The Pilgrim's Progress

From his obscure abode,
On many a tiresome road
The pilgrim, musing, took his way:
Through dark and dismal groves
Where the sad turtle loves
To pass the night, and kill the day.

In an obscure retreat,
I saw the pilgrim greet,
A barren soil and dreary town;--
Thy streets be-gloomed with trees
With pain the traveller sees,
Sylvania, barren of renown.--

What can console him there?--
Not even a house of prayer
With glittering spire is seen to rise--
No nymphs in gaudy trim
Will there be seen by him;--
No music, sermons, balls, or pigeon pies.

Dull, melancholy streams,
Dutch politics and schemes,
Owls screeching in the empty street--
Wolves howling at the doors--
Bears breaking into stores;
These make the picture of the town--complete.