miss wiggins set her heart upon a box,

’twas handsome, rosewood, and inlaid with brass,

and dreamt three times she garnish’d it with stocks,

of needles, silks, and cottons—but alas!

she lost it wide awake.—we thought miss cox

was lucky—but she saw three caddies pass

to that small imp:—no living luck could loo him!

sir stamford would have lost his raffles to him!

[pg 39]

and so he climb’d—and rode, and won—and walk’d,

the wondrous topic of the curious swarm

that haunted the parade. many were balk’d

of notoriety by that small form

pacing it up and down:—some even talk’d

of ducking him—when lo! a dismal storm

stepp’d in—one friday, at the close of day—

and every head was turn’d another way—

watching the grander guest. it seem’d to rise

bulky and slow upon the southern brink

of the horizon—fann’d by sultry sighs—

so black and threatening, i cannot think

of any simile, except the skies

miss wiggins sometime shades in indian ink—

miss-shapen blotches of such heavy vapour,

they seem a deal more solid than her paper.

as for the sea, it did not fret, and rave,

and tear its waves to tatters, and so dash on

the stony-hearted beach;—some bards would have

it always rampant, in that idle fashion,—

whereas the waves roll’d in, subdued and grave,

like schoolboys, when the master’s in a passion,

who meekly settle in and take their places,

with a very quiet awe on all their faces.

some love to draw the ocean with a head,

like troubled table-beer,—and make it bounce,

and froth and roar, and fling—but this, i’ve said,

surged in scarce rougher than a lady’s flounce:—

but then, a grander contrast thus it bred

with the wild welkin, seeming to pronounce

something more awful in the serious ear,

as one would whisper that a lion’s near—

[pg 40]

who just begins to roar; so the hoarse thunder

growl’d long—but low—a prelude note of death,

as if the stifling clouds yet kept it under,

but still it mutter’d to the sea beneath

such a continued peal, as made us wonder

it did not pause more oft to take its breath,

whilst we were panting with the sultry weather,

and hardly cared to wed two words together,

but watch’d the surly advent of the storm,

much as the brown-cheek’d planters of barbadoes

must watch a rising of the negro swarm:—

meantime it steer’d, like odin’s old armadas,

right on our coast;—a dismal, coal-black form;—

many proud gaits were quell’d—and all bravadoes

of folly ceased—and sundry idle jokers

went home to cover up their tongs and pokers.

so fierce the lightning flashed. in all their days

the oldest smugglers had not seen such flashing,

and they are used to many a pretty blaze,

to keep their hollands from an awkward clashing

with hostile cutters in our creeks and bays:—

and truly one could think without much lashing

the fancy, that those coasting clouds so awful

and black, were fraught with spirits as unlawful.

the gay parade grew thin—all the fair crowd

vanish’d—as if they knew their own attractions,—

for now the lightning through a near hand cloud

began to make some very crooked fractions—

only some few remain’d that were not cow’d,

a few rough sailors, who had been in actions,

and sundry boatmen, that with quick yeo’s,

lest it should blow,—were pulling up the rose:

[pg 41]

(no flower, but a boat)—some more hauling

the regent by the head:—another crew

with that same cry peculiar to their calling—

were heaving up the hope:—and as they knew

the very gods themselves oft get a mauling

in their own realms, the seamen wisely drew

the neptune rather higher on the beach,

that he might lie beyond his billows’ reach.

and now the storm, with its despotic power

had all usurp’d the azure of the skies,

making our daylight darker by an hour,

and some few drops—of an unusual size—

few and distinct—scarce twenty to the shower,

fell like huge tear-drops from a giant’s eyes—

but then this sprinkle thicken’d in a trice

and rain’d much harder—in good solid ice.

oh! for a very storm of words to show

how this fierce crash of hail came rushing o’er us!

handel would make the gusty organs blow

grandly, and a rich storm in music score us!—

but ev’n his music seem’d composed and low,

when we were handled by this hailstone chorus;

whilst thunder rumbled, with its awful sound,

and frozen comfits roll’d along the ground—

as big as bullets:—lord! how they did batter

our crazy tiles:—and now the lightning flash’d

alternate with the dark, until the latter

was rarest of the two:—the gust too dash’d

so terribly, i thought the hail must shatter

some panes,—and so it did—and first it smash’d

the very square where i had chose my station

to watch the general illumination.

[pg 42]

another, and another, still came in,

and fell in jingling ruin at my feet,

making transparent holes that let me win

some samples of the storm:—oh! it was sweet

to think i had a shelter for my skin,

culling them through these “loopholes of retreat”—

which in a little we began to glaze—

chiefly with a jacktowel and some baize!

by which, the cloud had pass’d o’erhead, but play’d

its crooked fires in constant flashes still,

just in our rear, as though it had array’d

its heavy batteries at fairlight mill,

so that it lit the town, and grandly made

the rugged features of the castle hill

leap, like a birth, from chaos, into light,

and then relapse into the gloomy night—

as parcel of the cloud:—the clouds themselves,

like monstrous crags and summits everlasting,

piled each on each in most gigantic shelves,

that milton’s devils were engaged in blasting.—

we could e’en fancy satan and his elves

busy upon those crags, and ever casting

huge fragments loose—and that we felt the sound

they made in falling to the startled ground.

and so the tempest scowl’d away,—and soon,

timidly shining through its skirts of jet,

we saw the rim of the pacific moon,

like a bright fish entangled in a net,

flashing its silver sides,—how sweet a boon,

seem’d her sweet light, as though it would beget,

with that fair smile, a calm upon the seas—

peace in the sky—and coolness in the breeze!

[pg 43]

meantime the hail had ceased:—and all the brood

of glaziers stole abroad to count their gains;—

at every window, there were maids who stood

lamenting o’er the glass’s small remains,—

or with coarse linens made the fractious good,

stanching the wind in all the wounded panes,—

or, holding candles to the panes, in doubt:

the wind resolved—blowing the candles out.

no house was whole that had a southern front,—

no green-house but the same mishap befell:—

bow-windows and bell-glasses bore the brunt,—

no sex in glass was spared!—for those who dwell

on each hill side, you might have swam a punt

in any of their parlours;—mrs. snell

was slopp’d out of her seat,—and mr. hitchin

had a flow’r-garden wash’d into a kitchen.