slough,
And got it out—the Lord knows how—
Then, many a fruitless effort tried,
We reach'd, half drown'd, the other side.

 The muse invok'd, who sat on bench,
In guise most like a mortal wench,
In our misfortunes wet her wings,
And therefore soars not, though she sings:
That muse, no doubt, with little striving,
Might learn the true sublime of diving;
Ev'n now she tells, how, thick and faster,
Disaster crowded on disaster;
To reach a house how hard we work'd,
The horses mir'd, and tir'd, and cork'd,
Till neighbours came, with kind assistance,
And drew the sleigh, by hand, some distance.

 As when a sailor, long the sport
Of winds and waves, arrives in port,
He joys, although the vessel's stranded,
To find himself alive and landed:
Not less our glee, nor less our courage,
To find a cot, where we found porridge;
And where three days ourselves we found,
(To try our patience) weather bound.

 Each plan to move in council stated,
Was pass'd—rejected—re-debated.

 Here one might fall to moralizing
Upon some theme which most seem wise in:
Ye, who for human nature stickle,
Come learn that man is frail and fickle,
The sport, or bubble altogether,
Of fire and water, wind and weather!

 It now grew cold—the path was frozen,
To part the hour of midnight chosen—
Our matters all, at length, adjusted,
Th' event to Providence we trusted.

 The rubs and jostlings of that night,
Were more by half than I shall write:
Can things like these in rhime be written!
How by a dog my friend was bitten;
How Bradley tore a piece of skin,
Like paper dollar , from his shin;
And how your bard, 'ere he was seated,
His better finger dislocated;
How heavily the horses drew
The sleigh; and how they dragg'd it through
A mire—from whence (remains no doubt)
The very bottom had dropp'd out;
And lastly, how, to make us fret,
The sleigh was fairly overset;
Beset with ills, we rode by moon-light,
Till that was gone—and then 'twas soon light.

 The sun, to our new world now present,
Brought on the day benign and pleasant;
The day, by milder fates attended,
Our plagues at Gen'ral Putnam's ended.
That chief, though ill, receiv'd our party
With joy, and gave us welcome hearty:
The good old man, of death not fearful,
Retain'd his mind and temper cheerful;
Retain'd (with palsey sorely smitten)
His love of country, pique for Britain:
He told of many a deed and skirmish,
That basis for romance might furnish;
The story of his wars and woes
Which I shall write in humble prose,
Should heav'n (that fondest schemes can mar)
Protract my years beyond this war.

 Thus end the toil and picture frightful
Of sleighing—oft a sport delightful—
A sport , which all our lads and lasses
Agree each other sport surpasses,
When, crossing bridges in that vehicle,
They taste of kisses sweet as treacle.

 To Hartford next, with whip and spur, hence
I came—nor met one ill occurrence—
There Wadsworth's hospitable dome
Receiv'd me: 'twas a second home.

 Some days elaps'd, I jogg'd quite brave on,
And found my Trumbull at New-Haven;
Than whom, more humour never man did
Possess—nor lives a soul more candid—
But who, unsung, would know hereafter,
The repartees, and peals of laughter,
Or how much glee those laughters yield one,
Maugre the system Chesterfieldian!
Barlow I saw, and here began
My friendship for that spotless man;
Whom, though the world does not yet know it,
Great nature form'd her loftiest poet.
But Dwight was absent at North-Hampton,
That bard sublime, and virtue's champion;
To whom the charms of verse belong,
The father of our epic song!

 My morn of life here haply past,
With youths of genius, science, taste:
But 'mid the roar of drums and guns,
Where meet again the muse's sons?
The mental banquet must they quit,
The feast of reason and of wit;
For ever lost, in civil strife,
That solace sweet of human life!

 The cannon's distant thunders ring,
And wake to deeds of death the spring:
Far other sounds once touch'd my ear,
And usher'd in the flow'ry year:
But, now, adieu the tuneful train ,
The warblings of my native plain;
Adieu the scenes that charm'd my view;
And thou, fair maid, again adieu!
Farewell the bow'rs and conscious shades!—
My country's cause my soul invades—
Yes, rous'd by sense of country's wrongs,
I give the wind my idle songs:
No vacant hour for rhyme succeeds,
I go where'er the battle bleeds:
To-morrow—(brief then be my story)—
I go to W ASHINGTON and GLORY ;
His Aid-de-Camp—in acts when tried—
Resolv'd (whatever fates betide)
My conduct, till my final breath,
Shall not disgrace my life or death.