The poems of John G. C. Brainard A new and authentic collection, with an original memoir of his life |
 |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
THE FOOT. |
 | The poems of John G. C. Brainard |  |
THE FOOT.
“Δος που στω, και τον κοσμον κινησω.”
I sing the Foot. Let every Muse's wing
Arrange its quills and fan the classic lay—
For Phœbus had a foot—and Venus blessed
Had more than that, a foot and ancle too.
Neptune, as Homer sung, could cause the shades,
And woods, and mountains tremble with his step.
Immortal was his foot-fall. Juno bright,
Stampted, when she scolded forth in Jove's own court.
'T was Hebe's foot that bore the nectar round,
And Jupiter's great toe that Mulciber
Leaped from to Lemnos.—But enough of all
This heathen lore—this pantheon exercise.
Arrange its quills and fan the classic lay—
For Phœbus had a foot—and Venus blessed
Had more than that, a foot and ancle too.
Neptune, as Homer sung, could cause the shades,
And woods, and mountains tremble with his step.
Immortal was his foot-fall. Juno bright,
Stampted, when she scolded forth in Jove's own court.
'T was Hebe's foot that bore the nectar round,
203
Leaped from to Lemnos.—But enough of all
This heathen lore—this pantheon exercise.
What when the drum beats, and the panting ranks
Are joining, closing, moving on the foe—
When the deep whisper speeds along the line,
And all must “do or die”—what onward moves
The heart-pulse and the nerve, the ready hand,
The eye determined, and the kindling soul!
What urges up the bayonet—what mounts
The desperate height, the ladder and the breach,
And tramples on the rended, blood-stained flag?
Are joining, closing, moving on the foe—
When the deep whisper speeds along the line,
And all must “do or die”—what onward moves
The heart-pulse and the nerve, the ready hand,
The eye determined, and the kindling soul!
What urges up the bayonet—what mounts
The desperate height, the ladder and the breach,
And tramples on the rended, blood-stained flag?
What firmest paces on the rampart walk,
Or softest trips it to a lady's bower,
Or lightest sports it in the fairy dance,
Or what, on provocation, first applies
Its energies to kick a scamp down stairs?
Or softest trips it to a lady's bower,
Or lightest sports it in the fairy dance,
Or what, on provocation, first applies
Its energies to kick a scamp down stairs?
O swift Achilles of the tender heel—
O well-shod Grecians of the classic boots,—
O Infantry of poets, to whose feet
Nor boot, nor shoe, nor stocking e'er belonged,
O Cinderilla of the vitreous sock—
O Giant-killing Jack with seven leagued strides,
Assist me to immortalize the foot.
O well-shod Grecians of the classic boots,—
O Infantry of poets, to whose feet
Nor boot, nor shoe, nor stocking e'er belonged,
O Cinderilla of the vitreous sock—
O Giant-killing Jack with seven leagued strides,
Assist me to immortalize the foot.
| The poems of John G. C. Brainard | |