Your letter, dear Mary, tho' resting so long,
Without a response, gave us infinite pleasure;
For seldom indeed, in the language of song,
And verse of so beautiful, smooth-flowing measure,
Have we met with the news and events of the day,
Reported and told, in so pleasing a way—
Is it thus, that the Muses to each other write,
And render e'en absence, a source of delight?
Euterpe, perhaps, (ever partial, they say
To a musical fête,) your concert attended,
And pleased with your talent to sing and to play,
Thought music with poetry happily blended—
And so, when you took up the pen to prepare
An account of your party, to make it more rare,
Bade you write it in verse—and assisted you too,
To get up a style, so romantic and new.
Be this as it may—'tis certain that such
As have been indulged with a sight of your letter,
Sans compliment, all, have admired it much,
And say, of its kind, that they never read better.
But how can we answer, in similar style,
A missive like yours?—we are sure you will smile
At our awkward and feeble attempt to compose,
An answer in verse, in our accent of prose.
But smile, if you please—even laugh, if you choose—
We must make an effort to put rhymes together,
To give you some items of Williamsburg news,
And tell you how well we got thro' the cold weather:
In converse and reading, we passed with delight,
The keen winter morning, the long winter night,
With a family never surpassed upon earth,
In kind hospitality, virtue and worth.
'Tis said, this old city has seen its best days—
We cannot think so—its present possessors
Are subjects of just admiration and praise—
Whether Judges or Lawyers, or learned Professors—
All mingle with freedom and ease in the throng,
And move in the current of fashion along;
At the ball, or the board, or the cheery fire side,
Society's ornament, pleasure and pride.
"And are there no Doctors (perhaps you exclaim)
Distinguished by talents and virtues and merit?"
O yes, there are several; whom if we but name,
Or mention their liberal and generous spirit,
"The Messenger's" Critic may cry out—"O fie!
Who ever blamed Hercules?" Subjects so high,
Like Washington, need not a line to exalt
Their virtues and worth—Who ever blamed G——?
The fear we suggest, of the "Messenger's" lash,
As you well may imagine, is merely pretension;
Its Critics at monarch-like Hickories dash,
And smile at flowret or shrub's apprehension—
Palmettoes escape too! but, Party, away!
'Tis time, to the birthnight our homage to pay;
E'en the Critic himself, we hope may agree
To spare our "Sic semper—PATRI PATRIÆ!"
The ball of the birthnight, on Monday took place,
And, once more, the hall of the ancient Apollo,
Assembled a train of youth, beauty, and grace,
In which, well escorted, we ventured to follow:
Professors and students, the bench and the bar,
The single and married of both sexes, there,
In mirth and good humor, the hours employed,
Partook of the dance, or the music enjoyed.
The supper was superabundant—in fine,
No gourmand complained of a scanty provision
Of flesh, fish, or fowl—or of excellent wine,
Which Bacchus's tribe thought a charming addition;
But the nymphs and the graces impatiently flew
To the ball room again, the dance to renew;
And thoughtless of sleep or repose, in their glee,
Kept it up, it is said, till full two or three.
Of the cake, fruit, and wine, there yet was such store,
Laid in and prepared for the festive occasion,
That the Managers thought of a hop or two more,
As a matter of justice and easy persuasion;
So, on several nights, the beauty and grace
Of the young and the old that distinguish the place,
With music and dancing enlivened the hall,
Till the close of the week, gave repose to us all.
All needed it much; for a deep fall of snow,
Fatigued as we were, to sleighing invited—
And who could refuse, pray, a gallant young beau,
Alcibiades like, with driving delighted?—
Thro' the streets, and around and around on the square,
For the belles and the bells, were all gathered there,
What racing—what contests Olympic were seen,
On the snow-white expanse of the cidevant green!
We have not half finished the sleighing affair,
With some other topics of social diversion,
But here we must stop—as we now must prepare
For a trip to old York, on a pleasure excursion—
We wish you were with us. Your eloquent pen
Might there find a scene to amuse us again,
With lively description of things "old and new"—
But the carriage is waiting; so, dear girl, adieu! |