Lines in Pleasant Places Rhythmics of many moods and quantities. Wise and otherwise |
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AFTER-DINNER EFFORT.
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 | Lines in Pleasant Places |  |
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AFTER-DINNER EFFORT.
I rise responsive to your knead, as the loaf said to the baker,
Albeit I'm shaking in my shoes, although I'm not a Shaker;
And though my rhymes may be devoid of qualifying reason,
As dry as vernal blossoms are in huckleberry season,
Still, may be, it is better thus, as I may then be able
To partly meet your wish, and give you something dry at table.
Albeit I'm shaking in my shoes, although I'm not a Shaker;
And though my rhymes may be devoid of qualifying reason,
As dry as vernal blossoms are in huckleberry season,
Still, may be, it is better thus, as I may then be able
To partly meet your wish, and give you something dry at table.
Of all the elements of Man, the social and the jolly
Are pungent condiments that hide his weakness and his folly,
And though the laugh be banned by some, and thrown o'er 'mong the vices,
It gives the piquancy to life that pudding gets from spices.
No germ of good is lost the world, but has more healthy growing
In atmospheres where wit's bright sun beams round with fervor glowing—
Where humor permeates the soul, and, all its cells unsealing,
Up spring the seeds of happiness to bloom in flowers of feeling!
E'en “sweet religion,” oft obscured by sacerdotal glamour,
By far more potently proclaims if cheer dictate its grammar;
No “rhapsody of words,” alone, whose trade-mark is a steeple,
But truth, in smiles, exampling best the “good news to all people.”
Vice gains no help from cheerfulness, and our own genial poet
Says he “ne'er heard a hearty laugh from out a villain's throet”—
Pardon the rhyme—'tis somewhat crude—but do not snap your bard up,
For he, like bigger bards, sometimes, may for a rhyme be hard up.
Are pungent condiments that hide his weakness and his folly,
And though the laugh be banned by some, and thrown o'er 'mong the vices,
It gives the piquancy to life that pudding gets from spices.
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In atmospheres where wit's bright sun beams round with fervor glowing—
Where humor permeates the soul, and, all its cells unsealing,
Up spring the seeds of happiness to bloom in flowers of feeling!
E'en “sweet religion,” oft obscured by sacerdotal glamour,
By far more potently proclaims if cheer dictate its grammar;
No “rhapsody of words,” alone, whose trade-mark is a steeple,
But truth, in smiles, exampling best the “good news to all people.”
Vice gains no help from cheerfulness, and our own genial poet
Says he “ne'er heard a hearty laugh from out a villain's throet”—
Pardon the rhyme—'tis somewhat crude—but do not snap your bard up,
For he, like bigger bards, sometimes, may for a rhyme be hard up.
Where'er the festive board is spread, there mirth is most resplendent,
With “chunks of wisdom” interblent, and reason in ascendant;
And of one thing we're pretty sure, that mirth is not dyspeptic,
As, half from indigestion, come the bigot and the sceptic.
We turn a new leaf in Life's book, with plates illuminated,
And through rare gustatory arts our tastes and minds are sated;
A while through clear contented eyes in happy mood we see things,
And catch new inspiration from the tinkle of the tea things.
So, there's no time of all the year more grand than this, or pleasant,
That brings, in universal cheer, so many kinfolk present,
From worldly strife, and worldly care, and secular exaction,
To find in social union meet congenial satisfaction.
With “chunks of wisdom” interblent, and reason in ascendant;
And of one thing we're pretty sure, that mirth is not dyspeptic,
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We turn a new leaf in Life's book, with plates illuminated,
And through rare gustatory arts our tastes and minds are sated;
A while through clear contented eyes in happy mood we see things,
And catch new inspiration from the tinkle of the tea things.
So, there's no time of all the year more grand than this, or pleasant,
That brings, in universal cheer, so many kinfolk present,
From worldly strife, and worldly care, and secular exaction,
To find in social union meet congenial satisfaction.
The old-time Jews were yearly wont Jerusalem to haste to,
And carry up their offerings, and do as they'd a taste to,
Obeying the Mosaic law, and seeing their relations,
And mingling secular, perhaps, with pious operations:
Pot-luck partaking with their friends, or at the hotels stopping,
And giving Moses half the time, and half the time to shopping.
And so our anniversary week—it an undoubted fact is—
Was based on this beneficent and very human practice,
And, gathering all our interests that yearly have collected,
Boston becomes Jerusalem by centuries perfected;
And like the shoe of the Wandering Jew, by Eugene Sue created,
Whose seven hob-nails impressed the snow o'er which he peregrinated,
These seven days on Time's broad plain make evident impression,
And this, most lasting of them all, by social joy's possession.
And carry up their offerings, and do as they'd a taste to,
Obeying the Mosaic law, and seeing their relations,
And mingling secular, perhaps, with pious operations:
Pot-luck partaking with their friends, or at the hotels stopping,
And giving Moses half the time, and half the time to shopping.
And so our anniversary week—it an undoubted fact is—
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And, gathering all our interests that yearly have collected,
Boston becomes Jerusalem by centuries perfected;
And like the shoe of the Wandering Jew, by Eugene Sue created,
Whose seven hob-nails impressed the snow o'er which he peregrinated,
These seven days on Time's broad plain make evident impression,
And this, most lasting of them all, by social joy's possession.
We leave our burdens at the door, and enter, warm and glowing,
As Bunyan's “Pilgrim” cast his pack, and find it, “better going:”—
Burdens of every weight and form that plague the genus human,
As discipline or ballast, borne by every man and woman.
And what a pile they make! There's home, with cares of mighty meaning—
The cares of summer dress-making, of cooking or of cleaning;
The care of politics, that claims each patriot's attention,
And leads him through mysterious ways, too numerous to mention;
The care of ardent temperance souls, who feel in purpose hearty,
But fear to act lest they, mayhap, should compromise their party;
The care of hiring pastors of immaculate pretension,
And building churches for their use of such sublime dimension,
That how to pay for them, becomes the hardest to determine,
And far more dues upon them rest than ever fell on Hermon;
The care of fashion, that controls with power the most provoking,
And influences everything, from preaching down to smoking—
That such controlling bias hath, over all men and women,
The human structure, grand, is made subordinate to trimmin',
And though admitting woman's wrongs—so many, Heaven bless her!—
Chivalric man don't clearly see how he can e'er redress her;
The care of trade's perplexities, and thinking where to borrow
The money that's to pay the note becoming due tomorrow!
I'll not look farther to disclose more than is here depicted,
Lest, haply, I should stumble over something interdicted.
There let cares lie until we leave, no festal feature marring,
For they are some like earthquakes, prone to cause unpleasant jarring;
We are better for the brief release, and then, when we are through it,
We'll dare the fight we are called to wage with better pluck to do it.
As Bunyan's “Pilgrim” cast his pack, and find it, “better going:”—
Burdens of every weight and form that plague the genus human,
As discipline or ballast, borne by every man and woman.
And what a pile they make! There's home, with cares of mighty meaning—
The cares of summer dress-making, of cooking or of cleaning;
The care of politics, that claims each patriot's attention,
And leads him through mysterious ways, too numerous to mention;
The care of ardent temperance souls, who feel in purpose hearty,
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The care of hiring pastors of immaculate pretension,
And building churches for their use of such sublime dimension,
That how to pay for them, becomes the hardest to determine,
And far more dues upon them rest than ever fell on Hermon;
The care of fashion, that controls with power the most provoking,
And influences everything, from preaching down to smoking—
That such controlling bias hath, over all men and women,
The human structure, grand, is made subordinate to trimmin',
And though admitting woman's wrongs—so many, Heaven bless her!—
Chivalric man don't clearly see how he can e'er redress her;
The care of trade's perplexities, and thinking where to borrow
The money that's to pay the note becoming due tomorrow!
I'll not look farther to disclose more than is here depicted,
Lest, haply, I should stumble over something interdicted.
There let cares lie until we leave, no festal feature marring,
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We are better for the brief release, and then, when we are through it,
We'll dare the fight we are called to wage with better pluck to do it.
We take not fellowship with those who are always sighing, whining,
Who have no word for thankfulness and twenty for repining,
Who cannot see in Nature's smiles for smiles of theirs excuses,
And turn the good seen everywhere to melancholy uses;
Could such come here and view with me this scene of happy faces,
'Twould warm their hearts, I know, to feel their cheer-imparting graces,
Beaming upon them like the sun, prompting a warm devotion,
And giving what the monarch craved so much—a new emotion.
Ours is, thank God! the cheerful heart, that holds not earth a prison,
Nor gropes within the tomb of joy for that which has arisen;
Heaven strews our path with cheerfulness, and gratefully we prize it,
As at this passover of soul we yearly realize it.
We have deep sympathy for such as cling to dogmas dismal,
Who smell, in all life's pleasant things, an atmosphere abysmal,
Who, with unhealthy fancies fraught, sigh o'er their neighbor's errors,
And see in all God's attributes no features but his terrors,—
Consigning those not of their fold to Satan's dark dominion,
While theirs shall pass the ordeal, and never scorch a pinion:
With tastes all warped to match their souls, by bigotry incrusted.
Well was it that to any such the earth was not intrusted—
To mould it and to decorate—there'd be no cheerful feature,
And mirth would be a tabooed thing in every living creature.
The trees and flowers would be of drab, the birds in sables winging,
And nought but dirges be allowed in all their native singing.
That robin there upon the tree, which wakes me from my slumbers,
Would tune his throat to other note and trill in dismal numbers.
The colts that frisk beside their dams would then repress their ambling,
And lambs would never be allowed to carry on their gamboling;
The joyous sea its sportive waves would hold in strict subjection,
And the glad sun would spend its rays in serious reflection.
Thank Heaven, the number is but few; the light of Truth, downpouring,
Has waked the sleepers in their caves, and set their spirits soaring;
The garb of stern theology is seedy grown and tattered,
And the solid shot of living Truth its citadel has shattered.
No more does difference of sect the status fix for sinners,
And those who do the right are right, and in the race are winners.
Who have no word for thankfulness and twenty for repining,
Who cannot see in Nature's smiles for smiles of theirs excuses,
And turn the good seen everywhere to melancholy uses;
Could such come here and view with me this scene of happy faces,
'Twould warm their hearts, I know, to feel their cheer-imparting graces,
Beaming upon them like the sun, prompting a warm devotion,
And giving what the monarch craved so much—a new emotion.
Ours is, thank God! the cheerful heart, that holds not earth a prison,
Nor gropes within the tomb of joy for that which has arisen;
Heaven strews our path with cheerfulness, and gratefully we prize it,
As at this passover of soul we yearly realize it.
129
Who smell, in all life's pleasant things, an atmosphere abysmal,
Who, with unhealthy fancies fraught, sigh o'er their neighbor's errors,
And see in all God's attributes no features but his terrors,—
Consigning those not of their fold to Satan's dark dominion,
While theirs shall pass the ordeal, and never scorch a pinion:
With tastes all warped to match their souls, by bigotry incrusted.
Well was it that to any such the earth was not intrusted—
To mould it and to decorate—there'd be no cheerful feature,
And mirth would be a tabooed thing in every living creature.
The trees and flowers would be of drab, the birds in sables winging,
And nought but dirges be allowed in all their native singing.
That robin there upon the tree, which wakes me from my slumbers,
Would tune his throat to other note and trill in dismal numbers.
The colts that frisk beside their dams would then repress their ambling,
130
The joyous sea its sportive waves would hold in strict subjection,
And the glad sun would spend its rays in serious reflection.
Thank Heaven, the number is but few; the light of Truth, downpouring,
Has waked the sleepers in their caves, and set their spirits soaring;
The garb of stern theology is seedy grown and tattered,
And the solid shot of living Truth its citadel has shattered.
No more does difference of sect the status fix for sinners,
And those who do the right are right, and in the race are winners.
Bless God for Joy!—it warms the breast and sets its tide to flowing,
As Spring unseals the vernal brooks, and wakes the grass to growing;
Each smile a message from the soul, with joy's effulgence shining,
Is prayer and worship unexpressed, that need no word-defining;
And upward, onward, moving e'er, accretive force receiving,
The cheerful soul exemplifies the true “joy of believing.”
As Spring unseals the vernal brooks, and wakes the grass to growing;
Each smile a message from the soul, with joy's effulgence shining,
Is prayer and worship unexpressed, that need no word-defining;
And upward, onward, moving e'er, accretive force receiving,
The cheerful soul exemplifies the true “joy of believing.”
| Lines in Pleasant Places | |