To Britain's Isle, with speed , they bent their flight,
And lighted here,[1] just on the edge of night;
Immortal formsthey veil'd in dark disguise,
And seem'd like mortal men, to mortal eyes.
Old Vulcan's Smithy soon, with ease, they found,
Directed by the thund'ring anvil's sound;
To see the limping God they straight repair,
Secure of finding friendly welcome there.
The moment they approach'd, old Vulcan knew
His Godlike guests, and then to meet them flew;
His hammer thrown aside, he Limp'd apace,
Alternate each he clasp’d, in close embrace;
Straight to his Cabin then the Gods he led
To paſs the night, and take a friendly bed.
The best of ev 'ry sort was order'd out,
Rum, Brandy, Wine, with Ale and Porter stout;
O'erjoy’d, on earth, to see such worthy friends,
The sparkling glaſs he round the table sends.
They talk'd of former times, they sang and laugh’d,
They smok’d, crack 'd jokes, and friendly bumpers quaff’d ;
As Nectar, Bacchus prais'd the amber ale,
Apollo sang, and Hermes told a tale.
The host well pleas'd, the guests quite blythe and gay,
In mirth and glee the ev ’ning paſs’d away.
The Gods now told their errand—Vulcan smil'd—
With various anecdotes the time beguil'd;
- ↑ In Birmingham.
