The Bay Islet

In shallow streams, a league from town,

(Its baby Light-House tumbled down)

Extends a country, full in view,

Beheld by all, but known to few.

Surrounded by the briny waste

No haven here has Nature placed;

But those who wish to pace it o’er

Must land upon the open shore.

There as I sailed, to view the ground;

No blooming goddesses I found—

But yellow hags, ordained to prove

The death, and antidote of love.

Ten stately trees adorn the isle,

The house, a crazy, tottering pile,

Where once the doctor plied his trade

On feverish tars and rakes decayed.

Six hogs about the pastures feed

(Sweet mud-larks of the Georgia breed)

Who, while the hostess deals out drams,

Can oysters catch, and open clams.

Upon its surface, smooth and clean,

A world, in miniature, is seen;

Though scarce a journey for a snail

We meet with mountain, hill, and vale.

To those that guard this stormy place,

Two cities stare them in the face:

There, York its spiry summits rears,

And here Cummunipaw appears.

The tenant, now but ill at ease,

Derives no fuel from his trees:

And Jersey boats, though begged to land,

All leave him on the larboard hand.

Some monied man, grown sick of care,

To this neglected spot repair:

What Nature sketched, let art complete,

And own the loveliest Country Seat.