In shallow streams, a league from town,
( Its baby Light-House tumbled down )
Extends a country, full in view,
Beheld by all, but known to few.
Surrounded by the briny waste
No haven here has Nature placed;
But those who wish to pace it o'er
Must land upon the open shore.
There as I sailed, to view the ground;
No blooming goddesses I found —
But yellow hags, ordained to prove
The death, and antidote of love.
Ten stately trees adorn the isle,
The house, a crazy, tottering pile,
Where once the doctor plied his trade
On feverish tars and rakes decayed.
Six hogs about the pastures feed
( Sweet mud-larks of the Georgia breed )
Who, while the hostess deals out drams,
Can oysters catch, and open clams.
Upon its surface, smooth and clean,
A world, in miniature, is seen;
Though scarce a journey for a snail
We meet with mountain, hill, and vale.
To those that guard this stormy place,
Two cities stare them in the face:
There, York its spiry summits rears,
And here Cummunipaw appears.
The tenant, now but ill at ease,
Derives no fuel from his trees:
And Jersey boats, though begged to land,
All leave him on the larboard hand.
Some monied man, grown sick of care,
To this neglected spot repair:
What Nature sketched, let art complete,
And own the loveliest Country Seat.