TO THE FIRST BATHING-MACHINE.
(After Wordsworth.)
O blank new-comer! I have seen,
I see thee with a start:
So gentle looking a Machine,
Infernal one thou art!
When first the sun feels rather hot,
Or even rather warm,
From some dim, hibernating spot
Rolls forth thy clumsy form.
Perhaps thou babblest to the sea
Of sunshine and of flowers;
Thou bringest but a thought to me
Of such bad quarter hours.
I, grasping tightly, pale with fear,
Thy very narrow bench,
Thou, bounding on in wild career,
All shake, and jolt, and wrench.
Till comes an unexpected stop;
My forehead hits the door,
And I, with cataclysmic flop,
Lie on thy sandy floor.
Then, dressed in Nature's simplest style,
I, blushing, venture out;
And find the sea is still a mile
Away, or thereabout.
Blithe little children on the sand
Laugh out with childish glee;
Their nurses, sitting near at hand,
All giggling, stare at me.
Unnerved, unwashed, I rush again
Within thy tranquil shade,
And wait until the rising main
Shall banish child and maid.
Thy doors I dare not open now,
Thy windows give no view;
'Tis late; I will not bathe, I vow:
I dress myself anew.
Set wide the door. All round is sea!
"Hold tight, Sir!" voices call,
And in the water, jerked from thee,
I tumble, clothes and all!
O blessed thing! this earth we pace
Thy haunt should never be,
A quite unmentionable place
That is fit home for thee!
