A stick and knapsack all his little store,
With these, whole regions Duncan could explore,
Could trace the path to other eyes unseen,
Tell where the panther, deer, or bear had been,
The long dull day through swamp and forest roam,
Strike up his fire and find himself at home;
Untie his wallet, taste his frugal store,
And under shelbury bark profoundly snore.
And soon as Morning cheered the forest scene,
Resume his knapsack and his path again.
Next Leech advanced, with youthful sails unfurled,
Fresh on his maiden cruise to see the world;
Red o'er his cheek the glow of health was spread,
An oilskin covering glittered round his head ;
His light fusil across his shoulder thrown,
His neat-slung knapsack full and glistening shone;
Though unknown regions wide before him lay,
He scorned all fear while Wilson shared the way.
He next appeared, with glittering arms supplied,
A double gun, a deadly dirk beside,
A knapsack, crammed by Friendship's generous care,
With cakes and cordials, drams, and dainty fare;
Flasks filled with powder, leathern belts with shot,
Clothes, colours, paper, pencils-and what not.
With hope elate, and ardour in his eye,
He viewed the varying scenes approaching nigh,
Prepared and watchful (heedless of repose)
To catch the living manners as they rose;
Th' exploits, fatigues, and wonders to rehearse,
In no inglorious or enfeebled verse;
Nor scene nor character to bring to view
Save what fair Truth from living Nature drew.
Thus each equipt beneath his separate load,
We, fellow-pilgrims, gayly took the road,
A road immense; yet promised joys so dear,
That toils, and doubts, and dangers, disappear.
Behind us soon the lessening city flies,
New vallies sink and other hills arise,
Till through old Germantown we lightly trod,
That skirts for three long miles the narrow road;
And rising Chesnut-Hill around surveyed,
Wide woods below in vast extent displayed
Studded with glitt'ring farms; the distant view
Died into mingling clouds and mountains blue;
The road was good, the passing scenery gay,
Mile after mile passed unperceived away,
Till in the west the day began to close,
And Spring-house tavern furnished us repose.
Here two long rows of market folks were seen,
Ranged front to front, the table placed between,
Where bags of meat and bones, and crusts of bread,
And hunks of bacon all around were spread;
One pint of beer from lip to lip went round,
And scarce a crumb the hungry house-dog found;
Torrents of Dutch from every quarter came,
Pigs, calves, and saur-craut the important theme;
While we, on future plans revolving deep,
Discharged our bill, and straight retired to sleep.
The morning star shone early on our bed,
Again our march the vigorous Duncan led,
The vault of heaven with constellations hung,
Their myriads twinkling as he cheerly sung,
Beguiling the lone hours. Thus half the day,
O'er hill and dale our stretching journey lay,
Through fertile Bucks‡, where lofty barns abound,
For wheat, fair Quakers, eggs, and fruit renowned;
Full fields, snug tenements, and fences neat,
Wide-spreading walnuts drooping o'er each gate;
The spring-house peeping from enclustering trees,
Gay gardens filled with herbs, and roots and bees,
Where quinces, pears, and clustering grapes were seen,
With pondrous calabashes hung between;
While orchards, loaded, bending o'er the grass,
Invite to taste, and cheer us as we pass.
But these too soon give place to prospects drear,
As o'er Northampton's[] barren heights we steer;
The County of Bucks, in Pennsylvania, is a rich, well-cultivated tract of country, containing nearly half a million of acres, and upwards of 30,000 inhabitants.
|| Northampton is an oblong hilly county adjoining that of Bucks. It is crossed nearly at right angles by that remarkable range of the Allegany known by the name of the Blue Ridge or Blue Mountain, which presents the appearance of an immense rampart, extending farther than the eye can reach, with an almost uniform height of summit.
Bleak land of stones, deep swamps, and pigmy woods,
Where the poor Swabian o'er his drudgery broods;
Toils hard; and when the heats of harvest burn
Gleans from the rocks his pittance in return.
Yet though so cursed his soil, his sheaves so few,
All-conquering Industry still bears him through;
Averse to change, pleased patiently to plod
The same dull round his honest father trod.
Behold his low-roofed hut on yonder green!
There no gay front or proud piazza's seen;
Let wealthy fools their precious hoards disburse,
No whim can tempt him to untie his purse.
A moss-grown penthouse shades his narrow door,
One window joins with patches covered o'er ;
Around the garden numerous hives are ranged,
And pendant gourds to fading yellow changed.
Sheds, smoke-house, hog-pens, crowd the miry yard,
Where endless yells from growling pigs are heard.
Approach this humble hut: look in, nor fear;
Say, could Ambition find one comfort here?
Yet sweet Content e'en here is sometimes found,
Turning the wheel, or slumbʼring by its sound.
No mirrors dazzle, no rich beds appear,
Wide-wasting Fashion never entered here.
Those plates of pewter, ranged along the frame,
In ancient days from distant Teuchland came.
That oaken table, so uncouth and low,
Stood where it stands some sixty years ago.
In this arm-chair where Hans delights to snore,
His great-grandfather nodded long before.
Thus glows his greasy stove throughout the year,
The torrid zone forever rages here.
Here, when the shades of weary evening fall,
Sits Hans, the lord and sovereign of all ';
Das Neue Callender§ from the nail unhooks,
His dark brows solemn, and morose his looks,
Beside the lamp, with spectacles on nose,
Tomorrow's weather seeks, its rains or snows,
The moon's eventful signs, th' auspicious hour
To plant the downward root or rising flower;
Of witch-confounding doctors tells the tale,
Sips his metheglin, or his cider stale.
All other joys for which he ever sighs
His dear beloved saur-craut or his pipe supplies.
Abroad at toil ere yet the morning breaks,
Each rugged task his hardy frau partakes ;
With brawny arms the struggling ploughshare guides;
Whips up her nags and o'er the furrows strides;
Awakes the echoes with her clamorous tongue,
And lends e'en Hans a clout when things go wrong.
Sweeps round her head the loud-resounding flail,
And sweats the sturdiest mower in the vale.
Light beat our hearts with changing prospects gay,
As down through Durham vale we bend our way,
And pause, its furnace curious to explore,
Where flames and bellows lately wont to roar,
Now waste and roofless: as its walls we pass
The massive shells lie rusting in the grass.
There let them rust, fell messengers of death!
Till injured Liberty be roused to wrath,
In whose right hand may they, though hosts
Be blasting thunderbolts to all her foes.
The setting sun was sinking in the west,
And brightly burnishing the mountain's breast,
When, from afar, as down the steep we hie,
The glittering roofs of Easton caught the eye:
Low in the shelter'd vale, while rude around
Hills piled on hills the dreary prospect bound.
Around the mountain's base, in winding pride,
The rapid Lehigh rolls his amber tide,
To meet old Delaware who moves serene,
While Easton rises on the plain between.
Tired with the day's long toil we gladly greet
The snug stone buildings and the pavement neat;
The busy townsmen, jabbering Dutch aloud,
The court-house, ferry, hanging signs, and crowd;
At length one waving sign enchained our view,
'Twas Pat's split-crow, a filthy raven too.
Thither for rest and shelter we repair,
And home's kind decencies, that ne'er were there.
Here might the Muse with justice due record
The wretched fare its scurvy walls afford;
The black wet bread, with rancid butter spread; The beastly drunkards who beside us fed;
The beds with fleas and bugs accursed stored,
Where every seam its tens of thousands poured;
The host's grim sulkiness, his eager look,
When from our purse his glittering god we took ;
But nobler themes invite: be these repressed,
The eagle preys not on the carrion's breast.
(To be continued.)
In early spring, the fragrant flow'r,
Its bud adorn'd with dew displays,
And op'ning, triumphs for an hour,
Then sheds its beauties and decays.
The flow'r decays-but not not less fair,
With vernal gales again appears;
The fragrance still perfumes the air,
Still shines the leaf with dewy tears.
The spring of love is not less bright;
Its summer's warmth is blissful too;
But ah! if chill'd by winter's night,
No season can its life renew.
LINES ON THE DEPARTURE OF A FRIEND.
AND is she gone? the cherish'd friend,
Who late adorn'd our social sphere;
Whose sportive smiles their lustre blend,
With pure Affection's gleaming tear.
Have they all flown? those fairy hours,
When she, our star of love appear'd:
When Fancy strew'd its mimic flowers,
And Taste the transient scene endear'd.
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