The Wheeling repository — Wheeling, Va. [W. Va.], 1807-07-09 00:00:00, page 1

THE
WHEELING REPOSITORY.
(Vol. I.) Thursday, 9th July, 1807. (No. 19.)
ORIGINAL PO E TR T. ,
-♦ — i
Epistles.
To a Friend in England.
Written at fea, long 44' 54”, lat. 38’51".
• [Introductory apology. Journal begins.
Sea painting. Description of morning.
Sunrise. Noon. A calm. Midnight
stillness. Moonlight scenery. Hope in
Vcked to relieve the mind from the pain
of present suspense, by a picture of
the future : Memory applied to, to fill
the mind with images of the past. I'he
superstitions left behind in Spain glan
ped at. England noticed—pleasures of
■ domestic 'life there applauded. Playful
justification • of the writer's taste on
Burke's principles of the sublime and
beautiful. A moralizing strain run in
to. Recurrence, to ship-board. Conelu
• .or;;, 3 .. <f9ii.4e<i..r^ttHfir,,upoh Fng
t:sh j rcjndices, in which the dignity ami
worth oj the American character are
maintained by a fair comparison with
British manners and genius, j
W.th wanton kiss th’inconstant gale
Once more salutes the pregnant sail;
Once more the crew' rejoice to find
The shore of Europe’far behind;
While Betsey* briskly skips along,
Varying the cadence of the song,
And 1 (how habits grow.*) renew
The Stepney lay,f to Friendship due.
Fo Friendship/ Ah ! and can there be
That balm of comfort left for me \
Me, hapless bo' ! who many a year
Have shed the unavailing tear,
W hich fond Affection loves to shed
Jfo Xetis dear—ten w inters dead (
Me, whom inconstant ones—unkind
To the w arm feelings of tin mind—
Have prompted, sorrowing, to exclaim,
* Friendship is but an empty name ?*
Excuse the doubt: the charm yet lives,
And to this heart fresh impulse gives,
* The brifc Eli a.
+ All rhiMr<*n born af f<*a have iheb fettle*
) rr,. • o R»op..fy pe'.fh >«• an not theft
brats of m*nc entitled to tbc fame provisos ? ^
Vibrates on Feeling’s tenderest strings,
Fledges discursive Fancy’s wings,
Wal ies to new sensibility,
And points the missile lay to thee ;—
Thee who with partial eye shalt brave
The terrors of th’Atlantic wave,
And sympathetically share
My pains and perils—far from Ware.
This fond persuasion prompts the strain
Which else were far less rjude than vam.
And from a timid numbness frees
This hand that nimbly moves to please.
And well for me no critic-rage
Shall glut itself upon this page ;
For I’m aware and freely own,
Although somewhat to rhyming prone,
There’s not one trait in all these features
Peculiar to poetic creatures ;
Nor e’er did I, as ’prentice, pop
j 'I bis head into the muses’ shop ;
| Nov ever—but I need not tell [well.”
V hat thou must know “ most passing
Receive—(as friend, not critic)—then,
Th’effusions of a clumsy pen
That roughly jags the line along,
/Io scratch for thee the journal song,
Which cannot boast of art or grace,
l In merely marking time and place.
To say I’ve tumbled out cf Spain,
And now am rolling on the main,
Is much the same, we must agree,
W hether in prose or poetrv;
For, with due deference to the folk
That rhyme, a joke is still a joke,
Truth not less truth,and falsehoods, lies,
In spite of poesy’s disguise.
To tell my tale and nothing more,
Our longitude is forty-four,
j Far,far irom land.' the ship close haul’d,*
; And every heart with grief appall’d.
In want of water,—short of meat,
Our meals afford a sullen treat;
No grog to gladden grim Dismay,
And one lank biscuit serves the day.
By nature dull, and now more dull,
Poor rogues, with half a belly-ful,
My comrades, all their patience spent,
* A fli p i* f4*k1 (o be clofc hauled, when
fby n*e wind ; a pretty good proof that
the wind is ahead.
Brood o’er the spawn of Discontent,
And with an anti'•Christian mien,
Vex’d ! chew the bitter cud of Spleen*.
To sensual habits long confin’d
Without a prop to stay the mind,
Their’s is a melancholy case
Now hunger stares them in the face.
And mine,thou’lt ask, can mine be less,
Amidst such complicate distress ?
Alas 1 my friend, I dare not boast
Of, what indeed I covet most,
A will resign’d,—a patient heart,—
A hope to act the Christian’s part,-—
Yet truly I may own I feel
A grateful heart at every incal,
That gives our slim repast a gout
Which thankless mortals never knew.
Besides we have.,—but not to waste,—
Junk yet to smell, bread yet to taste,
And though our water wanes aw3y,
We have a pittance every day.
Why then despair? ’Tis God who give*.
That food by which the creature lives,
And if he takes away the same,
Still blessed be his holy name.
But 7vhy despair ? The God I seek
Can make my biscuit last a week,
The cistern of the sky unplug,
And fiil with rain our daily jug;
Or in a moment, if he please,
Raise up, for us, the prosperous breeze*
While thus I lean on Hope robust,
And clad in faith and patience, trust,
I’d tain these irksome hours beguile
By giving Grief the slip awhile ;
Forsake, lor this, our scant)- fare,
On Fancy’s racer ride to Ha re ;
Or send Mab’s* pair and whirli-Gi§*
To letch my friend on hoard the brig,
Where, tho’ we may not dine nor sup,
He’ll have a sentimental cup.
In our poor hark, ’midst our dull crew,
Thou must expect hut little new;
* Her chariot is an empty hazie»nut,
Ma.it by ‘he joiner fquirrel, or old grub,
I ime ou‘ o mind tht fairies'coach maker?.
Hr- waggon fpokes made of long fpinntrf.' legs;
The rover of the wings of grafs'hoppe'e ;
The ‘race?, of the fmallefl fpidei\. web ;
T <? collars, of the moon (bine's wa»'r7 brains;
II<r whip, of cricket'» bonca; the la(b o» film,
&c. Rem ISf Juh