Part 99 (1/2)

In ancient times, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, And stroll about, but hide their quality, To try good people's hospitality.

It happened on a winter night, As authors of the legend write, Two brother-hermits, saints by trade, Taking their tour in masquerade, Disguised in tattered habits went To a small village down in Kent, Where, in the strollers' canting strain, They begged from door to door in vain, Tried every tone might pity win; But not a soul would let them in.

Our wandering saints, in woful state, Treated at this unG.o.dly rate, Having through all the village pa.s.sed, To a small cottage came at last, Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman, Called in the neighbourhood Philemon; Who kindly did these saints invite In his poor hut to pa.s.s the night; And then the hospitable sire Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; While he from out the chimney took A flitch of bacon off the hook, And freely from the fattest side Cut out large slices to be fried; Then stepped aside to fetch them drink, Filled a large jug up to the brink, And saw it fairly twice go round; Yet (what is wonderful!) they found 'Twas still replenished to the top, As if they ne'er had touched a drop.

The good old couple were amazed, And often on each other gazed; For both were frightened to the heart, And just began to cry,--'What art!'

Then softly turned aside to view Whether the lights were burning blue.

The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on 't, Told them their calling, and their errand: 'Good folks, you need not be afraid, We are but saints,' the hermits said; 'No hurt shall come to you or yours: But for that pack of churlish boors, Not fit to live on Christian ground, They and their houses shall be drowned; Whilst you shall see your cottage rise, And grow a church before your eyes.'

They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft The roof began to mount aloft; Aloft rose every beam and rafter; The heavy wall climbed slowly after.

The chimney widened, and grew higher, Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoist, And there stood fastened to a joist; But with the upside down, to show Its inclination for below; In vain; for a superior force, Applied at bottom, stops its course: Doomed ever in suspense to dwell, 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.

A wooden jack, which had almost Lost by disuse the art to roast, A sudden alteration feels, Increased by new intestine wheels; And, what exalts the wonder more The number made the motion slower; The flier, though't had leaden feet, Turned round so quick, you scarce could see 't; But, slackened by some secret power, Now hardly moves an inch an hour.

The jack and chimney, near allied, Had never left each other's side: The chimney to a steeple grown, The jack would not be left alone; But up against the steeple reared, Became a clock, and still adhered; And still its love to household cares, By a shrill voice at noon declares, Warning the cook-maid not to burn That roast meat which it cannot turn.

The groaning-chair began to crawl, Like a huge snail, along the wall; There stuck aloft in public view, And with small change a pulpit grew.

The porringers, that in a row Hung high, and made a glittering show, To a less n.o.ble substance changed, Were now but leathern buckets ranged.

The ballads, pasted on the wall, Of Joan of France, and English Moll, Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, The little Children in the Wood, Now seemed to look abundance better, Improved in picture, size, and letter; And, high in order placed, describe The heraldry of every tribe.

A bedstead, of the antique mode, Compact of timber many a load, Such as our ancestors did use, Was metamorphosed into pews; Which still their ancient nature keep, By lodging folks disposed to sleep.

The cottage, by such feats as these, Grown to a church by just degrees; The hermits then desired their host To ask for what he fancied most.

Philemon, having paused a while, Returned them thanks in homely style; Then said, 'My house is grown so fine, Methinks I still would call it mine; I'm old, and fain would live at ease; Make me the parson, if you please.'

He spoke, and presently he feels His grazier's coat fall down his heels: He sees, yet hardly can believe, About each arm a pudding-sleeve; His waistcoat to a ca.s.sock grew, And both a.s.sumed a sable hue; But, being old, continued just As threadbare, and as full of dust.

His talk was now of t.i.thes and dues; He smoked his pipe, and read the news; Knew how to preach old sermons next, Vamped in the preface and the text; At christenings well could act his part, And had the service all by heart; Wished women might have children fast, And thought whose sow had farrowed last; Against Dissenters would repine, And stood up firm for right divine; Found his head filled with many a system; But cla.s.sic authors,--he ne'er missed 'em.

Thus, having furbished up a parson, Dame Baucis next they played their farce on; Instead of home-spun coifs, were seen Good pinners edged with colberteen; Her petticoat, transformed apace, Became black satin flounced with lace.

Plain 'Goody' would no longer down; 'Twas 'Madam' in her grogram gown.

Philemon was in great surprise, And hardly could believe his eyes, Amazed to see her look so prim; And she admired as much at him.

Thus happy in their change of life Were several years this man and wife: When on a day, which proved their last, Discoursing on old stories past, They went by chance, amidst their talk, To the churchyard to take a walk; When Baucis hastily cried out, 'My dear, I see your forehead sprout!'

'Sprout!' quoth the man; 'what's this you tell I hope you don't believe me jealous!

But yet, methinks, I feel it true; And, really, yours is budding too; Nay, now I cannot stir my foot-- It feels as if 'twere taking root.'

Description would but tire my Muse; In short, they both were turned to yews.

Old Goodman Dobson of the green Remembers he the trees has seen; He'll talk of them from noon till night, And goes with folks to show the sight; On Sundays, after evening-prayer, He gathers all the parish there, Points out the place of either yew: 'Here Baucis, there Philemon grew; Till once a parson of our town, To mend his barn cut Baucis down.

At which 'tis hard to be believed How much the other tree was grieved, Grew scrubby, died atop, was stunted; So the next parson stubbed and burnt it.'

ON POETRY.

All human race would fain be wits, And millions miss for one that hits.

Young's Universal Pa.s.sion, pride, Was never known to spread so wide.

Say, Britain, could you ever boast Three poets in an age at most?

Our chilling climate hardly bears A sprig of bays in fifty years; While every fool his claim alleges, As if it grew in common hedges.

What reason can there be a.s.signed For this perverseness in the mind?

Brutes find out where their talents lie: A bear will not attempt to fly; A foundered horse will oft debate Before he tries a five-barred gate; A dog by instinct turns aside, Who sees the ditch too deep and wide;-- But man we find the only creature, Who, led by folly, combats nature; Who, when she loudly cries, Forbear, With obstinacy fixes there; And, where his genius least inclines, Absurdly bends his whole designs.