It fairly set the carriage fast—
What's to be done?—with might and main
We haul'd it on the land again :'
At length, with fear and wild amaze,
We crawl'd thro' safely with the chaise;
Now on the precipice's edge,
Now bounc'd against a quickset hedge,
And, by a wondrous kind of fate,
By four arriv'd at Pointer's gate;
Whose entertainment, neat and kind,
Soon put these dangers out of mind :
With social friends we past the day,
And gaily laugh'd our cares away-
At six we march, but first provide,
To shun bad roads, a faithful guide;
And shortly, o'er the rising steep,
We saw the spire of Bugden peep:
At breakfast near an hour we waste,
'Twas coffee, grateful to the taste,
With dulcet cream, and nut-brown toast;
Then bid a Valeas to our host.
O'er level roads we drive amain,
Roads as the well-roll'd terrace plain,
And soon reach Stilton safe and well-
We chose the inn that bears the Bell.
On mutton, charming food! we dine,
And cheer our hearts with generous wine ;
But long, alas! we must not stay-
Life flies with rapid wing away;
'Tis but a march that we must make;
'Tis but a journey we must take :__ 130
Here we can fix no firm abode,
Nor loiter long upon the road;
But must, with vigilance, attend
Still to our journey, and its end.
At Stamford next, with spirits light,
The Bull receives us for the night ;
Smelts and a rabbet was our food;
The bill was cheap, the wine was good.
Our wheels next morning early sound
O'er rough, thro' truly Roman ground; 14
Th' immense Vestigia, still compleat,
Prove that the Romans once were great:
By ten, at Grantham we admire
The noble church, the lofty spire;
Sarum's alone is two feet higher.
Here, what before I ne'er had seen,
I saw fair Venus, Beauty's Queen;
Sweetly she smil'd with graceful look,
In shape of Lady Mary Coke.
Our breakfast done, in haste we went 150
To Newark on the banks of Trent;
There staid a little to regale
On cold roast-beef and humming ale.
Thence thro' a tedious, sandy way
We labor'd, and at Carlton lay:
With friends we drain'd the cheerful bowl, And supt on mutton and broil'd fowl,
And cels that gave us much content,
Delicious eels-the eels of Trent.
Next morn thro' wretched roads we steer,
Yet pay at turnpikes devilish dear :
The purple heath we travers'd o'er,
And stopt at Barnby on the Moor;
Thence into honest Yorkshire ventur'd,
Which first we at fair Bawtry enter'd:
By three to Doncaster we came,
A town polite of ancient fame,
There will the Muse awhile unbend,
And there this tedious journal end,
Wrote, dearest Anne, at your commands,
And now it flies to kiss your hands.
COUNTESS OF HERTFORD,
[Afterwards Dutchess of Somerset.]
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR M DCCXLIV.
You ask me, Madam, if the Muse
From Colebrook still my steps pursues
Take then (but first your patience lend)
Her story thus from end to end.
She that at Bath so debonair Sung gallant Damon and his Fair, To beauteous Townsend tun'd her lyre, And did, at Pelham's sight, inspire Strains, that her Lincoln's self forgives (You see the daring poet lives!)
She that at Percy-Lodge so late From morn to night was us'd to prate, Almost impertinent and rude,
Unbidden would herself intrude
With tale, and epigram, and song,
To waft the cheerful hours along;
Whilst I, o'erjoy'd myself to view
Alive, and with my Lord and You,
Not once could check her merry vein,
Her unpremeditated strain,
And did, from heedless joy, neglect
To greatness every grave respect;
This Muse, say,
Forsook me,
inconstant grown,
when I came to town;
Friend to my fortune, she withdrew,
When I left Percy-Lodge and You.
Since then, in vain I ask her aid,
In vain her cruelty upbraid;
The town, she says, was ne'er her choice;
If there she tries to raise her voice,
Her strains are to their theme unjust,
Or drown'd in noise, or choak'd with dust.
Like the pure, bright, harmonious stream,
Ne'er but in rural channels flows;
Cities and bards are endless foes.
Resolv'd Parnassus' top to climb,
And there to build the lofty rhyme,
I to fam'd Claremont's height aspire,
To borrow thence poetic fire,
To waft, like Cooper's-Hill, its name
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