Samuel Kettell, ed. Specimens of American Poetry. 1829.
By Echo No. 1Richard Alsop (1761–1815)
O
Pursued his journey through the vaulted sky,
And in his car effulgent roll’d his way
Four hours beyond the burning zone of day;
When lo! a cloud, o’ershadowing all the plain,
From countless pores perspired a liquid rain,
While from its cracks the lightnings made a peep,
And chit-chat thunders rock’d our fears asleep.
But soon the vapory fog dispersed in air,
And left the azure blue-eyed concave bare:
Even the last drop of hope, which dripping skies
Gave for a moment to our straining eyes,
Like Boston rum, from heaven’s junk bottles broke,
Lost all the corks, and vanish’d into smoke.
But swift from worlds unknown, a fresh supply
Of vapor dimm’d the great horizon’s eye;
The crazy clouds, by shifting zephyrs driven,
Wafted their courses through the high-arch’d heaven,
Till piled aloft in one stupendous heap,
The seen and unseen worlds grew dark, and nature ’gan to weep.
Attendant lightnings stream’d their tails afar,
And social thunders waked ethereal war,
From dark deep pockets brought their treasured store,
Embattled elements increased the roar—
Red crinkling fires expended all their force,
And tumbling rumblings steer’d their headlong course.
Those guarded frames by thunder poles secured,
Though wrapp’d in sheets of flame, those sheets endured;
O’er their broad roofs the fiery torrents roll’d,
And every shingle seem’d of burning gold.
Majestic thunders, with disploding roar,
And sudden crashing, bounced along the shore,
Till, lost in other lands, the whispering sound
Fled from our ears and fainted on the ground.
Rain’s house on high its window sashes oped,
And out the cataract impetuous hopp’d,
While the grand scene by far more grand appear’d,
With lightnings never seen and thunders never heard.
More salutary showers have not been known,
To wash dame Nature’s dirty homespun gown—
For several weeks the good old Joan’s been seen,
With filth bespatter’d like a lazy quean.
The husbandman fast travelling to despair,
Laid down his hoe and took his rocking chair:
While his fat wife, the well and cistern dried,
Her mop grown useless, hung it up and cried.
Two rainbows fair that Iris brought along,
Pick’d from the choicest of her color’d throng;
The first born deck’d in pristine hues of light,
In all its native glories glowing bright,
The next adorn’d with less refulgent rays,
But borrowing lustre from its brother’s blaze;
Shone a bright reflex of those colors gay
That deck’d with light creation’s primal day,
When infant Nature lisp’d her earliest notes,
And younker Adam crept in petticoats:
And to the people to reflection given,
“The sons of Boston, the elect of heaven,”
Presented Mercy’s angel smiling fair,
Irradiate splendors frizzled in his hair,
Uncorking demi-johns, and pouring down
Heaven’s liquid blessings on the gaping town.
A barn was burnt well fill’d with hay.
Some say the lightning turn’d it red,
Some say the thunder struck it dead,
Some say it made the cattle stare,
And some it kill’d an aged mare;
But we expect the truth to learn,
From Mr Wythe, who own’d the barn.