Classic Poem

" A WAKE , arise, " bold Neptune cries,
" It scandalous and base is
To lag behind, when half mankind
Frequent my watering Places. " —
" 'Tis passing odd, blue-bearded god,
That men should thus turn otters;
With every due respect for you,
I never liked your waters.

" If 'twere my lot to build a cot,
Or dome of Chinese pattern,
It should not verge upon thy surge,
Joint Devisee of Saturn.
The very trees that own thy breeze,
Seem by the favour undone;
With inland bend, like me, they send
A longing look tow'rd London.

" The man who stops in sea-side shops,
Like Donaldson's or Lucombe's,
In hopes to find food for the mind,
Soon finds he's not at Hookham's.
The libraries that edge thy seas,
Are fit for boys in short hose;
Their gew-gaw shelves bear tops for twelves,
And paper kites in quartos.

" Sandgate may do for those who woo
The leaden god of slumber.
O'er Bognor Rock the sea-gulls flock;
I'll not increase their number.
Who loves to hide should go to Ryde,
Full equi-dismal Cowes is:
And poor Eastbourne appears to mourn
Her runaway " Sea Houses."

" To Broadstairs they may post away,
Who think it famous cheer is
With gun and shot o'er fields to trot,
Monopolized by Ceres.
Southend's too nigh, and they who hie
To Scarborough too far get:
Worthing's all tides, and all Cheapside's
Mud carted into Margate.

" Tow'rd Rottingdean who walks the Steyne,
A bold and jutting work sees,
Which aims, by spars, and chains, and bars,
To fetter thee like Xerxes.
But, son of Ops, the pile that stops
Thy waters in their gushing,
May quit its post on Brighton coast,
And walk away to Flushing.

" See yonder yacht, with paddling trot,
And rolling Lichfield Sam's gait,
Unload, at eight, its motley freight,
To skim thy surf at Ramsgate.
I once swam near her Lighthouse Pier,
Than moist Leander madder,
But, warn'd by Time, no more I climb
For Angels Jacob's jadder.

" At Hastings, if her frisky cliff
Would be more staid and sober,
The gods I'd think to pass, dear Frank,
With thee a blithe October.
But from her brink new rocks may sink,
The next time blows the wind bad:
And I below her chalky brow
Be sepulchred like Sindbad.

" Thus, billowy god, my muse has trod
Thy forelands, creeks, and mountains,
And, could I boot as light a foot,
I'd seek thy briny fountains.
But gout requires more inland shires,
The limb, that last night felt numb,
Instinctive clings to mineral springs —
Adieu, I'm off for Chelt'nham! "