BLIND CAPTAIN; OR, MEETING THE COACH.

AN ADVENTURE ON THE COTSWOLD HILLS.

"BE quick, and bring Blind Captain from the stallThe coach for London starts, at eight, from Stow; And George and Harry from yon wheatfield callWe shall be late enough," said dame, "I know!

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Here, put him to this tumbrel, which I 've lined
With hay, as sweet as vi'lets, fresh and dry;
Then place Jane's boxes, not too far behind,—

Perhaps she 'll like to sit a trifle high!

"There !—one, two, three !—it's quite a throne, I vow!

Come, Harry, buckle yonder trace with speed,

Quite trim, and tight! We'll tie our bonnets now;

And for a better coach we shall not need !"

The good dame bustled with maternal air,
Cutting all farewells short, as waste of time;

But bade me not the ample breakfast spare,

Which proved the bounty of old England's clime.

Undreaming that disaster was in store,

I quickly took my place, contented quite;
And waving to the group around the door
One more adieu, I envied none their plight.

George took the reins in hand with knowing leer,
And made as trim a "whip " as one need see!
The dame, from wisdom (some may think from fear),
Left the whole honour of the "throne" to me,

And snugly crouch'd among the new-strewn hay,
Her back supported by the tumbrel's side,
Prepared for sudden jerks, or Sol's full ray
With monster-sized umbrella, spreading wide;

While I, unconscious that our equipage
A special style of attitude required,
Perch'd on my loftier seat, in faith, unsage,
And merely if we were in time inquired.

"All right!" said George; "an hour beforehand, good! 'The Little Wonder' hardly leaves at eight !"The three-mile road-stone just before us stood, And only one impeding turnpike-gate.

"Crack" went the whip; "Tchick, Captain !-steady, boy!"

And, rumbling forth, the springless tumbrel went;

But, sure, the deities of rural joy

Were on some early feat of mischief bent!

For, lo no sooner had Blind Captain turn'd
From the rude cartway to the lonely farm,
Than all our rustic Phaeton's art he spurn'd,
Bent on self-pleasure or his riders' harm;

From side to side, discursive, first he strain'd,

Regardless of engulphment or delay,

Till warn'd by thorn-pierced nose and fetlock sprain'd To jog more steady on his destined way!

"Poor Captain!" thought the rhymer, " 'twas to scent The new-plough'd land o'er which thy comrades toilAnd not perversely, for some bad intent,

My hopes of reaching home to-night to foil

"Thou thus didst wander from the line direct, Imperiling our necks and losing time!

I'll do thee justice, when I can reflect,

In some few stanzas of my homely rhyme !"

Scarce had the thought coursed through my musing brain,

When off he started at a frantic speed,

Defying all command of voice or rein,

As if nor life nor limb he'd deign to heed.

"Woa, Captain!" shouted George, in Stentor tonesfine old blade !-there's no such haste!

Gently, my

Steady!-or we shall have some broken bones;

Besides, your strength and wind you idly waste!—

“Woa, then, I tell thee!" and the whip's descent Upon his sturdy hide was not so light

As to be altogether force misspent.

At length he halted in his wayward flight,

And just in time to save our bardship's state,
Grown aught but blissful, stable, or serene→

Like many since, it seem'd to hold debate,
Amidst convulsions, to dethrone its queen: