Returning far o'er many a hill and stone
And much in dread his earthen ware would break,
Thoughtful he rode, and uttering many a groan
Lest at some worm-hole vent his cask should leak —
His cask, that held the joys of rural squire
Which even,‘ twas said, the parson did admire,
And valued more than all the dusty pages
That Calvin penn'd, and fifty other sages —
Once high in fame — beprais'd in verse and prose,
But now unthumb'd, enjoy a sweet repose.
At dusk of eve he reach'd his old abode,
Around him quick his anxious townsmen came,
One ask'd what luck had happ'd him on the road,
And one ungear'd the mud-bespatter'd team.
While on his cask each glanced a loving eye,
Patient, to all he gave a brisk reply —
Told all that had befallen him on his way,
What wonders in the town detain'd his stay —
“Houses as high as yonder white-oak tree
“And boats of monstrous size that go to sea,
“Streets throng'd with busy folk, like swarming hive;
“The Lord knows how they all contrive to live —
“No ploughs I saw, no hoes, no care, no charge,
“In fact, they all are gentlemen at large,
“And goods so thick on every window lie,
“They all seem born to sell — and none to buy.”