The Lover's Progress

'Twas in that memorable yearFrance threaten'd to put off inFlat-bottom'd boats, intending eachTo be a British coffin,To make sad widows of our wives,And every babe an orphan:--

When coats were made of scarlet cloaks,And heads were dredg'd with flour,I listed in the Lawyer's Corps,Against the battle hour;A perfect Volunteer--for why?I brought my "will and pow'r."

One dreary day--a day of dread,Like Cato's, over-cast--About the hour of six, (the mornAnd I were breaking fast,)There came a loud and sudden sound,That struck me all aghast!

A dismal sort of morning roll,That was not to be eaten;Although it was no skin of mine,But parchment that was beaten,I felt tattooed through all my flesh,Like any Otaheitan.

My jaws with utter dread enclos'dThe morsel I was munching,And terror lock'd them up so tight,My very teeth went crunchingAll through my bread and tongue at once,Like sandwich made at lunching.

My hand that held the tea-pot fast,Stiffen'd, but yet unsteady,Kept pouring, pouring, pouring o'erThe cup in one long eddy,Till both my hose were marked with tea,As they were mark'd already.

I felt my visage turn from redTo white--from cold to hot;But it was nothing wonderfulMy color changed, I wot,For, like some variable silks,I felt that I was shot.

And looking forth with anxious eye,From my snug upper story,I saw our melancholy corps,Going to beds all gory;The pioneers seem'd very lothTo axe their way to glory.

The captain march'd as mourners march,The ensign too seem'd lagging,And many more, although they wereNo ensigns, took to flagging--Like corpses in the Serpentine,Methought they wanted dragging.

But while I watch'd, the thought of deathCame like a chilly gust,And lo! I shut the window down,With very little lustTo join so many marching men,That soon might be March dust.

Quoth I, "Since Fate ordains it so,Our foe the coast must land on";--I felt so warm beside the fireI cared not to abandon;Our hearths and homes are always thingsThat patriots make a stand on.

"The fools that fight abroad for home,"Thought I, "may get a wrong one;Let those who have no homes at allGo battle for a long one."The mirror here confirm'd me thisReflection, by a strong one.

For there, where I was wont to shave,And deck me like Adonis,There stood the leader of our foes,With vultures for his armies--No Corsican, but Death himself,The Bony of all Bonies.

A horrid sight it was, and sad,To see the grisly chapPut on my crimson livery,And then begin to clapMy helmet on--ah me! it feltLike any felon's cap.

My plume seem'd borrow'd from a hearse,An undertaker's crest;My epaulette's like coffin-plates;My belt so heavy press'd,Four pipeclay cross-roads seem'd to lieAt once upon my breast.

My brazen breast-plate only lack'dA little heap of salt,To make me like a corpse full dress'd,Preparing for the vault--To set up what the Poet callsMy everlasting halt.

This funeral show inclined me quiteTo peace:--and here I am!Whilst better lions go to war,Enjoying with the lambA lengthen'd life, that might have beenA Martial Epigram.