Classic Poem

Oft', O ye Muses! to delightful Scenes,
Are you invok'd or courted on the Greens;
In soothing Verse, to lull the Lover's Pains,
Or sprightly Songs, to glad the blithy Swains:
O now assist! when Sighs and Tears implore,
To sing a Bard, whose Voice we hear no more.
Albion his Birth, his Learning Albion gave;
To Manhood grown, he cross'd the stormy Wave,
More Arts, and Nature's wondrous Ways to find,
Illuminate, and fortify his Mind;
And to divert his Eyes from Cross Affairs:
For Love dissastrous fill'd his Breast with Cares.
In Britain , he would say, he once was bless'd,
And all the Joys of Love and Life possess'd:
But some strange Power who envy'd his Repose,
Chang'd his Enjoyments to combining Woes;
Forc'd him to quit his former peaceful Way,
And prove his Fortune o'er a foamy Sea.
— Dear native Land, he sadly said, farewel,
And those soft Shades where Love and Silvia dwell:
Blow swift ye Gales, and waft me from the Shore,
I fly from Love, and Silvia see no more. —
Long then the Wand'rer sail'd from Land to Land,
To servile Business of rough Seas constrain'd:
Yet not the less, where e'er their Vessel steer'd
Strangers admir'd him, as his Mates rever'd.
So 'tis, where Heaven exalted Sense bestows,
The limpid Mind thro' foul Obstructions glows:
Yet partial Fortune, or mysterious Fate
Debases wise Men, and to Fools gives State.
Rose well some Post of Eminence could grace,
Who clad in Tar supplies a Sailor's Place.
Such was his Language, such his social Air,
As would th' unequal Destiny declare:
And while his Limbs to vulgar Service bend,
His brighter Thoughts to lofty Themes ascend.
Distinguish'd o're the common Crew he shone,
Unjustly ranked, or 'midst them all alone.
Bless'd in much Wit, and little Pride he strives
With adverse Fortune, as he further drives.
The Iberian Coast he saw, and swarthy Moors ,
Etrurian Ports, and sweet Sardinian Shores;
Sardinia , where the Powers of Love reside,
Where sable Veils ten Thousand Beauties hide:
Yet not his Heart that charming Place confines,
A wider Search his active Soul designs:
He travels 'till our Western Tract he trode,
Which as he found a Home, here made his last Abode.
When thro' Fatigues by Land and Sea sustain'd,
His resting Point, our little Town he'd gain'd.
A few long Weeks by Sickness held, he lay,
Dark Hours to count, and slowly waste the Day:
Then gloomy Doubts, and pensive Thoughts arise,
And lonely thus, within himself he cries,
— Depriv'd of Health, and every bosom Friend,
When shall my Toils, my lengthening Sorrows end;
My own low Genius here forsakes me too,
And nothing for myself, myself can do:
But can the Muse by grievous Tempests tost,
Resume her Notes, and joyful Numbers boast!
O how shall she her soft Ideas bring,
And in strange Lands the Songs of Gladness sing!
When Sorrows draw black Curtains o're the Soul,
No gay Desires in our sad Bosoms roll:
But the Remembrance of the Joys I lost
On Britain 's happy Shore, afflicts me most.
O had I now those pleasing Volumes here,
Which in Britannia my Companions were;
They might indeed some tedious Thoughts divert,
Give some Refreshment to my drooping Heart:
But destitute of Books, of Health, and Friends,
As here my Wand'ring, here my Comfort ends. —
Thus wail'd he, yet while thus his Griefs complain'd,
His manly Soul to sink beneath disdain'd:
He rous'd anew his Reason to his Aid,
And charg'd his Spirits, not to fly dismay'd.
Now Hopes revive, and Health repairs her Seat,
Round flows the Blood, and equal Pulses beat:
His Name soon known, it led the Curious, where
They might his pleasing Conversation share.
Thus he, who late no friendly Pleasures knew,
Had daily now kind Visitants in View:
Each comes of Choice, and all his Friendship claim,
They courted him, and he delighted them:
Soft in Discourse, and easy of access,
Thankful his Mind, persuasive his address;
The learn'd approv'd his Wit, the unlearn'd admir'd,
And docile Youths to his Regard aspir'd.
O'erjoy'd to find himself so much caress'd,
His grateful Thoughts, he thus to them express'd,
— Tho' Agues late did chill, and Fevers burn,
Tho' Cares have Wrinkles in my Forehead worn,
I'll smiling bless, and mark the Day with white,
That brought such hospitable Friends to Light;
My native Brethren are in you supply'd,
And former Blessings now again preside. —
Then, lively, from his languid Bed he rose,
Free'd of his Pangs, and melancholy Woes,
Industrious Arts his active Hands could use;
He would the Bread of slothful Means refuse,
Them to his proper Livlihood he join'd,
Where leaden Speech unloads the lab'ring Mind,
And graven Words to distant Ages tell
What various Things in Times foregone befell:
As Mercury cuts thro' the yielding Sky,
So thro' the Work his nimble Fingers fly:
His novel Skill Spectators thronging drew,
Who haste the swift Compositer to view;
Not Men alone, but Maids of softer Air
And nicer Fancies, to the Room repair:
Pleas'd with such mild Impediments he frames,
As they Request, their dear enchanting Names,
To grace a Book, or feast a Lover's Eye,
Or tell Companions of their fancied Joy.
With Complaisance he still dismiss'd the Train,
None ever fought his Courtesy in vain:
Each transient fair one took her Name away,
But thee Maria — 'Twas thy Doom to stay;
'Twas soon revers'd, the Work of his quick Hand,
Short did thy Name so gaily printed stand;
Both Hearts consent new Letters to compose,
And give to thine the pleasing Name of ROSE.
Now here the Bard by his own Choice was ty'd,
(Renouncing further Rambling) to a Bride;
Albion for Pennsylvania he resigns,
And now no more at Sylvia 's Loss repines:
Those youthful Wounds, that bled so freely there,
Maria heals, more faithful, and as fair.
By this a Cure for former Ills was wrought,
But future to prevent employ'd his Thought:
Fix'd as he was far from his native Home,
Here to reside, and ne'er again to roam,
He counsels with himself what Means to use,
To live with Credit, and what Baits refuse:
First, Clerk to our Provincial Senate rais'd,
He found, besides the Stipend, he was prais'd.
And now a greater Task he takes in Hand,
Which none but true Projectors understand.
What Pity 'tis they seldom live to taste
The Fruits of those pure Spirits that they waste!
For Works so hard and tedious, was it known
A Poet e'er did Poetry disown?
Or for a distant Livelihood give o'er
Those instant Pleasures that he felt before?
Yet so Aquila did — The rustic Toil,
To make firm Landings on a muddy Soil,
Erect a Ferry over Schuylkil 's Stream,
A Benefit to Thousands — Death to him!
Describe, O Muse, tho' in rough Lines the Place
Hard for the Pencil or the Pen to trace.
A short Hour's Walk from Delaware it lies
Due West, and which the City-Bounds comprise:
The Buildings yet reach but a Quarter Part,
But yet enough to bring a thronging Mart.
This Ferry-Spot t' improve, Aquila gain'd,
By Merit and polite Address obtain'd.
The Grantors saw, could such a Work be done
As he with Vigour by himself begun,
Both Town and Country must Advantage find
Their Commerce and their Int'rest closer join'd.
Now he, disguis'd, assumes the lab'ring Swain,
And looks as when he lately plough'd the Main.
Great Spirits thus can brook an humble Shew,
And unobserv'd beneath their Burthens grow:
Anon from their Obscurities to rise,
As Friends from Travels feed our wond'ring Eyes.
But passing great Fatigues, Expence and Geer,
The Scene alone shall bear Description here.
A Furlong from a Hill of Short Ascent,
A level Plain has on the Stream Extent,
Not many Feet above the Waters rais'd,
But firm the Ground, and for its Aspect prais'd;
The ebbing Tide presents the Sight with Ooze,
And then some Pleasure of the View we lose;
But worst of all to bear, and sad to see,
At Winter's End the Floods from Frost break free;
The River's mighty Length, and downward Course,
Gives to the roaring Ice resistless Force;
Away the Causeways, Boats and Piles are borne,
And bord'ring Trees press'd down, or rudely torn,
The House endanger'd, and one Story drown'd,
And scarce a Means of Safety to be found:
And sometimes too, in Seasons warm and gay,
Great sudden Rains their Violence display,
Sweep off the Soil, and bring a different Kind,
And Marks of Ruin ever leave behind.
But neither breaking-Frost, or flooding Rains,
Destroy Projectors Hopes of Praise and Gains:
Nor ev'ry Year, do these their Pow'r exert;
Or what bold Charon could live here alert?
Now (leaving to the last, the pleasing Part
That terrifies not, but delights the Heart.)
Look on the Stream as it pacifick flows,
Which largely bending, more the Prospect shows,
A Summer-Sight, none lovelier can be seen,
And on the Shore a varied Growth of Green:
The Poplars high, erect their stately Heads,
The tawny Water-Beech more widely spreads;
The Linden strong in Breadth and Height, is there,
With Mulberry Leaves — And Trees with Golden Hair,
These, of a smaller Stem, like Filberds seem,
But flatter-leaf'd, and always love the Stream.
Here grows the jagged Birch; and Elm, whose Leaves
With Sides ill-pair'd the observing Eye perceives;
Yet nobly tall and great, it yields a Shade
In which cool Arbours might be fitly made;
Such is the Linden, such the Beech above,
Each in itself contains a little Grove.
Here Hickeries, and Oaks, and Ashes rise,
All diff'ring, but much more in Use than Size;
And Walnuts, with their yellow bitter Dyes.
The fragrant Sassafras enjoys a Place;
And Crabs, whose Thorns their scented Blossoms grace:
Parsimmons vex the Ground, so thick they shoot,
But pleasant is their late autumnal Fruit.
Tedious to name the shrubby Kinds below,
That mingled for Defence, in Clusters grow.
Two Plants remain, with Flow'rs unlike, both fair,
And both deserve th' ingenious Florist's Care:
The wild Althea , red, and white, and cream,
And scarlet Cardinal , with dazzling Gleam:
These tempt the Humming-Bird, whose misty Wings
Support him as he sucks the Flow'r and sings;
Low is his Voice, and simple Notes but few;
And oft' his little Body's lost to View:
When he the Creeper's Blossom tries to drain,
The Blossom will his Beak and Tail distain;
But his gay-colour'd Plumage forms a Show
As mix'd and vivid as the Sky's fair Bow.
So great Variety no Tract can boast,
Of like Dimensions, as this narrow Coast.
The Botanist might here find Exercise;
And every curious Man regale his Eyes.
The Grass shines glist'ning of a lively Green;
And Northward hence the Quarry-Hill is seen,
Whose Top of late with verd'rous Pines is crown'd;
With Forest-Trees of various Kinds around.
And often here, the Clearness of the Stream
And cover'd Gravel-Banks, invite to swim:
But Anglers most their frequent Visits pay,
To toss Old-Wives, and Chubs, and Perch to Day;
And sometimes find the tasteful Trout their Prey.
Others with greater Pains their big Hooks bait;
But for the nobler Bite they seldom wait;
The Time to know their good Success adjourn,
And fail not by next Morning to return;
Then, hook'd, the weighty Rock-Fish draw to Shore
By Lines to Bushes ty'd, or those they moor.
How far th' Adventurer sped, now Muse relate,
Tho' loth we are to tell his early Fate.
He rais'd a Dwelling for himself and Friends,
And now his envy'd Labour almost ends:
He saw his Causeways firm above the Waves,
And nigh the Deeps, unless a Storm outbraves;
When Gusts unusual, strong with Wind and Rain,
Swell'd Schuylkil 's Waters o'er the humble Plain,
Sent hurrying all the Moveables afloat,
And drove afar, the needful'st Thing, the Boat.
'Twas then, that wading thro' the chilling Flood,
A cold ill Humour mingled with his Blood,
Convuls'd the Nerves, and shook the strugg'ling Frame,
Till overpower'd by Febris raging Flame;
Which freezing Juices into boiling turn'd,
Scalded the Veins, and sore the Vitals burn'd.
Alternately the Frost and Fire took Place,
His Joints enfeebl'd, and made pale his Face.
Then soon Defluxions thro' the Bowels rush,
Nor stay for Nature's kind digesting Push.
Physicians try'd their Skill, his Head reliev'd,
And his lost Appetite to Strength retriev'd:
But all was Flatt'ry — So the Lamp decays,
And near its Exit gives an ardent Blaze.
Behind he left his Widow bath'd in Tears,
A Grief supportless to her tender Years:
Against her Breast their first-born Child inclines,
Its Father's Joy, and with its Mother pines:
To Health restor'd, if Heav'n so gracious prove,
He will deserve a Grandsire's Care and Love.
Ah dearest Rose , Farewell, that Face of thine,
That pleasing Tongue, that Hand so near to mine!
How oft' were we to trace the pebbly Strand?
How toss the Fishes twinkling to the Land?
How gladsom on thy little Ocean sail?
And how at once do these fair Prospects fail?
Deceitful Schuylkil thou no more shalt be
A pleasant River to my Friends and me:
Whenever I thy fatal Stream survey
My Blood forgets its Course, my Heart gives Way.
Last Night I dream'd along thy Banks I stray'd,
Where sate an Angler in the brinky Shade,
And sighing deep, in Words like these he pray'd:
— Ye Heavenly Muses with our Griefs complore
His early Fate, who calls on you no more:
Or have ye rais'd him to your Bow'rs above,
In blissful Union of harmonious Love?
There taught him Songs, immortal as your State,
Beyond the Reach of Envy and of Fate?
Once were ye pleas'd your Poet to inspire,
And warm his Bosom with your sacred Fire;
Whence Odes, and Hymns, and happiest Verse did flow,
To gladden and instruct the World below;
But now your Darling from our Eyes is ta'en,
And desolate we seek his Life in vain.
Shall we not weep so great a Loss to bear?
And will not you the Lamentation share?
Oh lend your Aid, as Men your Pow'rs adore,
To mourn his Death, whose Pen invokes no more.
To you 'tis giv'n to favour mortal Race,
While evil Dæmons watch for Man's Disgrace.
Good Works in dark Oblivion they conceal;
In florid Numbers you such Works reveal:
And when the Springs of human Wisdom fail,
Divine Inflations from your Founts prevail.
Ah leave us not all comfortless to moan;
Give us at least to sing the Bard that's gone. —
So pray'd he pensive on that flatt'ring Coast
Where late he liv'd — to us forever lost.
Ye Rose 's Friends, that in Britannia dwell,
Who knew his Worth, and best the Loss can tell:
As I transmit such mournful News to you,
Do you the tuneful sad Account pursue.
And ye bright Youths, that meet at Bendall 's Board,
An Elegy his hov'ring Shade afford:
Had one of you deceas'd, and he surviv'd,
His Memory by him had been reliv'd.
So true a Friend he was, his Learning such,
That much he lov'd, and would commend as much.
Too great this Talk to be perform'd by one
So near the Pole, and far from Helicon .
While Virtues like Aquila 's, in smooth Phrase,
Should shine applauded thro' the Length of Days.