BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.
IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID.
IN ancient times, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, And stroll about, but hide their quality, To try good people's hospitality.
It happened on a winter night, As authors of the legend write, Two brother hermits, saints by trade, Taking their tour in masquerade, Disguised in tattered habits, went To a small village down in Kent;Where, in the strollers' canting strain, They begged from door to door in vain;Tried every tone might pity win, But not a soul would let them in.
Our wandering saints in woeful state, Treated at this ungodly rate, Having through all the village passed, To a small cottage came at last, Where dwelt a good honest old yeoman, Called, in the neighbourhood, Philemon, Who kindly did these saints invite In his poor hut to pass the night;And then the hospitable Sire Bid goody Baucis mend the fire;While he from out the chimney took A flitch of bacon off the hook, And freely from the fattest side Cut out large slices to be fried;Then stepped aside to fetch 'em drink, Filled a large jug up to the brink, And saw it fairly twice go round;Yet (what is wonderful) they found 'Twas still replenished to the top, As if they ne'er had touched a drop The good old couple were amazed, And often on each other gazed;For both were frightened to the heart, And just began to cry, - What art!
Then softly turned aside to view, Whether the lights were burning blue.
The gentle pilgrims soon aware on't, Told 'em their calling, and their errant;"Good folks, you need not be afraid, We are but saints," the hermits said;"No hurt shall come to you or yours;
But, for that pack of churlish boors, Not fit to live on Christian ground, They and their houses shall be drowned;Whilst you shall see your cottage rise, And grow a church before your eyes."They scarce had spoke; when fair and soft, The roof began to mount aloft;Aloft rose every beam and rafter, The heavy wall climbed slowly after.
The chimney widened, and grew higher, Became a steeple with a spire.
The kettle to the top was hoist, And there stood fastened to a joist;But with the upside down, to show Its inclination for below.
In vain; for a superior force Applied at bottom, stops its coarse, Doomed ever in suspense to dwell, 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.
A wooden jack, which had almost Lost, by disuse, the art to roast, A sudden alteration feels, Increased by new intestine wheels;And what exalts the wonder more, The number made the motion slower.
The flyer, though 't had leaden feet, Turned round so quick, you scarce could see 't;But slackened by some secret power, Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney near allied, Had never left each other's side;The chimney to a steeple grown, The jack would not be left alone;But up against the steeple reared, Became a clock, and still adhered;And still its love to household cares By a shrill voice at noon declares, Warning the cook-maid not to burn That roast meat which it cannot turn.
The groaning chair began to crawl, Like a huge snail along the wall;There stuck aloft in public view;
And with small change a pulpit grew.
