 | Poems by John Godfrey Saxe. Complete in one volume : thirty-fifth edition |  |
What hinders then, when every youth may choose,
As Fancy bids, a musket or a Muse,
And throw his lead among his fellow-men,
From the dark muzzle of a gun or pen;
When blooming school-girls, who absurdly think
That naught but drapery can be spoiled with ink,
Ply ceaseless quills, that, true to early use,
Keep the old habit of the pristine goose,
While each, a special Sappho in her teens,
Shines forth a goddess in the magazines;
When waning spinsters, happy to rehearse
Their maiden griefs in doubly grievous verse,
Write doleful ditties, or distressful strains,
To wicked rivals, or unfaithful swains,
Or serenade, at night's bewitching noon,
The mythic man whose home is in the moon;
When pattern wives no thrifty arts possess,
Save that of weaving—fustian for the Press,
Write Lyrics, heedless of their scorching buns,
Dress up their Sonnets, but neglect their sons,
Make dainty doughnuts from Parnassian wheat,
And fancy-stockings for poetic feet,—
While husbands—those who love their coffee hot,
And like no ‘fire’ that does n't boil the pot—
Wish old Apollo, just to plague his life,
Had, for his own, a literary wife!
As Fancy bids, a musket or a Muse,
And throw his lead among his fellow-men,
From the dark muzzle of a gun or pen;
When blooming school-girls, who absurdly think
That naught but drapery can be spoiled with ink,
Ply ceaseless quills, that, true to early use,
Keep the old habit of the pristine goose,
While each, a special Sappho in her teens,
Shines forth a goddess in the magazines;
When waning spinsters, happy to rehearse
Their maiden griefs in doubly grievous verse,
103
To wicked rivals, or unfaithful swains,
Or serenade, at night's bewitching noon,
The mythic man whose home is in the moon;
When pattern wives no thrifty arts possess,
Save that of weaving—fustian for the Press,
Write Lyrics, heedless of their scorching buns,
Dress up their Sonnets, but neglect their sons,
Make dainty doughnuts from Parnassian wheat,
And fancy-stockings for poetic feet,—
While husbands—those who love their coffee hot,
And like no ‘fire’ that does n't boil the pot—
Wish old Apollo, just to plague his life,
Had, for his own, a literary wife!
What hinders then that I, a sober elf,
Who, like the others, keep a Muse myself,
Should venture here, as kind occasion lends
A fitting time to please these urgent friends,
To waive at once my modest Muse's doubt,
And, jockey-like, to trot the lady out?—
Who, like the others, keep a Muse myself,
Should venture here, as kind occasion lends
A fitting time to please these urgent friends,
To waive at once my modest Muse's doubt,
And, jockey-like, to trot the lady out?—
An honest creature, I am bound to say,
Who does her duty in a roguish way;
A laughing jade, of not ungentle mould,
Although, in sooth, she 's something apt to scold,
And, like some worthy people you have seen,
Who 're always talking sharper than they mean,
A genuine Sphinx as ever poet sung,
With much good-nature and a shrewish tongue!
Who does her duty in a roguish way;
A laughing jade, of not ungentle mould,
Although, in sooth, she 's something apt to scold,
And, like some worthy people you have seen,
Who 're always talking sharper than they mean,
A genuine Sphinx as ever poet sung,
With much good-nature and a shrewish tongue!
Yet, like your neighbor, be it understood,
She never censures but for public good,
And like her, too, would feel herself unsexed
If voted angry when she 's only vexed!
She never censures but for public good,
And like her, too, would feel herself unsexed
If voted angry when she 's only vexed!
104
Don't let me rouse unreasonable fears,
While I, like Brutus, ask you for your ears;
Bear as you can the transient twinge of pain,
In half an hour you'll have them back again.
While I, like Brutus, ask you for your ears;
Bear as you can the transient twinge of pain,
In half an hour you'll have them back again.
| Poems by John Godfrey Saxe. Complete in one volume : thirty-fifth edition | |