[384] Published in the _Daily Advertiser_, Dec. 30, 1789, with this introduction: "The seat of government in South Carolina is removed by act of Assembly from Charleston to Columbia, a dismal place in the centre of that state consisting of only four houses. This removal is by many in Carolina considered as premature and amongst other animadversions has occasioned the two following poetic pieces which from several circumstances we conclude to have been written by Mr. Freneau." The title of the poem was originally "The Procession to Columbia." It was published only in the 1795 edition. THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS[385] 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. [385] In the _Daily Advertiser_ of Dec. 30, 1789, this bore the title, "A View of Columbia," and the opening line was "From Charleston's gay abode." In the 1795 edition the title was changed to "Lysander's Retreat." Text from the edition of 1809. SANGRADO'S EXPEDITION TO SYLVANIA[386] Tir'd of his journey o'er a sandy waste, Sangrado to Sylvania[387] came at last: A bear-skin coat was round his carcase roll'd, Shivering with northern winds,[388] that blew so cold: Dark was the night--much for his shins he fear'd, For not one lamp in all the town appear'd, Twelve was the hour--the citizens, in bed, Slept sound--of bears and wolves no more in dread; No city-guards, no watchmen hove in sight, No chyming bell sung out the time of night; But foggy blasts their wintry music blew Through shabby trees that round the court-house[389] grew; At length, alighting at one scurvy dome, He knock'd--and hop'd the people were at home.-- Ho!--(cry'd the man within) ho! who are you?-- What! heigh!--from Cambria?[390]--have you nothing new?-- _Sangrado_ Nothing at all--the times are shameful bad; Money at ten per cent--hard to be had: With apples and potatoes, our dear cousins The northern men, are pouring in by dozens: The French, 'tis said, will soon discharge their king-- This, friend, is all I know--and all I bring-- _Citizen_