 | The harp and plow |  |
162
EPISTLE
TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ADDRESS, “TO THE ‘PEASANT BARD,’ MOUNTED ON PEGASUS, AND TUNING HIS LYRE.”
June 23, 1850.
Last evening, seated in my door,
(Day in the cornfield being o'er,)
I took the ‘Rambler’ to explore
Its pages fair,
And note what news the week before
Was fresh and rare.
(Day in the cornfield being o'er,)
I took the ‘Rambler’ to explore
Its pages fair,
And note what news the week before
Was fresh and rare.
But thirst for news the moment fled,
That I your kind address had read;
Visions of laurels round my head
Uprose in place.
(How vanity, by flattery led,
Will stalk apace!)
That I your kind address had read;
Visions of laurels round my head
Uprose in place.
(How vanity, by flattery led,
Will stalk apace!)
But no; you're not accused by me
Of using fulsome flattery;
Of something more like sympathy
It seems to savor;
So blow your granite whistle free,
Sans fear, sans favor.
Of using fulsome flattery;
Of something more like sympathy
It seems to savor;
So blow your granite whistle free,
Sans fear, sans favor.
163
That ‘winged beast’ that I bestride
Must go free-will, if I would ride;
He'll bear no spur or whip o'er hide
To urge him faster;
Indeed, I ne'er could quite decide
Which was the master.
Must go free-will, if I would ride;
He'll bear no spur or whip o'er hide
To urge him faster;
Indeed, I ne'er could quite decide
Which was the master.
For when upon his back I spring
To urge him,—he 's another thing;
Not from a feather of his wing
The dust he'll shake;
That ‘lyre’ is tuneless,—not a string
Will music make.
To urge him,—he 's another thing;
Not from a feather of his wing
The dust he'll shake;
That ‘lyre’ is tuneless,—not a string
Will music make.
Then off I get, his halter slip,
Bring down the lyre, thwack! o'er his hip,
And cry, begone! you lazy rip!
Stupid and sullen!
And off he is with pendent lip
Munching a mullen.
Bring down the lyre, thwack! o'er his hip,
And cry, begone! you lazy rip!
Stupid and sullen!
And off he is with pendent lip
Munching a mullen.
No more your bardship minds him then,
Till, lo! anon he comes again
With head erect and flowing mane,
And eyes a-glowing;
And presto, over hill and plain
We're soaring, going.
Till, lo! anon he comes again
With head erect and flowing mane,
And eyes a-glowing;
And presto, over hill and plain
We're soaring, going.
164
Though puffed with praise, or starved so lean
By cold neglect, his ribs be seen,
Jockies shall never call him mean
Amongst the mighty;
I would not ‘swap’ him—no, not e'en
For Zack's ‘old Whitey.’
By cold neglect, his ribs be seen,
Jockies shall never call him mean
Amongst the mighty;
I would not ‘swap’ him—no, not e'en
For Zack's ‘old Whitey.’
And now, one word about your ‘prayer;’
I 've stated matters as they are;
Such as he is I cannot spare
My beast of story;
The ‘Peasant Bard’ he yet must bear
To realms of glory!
I 've stated matters as they are;
Such as he is I cannot spare
My beast of story;
The ‘Peasant Bard’ he yet must bear
To realms of glory!
But this I give you,—note it well:
Hard by Parnassus one may dwell
And learn to poise a sounding shell,
Or tune a lyre,
But nature's God must give the spell—
The sacred fire.
Hard by Parnassus one may dwell
And learn to poise a sounding shell,
Or tune a lyre,
But nature's God must give the spell—
The sacred fire.
| The harp and plow | |