Litchfield Enquirer

FOR THE LITCHFIELD ENQUIRER

THE DREAM.

BY PEREGRINE PEPPERPOD, ESQ,

As late I sat, in musing mood,

Reclining in my elbow chair,

Old Morpheus waved his wizard wand.

And beck'd me to the dreaming land.

And bade me note the wonders there.

My cloys and fetters all fell off-

I was a spirit light and airy ;

And lo! I trod " the land of nod"

With the noiseless footsteps of a fairy

And time and space were absent then-

I did not move as other men,

But in the compass of a minute

Surveyed the world and all things in it.

I looked in at the Hermitage,

But there "revered and honored sage.

Fatigued with fights and glorious quarrels,

Lay snoring on his bed of laurels.

I pass'd him by—but, with a mind

Worn with the sorrows of mankind.

I halted at a famous city,

To leave a benison of pity,

For Disappointment and Despair,

Had built their habitations there.

'T was midnight at the Capitol,

And silence deep reign'd over all,

Save in the chambers of the great,

Where, wearied with the cares of State,

Full many a proudly pillowed head,

Rolled restless on its downy bed.

Some uttered groans and stifled screams,

As if harass'd with frightful dreams,

Or talk'd of "Clay," "the banks," and " Biddle,"

And swore they could not solve the riddle.

And others, seen by taper light,

Who kept their vigils through the night,

Were conning o'er the late elections,

With faces sour'd by sad reflections.

Some, proud to have their greatness seen,

Strutted the floor with pompous mien,

And knit their brow with frequent scowls,

And talk'd, and looked as grave as owls.

I turned away. The scene was shifted-

A crowd had sought the palace door,

To see the "gallant and the gifted."

And hear the " western lion" roar.

Ho! sound the news with shouts and drums

The great Tecumseh-killer comes!

And with him, 'twixt a sneer and laugh,

Stalks boldly forth his " better half."

Fit prize to bless the hero's arms!

How shall I paint her matchless charms!

No locks were o'er her forehead flung,

Like marble dome with clouds o'erhung-

No pencil'd veins, or bright blue eyes

Had caught their lustre from the skies-

No ruby lips, nor rosy cheeks,

Had robb'd the morning of its streaks-

But nature—partial whom she blesses,

Colored and curl'd her raven tresses,

And carved her lips of monstrous size,

And gave her two prodigious eyes.

Her cheeks of changeless hues were made,

"Dyed in the wool, they ne'er can fade—

Essence of ebony and logwood.

And sweeter than the bowers of dogwood."

Yet some denounced the warrior's taste,

And called him and his land disgraced

His choice but proved the adage right,

"He loved darkness more than light."

But on they strutted, side by side,

—The " gallant Colonel" and his bride—

And to the shouting populace

She turned aside her blushing face,

And smiles sat on it, as she bow'd

Like rainbows on a thunder-cloud.

Lo! as they stood, creation slept,

But earthquakes thunder'd as they stept.

One would have thought the crow infernal

Had flock'd to hear the gallant Colonel,

And swell the chorus of applause,

O'er batter'd heads and broken jaws.

Our hero, by their shouts inspired,

And all at once with glory fired—

Leaving his partner at a jump,

He safely landed on a stump,

And, stretching forth his warrior-arm,

He thus began to sound the alarm :

" What glorious sights and sounds are these,

That meet my eyes and load the breeze!

They're but the glimmerings of the flames

That blazed along the banks of Thames—

They're but the echo of the roar

That follow'd me along that shore.

Did I not kill the great Tecumseh

And half his tribe, with lead and rum, sir!

And cut his wives' and children's throats,

To stop their wild and wicked notes!

And did I not, in yonder hall,

Fight priests and popes, and conquer all?

And sign the " Sunday Mail Report,

That cut the reign of bigots short,

And sent them hence to earn their dinners.

By flattering saints and scolding sinners!

But now the day more dismal seems.

And fearful omens haunt my dreams;

The phantoms of election day

Throng through my brain in dark array,

And Federal forms before me flit,

Like the dim specters of the pit.

As with the eye of prophecy

I see the day is drawing nigh,

When whigs shall gain the "upper hand,

And priests and bigots rule the land.

For lo! at every Federal gate,

The horrid ghost of " Church and State,"

Stalks to and fro, and shakes his staff.

And mocks me with demoniac laugh.

I see their gibbets ready made—

The hangman's rope, the Sexton's spade—

And or, in drear and hollow tones,

I hear the dust and gravel stones

Fall rumbling on the coffin-lid

Where some poor democrat is hid.

Oh shun them as you'd shun the breakers.

They'll hang us as they hung the quakers!"

The speaker paus'd—his speech was ended ;

As from the rostrum he descended,

A thunder-peal of plaudits broke,

And 'mid the uproar I awoke.

Litchfield, Sept. 3, 1838.