[Poems by Paulding in] Salmagundi ; or, the whim-whams and opinions of Launcelot Langstaff, Esq. and others . A new and improved edition, with tables of contents and a copious index |
 | 1. |
 | 2. | VOLUME II. |
 | [Poems by Paulding in] Salmagundi ; or, the whim-whams and opinions of Launcelot Langstaff, Esq. and others . |  |
254
2. VOLUME II.
315
FROM THE MILL OF PINDAR COCKLOFT, ESQ.
How often I cast my reflections behind,
And call up the days of past youth to my mind!
When folly assails in habiliments new,
When fashion obtrudes some fresh whim-wham to view;
When the foplings of fashion bedazzle my sight,
Bewilder my feelings—my senses benight;
I retreat in disgust from the world of to day,
To commune with the world that has moulder'd away;
To converse with the shades of those friends of my love,
Long gather'd in peace to the angels above.
And call up the days of past youth to my mind!
When folly assails in habiliments new,
When fashion obtrudes some fresh whim-wham to view;
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Bewilder my feelings—my senses benight;
I retreat in disgust from the world of to day,
To commune with the world that has moulder'd away;
To converse with the shades of those friends of my love,
Long gather'd in peace to the angels above.
In my rambles through life should I meet with annoy,
From the bold beardless stripling—the turbid pert boy,
One rear'd in the mode lately reckon'd genteel,
Which neglecting the head, aims to perfect the heel;
Which completes the sweet fopling while yet in his teens
And fits him for fashion's light changeable scenes;
Proclaims him a man to the near and the far,
Can he dance a cotilion or smoke a cygarr;
And though brainless and vapid as vapid can be,
To routs and to parties pronounces him free:—
Oh, I think on the beaux that existed of yore,
On those rules of the ton that exist now no more!
From the bold beardless stripling—the turbid pert boy,
One rear'd in the mode lately reckon'd genteel,
Which neglecting the head, aims to perfect the heel;
Which completes the sweet fopling while yet in his teens
And fits him for fashion's light changeable scenes;
Proclaims him a man to the near and the far,
Can he dance a cotilion or smoke a cygarr;
And though brainless and vapid as vapid can be,
To routs and to parties pronounces him free:—
Oh, I think on the beaux that existed of yore,
On those rules of the ton that exist now no more!
I recall with delight how each yonker at first
In the cradle of science and virtue was nursed:
—How the graces of person and graces of mind,
The polish of learning and fashion combined,
Till softened in manners and strengthen'd in head,
By the classical lore of the living and dead,
Matured in his person till manly in size,
He then was presented a beau to our eyes!
In the cradle of science and virtue was nursed:
—How the graces of person and graces of mind,
The polish of learning and fashion combined,
Till softened in manners and strengthen'd in head,
By the classical lore of the living and dead,
Matured in his person till manly in size,
He then was presented a beau to our eyes!
My nieces of late have made frequent complaint
That they suffer vexation and painful constraint,
By having their circles too often distrest
By some three or four goslings just fledged from the nest
Who propp'd by the credit their fathers sustain,
Alike tender in years and in person and brain
But plenteously stock'd with that substitute brass,
For true wits and critics would anxiously pass.
They complain of that empty sarcastical slang,
So common to all the coxcombical gang,
Who the fair with their shallow experience vex,
By thrumming forever their weakness of sex;
And who boast of themselves, when they talk with proud air,
Of Man's mental ascendancy over the fair.
That they suffer vexation and painful constraint,
By having their circles too often distrest
By some three or four goslings just fledged from the nest
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Alike tender in years and in person and brain
But plenteously stock'd with that substitute brass,
For true wits and critics would anxiously pass.
They complain of that empty sarcastical slang,
So common to all the coxcombical gang,
Who the fair with their shallow experience vex,
By thrumming forever their weakness of sex;
And who boast of themselves, when they talk with proud air,
Of Man's mental ascendancy over the fair.
Twas thus the young owlet produced in the nest,
Where the eagle of Jove her young eaglets had prest,
Pretended to boast of his royal descent,
And vaunted that force which to eagles is lent.
Though fated to shun with his dim visual ray,
The cheering delights and the brilliance of day;
To forsake the fair regions of æther and light,
For dull moping caverns of darkness and night:
Still talk'd of that eagle-like strength of the eye,
Which approaches unwinking the pride of the sky,
Of that wing which unwearied can hover and play
In the noon tide effulgence and torrent of day.
Where the eagle of Jove her young eaglets had prest,
Pretended to boast of his royal descent,
And vaunted that force which to eagles is lent.
Though fated to shun with his dim visual ray,
The cheering delights and the brilliance of day;
To forsake the fair regions of æther and light,
For dull moping caverns of darkness and night:
Still talk'd of that eagle-like strength of the eye,
Which approaches unwinking the pride of the sky,
Of that wing which unwearied can hover and play
In the noon tide effulgence and torrent of day.
Dear girls the sad evils of which ye complain
Your sex must endure from the feeble and vain.
Tis the common place jest of the nursery scape-goat,
Tis the common place ballad that croaks from his throat:
He knows not that nature—that polish decrees,
That women should always endeavor to please:
That the law of their system has early imprest
The importance of sitting themselves to each guest;
And, of course, that full oft when ye trifle and play.
'Tis to gratify triflers who strut in your way.
The child might as well of its mother complain,
As wanting true wisdom and soundness of brain;
Because that, at times, while it hangs on her breast,
She with “lulla-by-baby” beguiles it to rest.
Tis its weakness of mind that induces the strain,
For wisdom to infants is prattled in vain.
Your sex must endure from the feeble and vain.
Tis the common place jest of the nursery scape-goat,
Tis the common place ballad that croaks from his throat:
He knows not that nature—that polish decrees,
That women should always endeavor to please:
That the law of their system has early imprest
The importance of sitting themselves to each guest;
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'Tis to gratify triflers who strut in your way.
The child might as well of its mother complain,
As wanting true wisdom and soundness of brain;
Because that, at times, while it hangs on her breast,
She with “lulla-by-baby” beguiles it to rest.
Tis its weakness of mind that induces the strain,
For wisdom to infants is prattled in vain.
Tis true at odd t'mes, when in frolicksome fit,
In the midst of his gambols, the mischievous wit
May start some light foible that clings to the fair
Like cobwebs that fasten to objects most rare.—
In the play of his fancy will sportively say
Some delicate censure that pops in his way
He may smile at your fashions, and frankly express
His dislike of a dance, or a flaming red dress;
Yet he blames not your want of man's physical force,
Nor complain though ye cannot in latin discourse.
He delights in the language of nature ye speak,
Though not so refined as true classical greek.
He remembers that providence never design'd
Our females like suns to bewilder and blind;
But like the mild orb of pale evening serene,
Whose radiance illumines, yet softens the scene.
To light us with and welcoming ray,
Along the rude path when the sun is away.
In the midst of his gambols, the mischievous wit
May start some light foible that clings to the fair
Like cobwebs that fasten to objects most rare.—
In the play of his fancy will sportively say
Some delicate censure that pops in his way
He may smile at your fashions, and frankly express
His dislike of a dance, or a flaming red dress;
Yet he blames not your want of man's physical force,
Nor complain though ye cannot in latin discourse.
He delights in the language of nature ye speak,
Though not so refined as true classical greek.
He remembers that providence never design'd
Our females like suns to bewilder and blind;
But like the mild orb of pale evening serene,
Whose radiance illumines, yet softens the scene.
To light us with and welcoming ray,
Along the rude path when the sun is away.
I own in my scribblings I lately have named
Some faults of our fair which I gently have blamed,
But be it forever by all understood
My censures were only pronounced for their good
I delight in the sex, tis the pride of my mind
To consider them gentle, endearing, refined;
As our solace below in the journey of life,
To smooth its rough passes;—to soften its strife
As objects intended our joys to supply,
And to lead us in love to the temples on high
How oft have I felt, when two lucid blue eyes.
As calm and as bright as the gems of the skies,
Have beam'd their soft radiance into my soul,
Impress'd with an awe like an angel's control!
Some faults of our fair which I gently have blamed,
But be it forever by all understood
My censures were only pronounced for their good
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To consider them gentle, endearing, refined;
As our solace below in the journey of life,
To smooth its rough passes;—to soften its strife
As objects intended our joys to supply,
And to lead us in love to the temples on high
How oft have I felt, when two lucid blue eyes.
As calm and as bright as the gems of the skies,
Have beam'd their soft radiance into my soul,
Impress'd with an awe like an angel's control!
Yes, fair ones, by this is forever defined
The fop from the man of refinement and mind;
The latter believes ye in bounty were given
As a bond upon earth of our union with heaven
And if ye are weak, and are frail, in his view
Tis to call forth fresh warmth and his fondness renew
Tis his joy to support these defects of your frame,
And his love at your weakness redoubles its flame;
He rejoices the gem is so rich and so fair,
And is proud that it claims his protection and care.
The fop from the man of refinement and mind;
The latter believes ye in bounty were given
As a bond upon earth of our union with heaven
And if ye are weak, and are frail, in his view
Tis to call forth fresh warmth and his fondness renew
Tis his joy to support these defects of your frame,
And his love at your weakness redoubles its flame;
He rejoices the gem is so rich and so fair,
And is proud that it claims his protection and care.
513
TEA, A POEM.
FROM THE MILL OF PINDAR COCKLOFT, ESQ. and earnestly recommended to the attention of all maidens of a certain age.
Old time, my dear girls, is a knave who in truth
From the fairest of beauties will pilfer their youth;
Who, by constant attention and wily deceit,
For ever is coaxing some grace to retreat;
And, like crafty seducer, with subtle approach,
The further indulged, will still further encroach.
Since this “thief of the world” has made off with your bloom,
And left you some score of stale years in its room—
Has deprived you of all those gay dreams, that would dance
In your brains at fifteen, and your bosoms entrance;
And has forced you almost to renounce in despair
The hope of a husband's affection and care—
Since such is the case, and a case rather hard!
Permit one who holds you in special regard,
To furnish such hints in your loveless estate
As may shelter your names from distraction and hate.
Too often our maidens, grown aged, I ween,
Indulge to excess in the workings of spleen;
And at times, when annoyed by the lights of mankind.
Work off their resentment—by speaking their mind
Assemble together in snuff taking clan,
And hold round the tea-urn a solemn divan.
A convention of tattling—a tea party hight,
Which, like meeting of witches, is brewed up at night:
Where each matron arrives, fraught with tales of surprize,
With knowing suspicion and doubtful surmize;
Like the broomstick whirl'd hags that appear in Macbeth,
Each bearing some relic of venom or death,
“To stir up the toil and to double the trouble,
That fire may burn, and that cauldon may bubble.”
From the fairest of beauties will pilfer their youth;
Who, by constant attention and wily deceit,
For ever is coaxing some grace to retreat;
And, like crafty seducer, with subtle approach,
The further indulged, will still further encroach.
Since this “thief of the world” has made off with your bloom,
And left you some score of stale years in its room—
Has deprived you of all those gay dreams, that would dance
In your brains at fifteen, and your bosoms entrance;
And has forced you almost to renounce in despair
The hope of a husband's affection and care—
514
Permit one who holds you in special regard,
To furnish such hints in your loveless estate
As may shelter your names from distraction and hate.
Too often our maidens, grown aged, I ween,
Indulge to excess in the workings of spleen;
And at times, when annoyed by the lights of mankind.
Work off their resentment—by speaking their mind
Assemble together in snuff taking clan,
And hold round the tea-urn a solemn divan.
A convention of tattling—a tea party hight,
Which, like meeting of witches, is brewed up at night:
Where each matron arrives, fraught with tales of surprize,
With knowing suspicion and doubtful surmize;
Like the broomstick whirl'd hags that appear in Macbeth,
Each bearing some relic of venom or death,
“To stir up the toil and to double the trouble,
That fire may burn, and that cauldon may bubble.”
When the party commences, all starched and all glum,
They talk of the weather, their corns, or sit mum:
They will tell you of cambric, of ribands, of lace,
How cheap they were sold—and will name you the place.
They discourse of their colds, and they hem and they cough,
And complain of their servants to pass the time off;
Or list to the tale of some doating mamma
How her ten weeks old baby will laugh and say taa!
They talk of the weather, their corns, or sit mum:
They will tell you of cambric, of ribands, of lace,
How cheap they were sold—and will name you the place.
They discourse of their colds, and they hem and they cough,
And complain of their servants to pass the time off;
Or list to the tale of some doating mamma
How her ten weeks old baby will laugh and say taa!
515
But tea, that enlivener of wit and of soul—
More loquacious by far than the draughts of the bowl,
Soon unloosens the tongue and enlivens the mind,
And enlightens their eyes to the faults of mankind.
More loquacious by far than the draughts of the bowl,
Soon unloosens the tongue and enlivens the mind,
And enlightens their eyes to the faults of mankind.
Twas thus with the Pythia, who served at the fount
That flowed near the far famed parnassian mount,
While the steam was inhaled of the sulphuric spring.
Her vision expanded, her fancy took wing;—
By its aid she pronounced the oracular will
That Apollo commanded his sons to fulfil.
But alas! the sad vestal, performing the rite,
Appeared like a demon—terrific to sight.
E'en the priests of Apollo averted their eyes,
And the temple of Delphi resounded her cries.
But quitting the nymph of the tripod of yore,
We return to the dames of the tea-pot once more.
That flowed near the far famed parnassian mount,
While the steam was inhaled of the sulphuric spring.
Her vision expanded, her fancy took wing;—
By its aid she pronounced the oracular will
That Apollo commanded his sons to fulfil.
But alas! the sad vestal, performing the rite,
Appeared like a demon—terrific to sight.
E'en the priests of Apollo averted their eyes,
And the temple of Delphi resounded her cries.
But quitting the nymph of the tripod of yore,
We return to the dames of the tea-pot once more.
In harmless chit-chat an acquaintance they roast,
And serve up a friend, as they serve up a toast;
Some gentle faux pas, or some female mistake,
Is like sweetmeats delicious, or relished as cake;
A bit of broad scandal is like a dry crust,
It would stick in the throat, so they butter it first
With a little affected good-nature, and cry
“No body regrets the thing deeper than I.”
Our young ladies nibble a good name in play
As for pastime they nibble a biscuit away:
While with shrugs and surmises, the toothless old dame.
As she mumbles a crust she will mumble a name.
And as the fell sisters astonished the scot,
In predicting of Banque's descendants the lot,
Making shadows of kings, amid flashes of light,
To appear in array and to frown in his sight,
So they conjure up spectres all hideous in hue,
Which, as shades of their neighbors, are passed in review.
And serve up a friend, as they serve up a toast;
Some gentle faux pas, or some female mistake,
Is like sweetmeats delicious, or relished as cake;
A bit of broad scandal is like a dry crust,
It would stick in the throat, so they butter it first
With a little affected good-nature, and cry
“No body regrets the thing deeper than I.”
Our young ladies nibble a good name in play
As for pastime they nibble a biscuit away:
While with shrugs and surmises, the toothless old dame.
As she mumbles a crust she will mumble a name.
And as the fell sisters astonished the scot,
In predicting of Banque's descendants the lot,
516
To appear in array and to frown in his sight,
So they conjure up spectres all hideous in hue,
Which, as shades of their neighbors, are passed in review.
The wives of our cits of inferior degree,
Will soak up repute in a little bohea;
The potion is vulgar, and vulgar the slang
With which on their neighbors' defects they harangue;
But the scandal improves, a refinement in wrong!
As our matrons are richer and rise to souchong.
With hyson—a beverage that's still more refined,
Our ladies of fashion enliven their mind,
And by nods, inuendoes, and hints, and what not,
Reputations and tea send together to pot.
While madam in cambrics and laces arrayed,
With her plate and her liveries in splendid parade,
Will drink in imperial a friend at a sup,
Or in gunpowder blow them by dozens all up.
Ah me! how I groan when with full swelling sail
Wafted stately along by the favoring gale,
A China ship proudly arrives in our bay,
Displaying her streamers and blazing away.
Oh! more fell to our port, is the cargo she bears,
Than grenadoes, torpedoes, or warlike affairs:
Each chest is a bombshell thrown into our town
To shatter repute and bring character down.
Will soak up repute in a little bohea;
The potion is vulgar, and vulgar the slang
With which on their neighbors' defects they harangue;
But the scandal improves, a refinement in wrong!
As our matrons are richer and rise to souchong.
With hyson—a beverage that's still more refined,
Our ladies of fashion enliven their mind,
And by nods, inuendoes, and hints, and what not,
Reputations and tea send together to pot.
While madam in cambrics and laces arrayed,
With her plate and her liveries in splendid parade,
Will drink in imperial a friend at a sup,
Or in gunpowder blow them by dozens all up.
Ah me! how I groan when with full swelling sail
Wafted stately along by the favoring gale,
A China ship proudly arrives in our bay,
Displaying her streamers and blazing away.
Oh! more fell to our port, is the cargo she bears,
Than grenadoes, torpedoes, or warlike affairs:
Each chest is a bombshell thrown into our town
To shatter repute and bring character down.
Ye Samquas, ye Chinquas, ye Chouquas, so free,
Who discharge on our coast your cursed quantums of tea,
Oh think, as ye waft the sad weed from your strand,
Of the plagues and vexations ye deal to our land.
As the Upas' dread breath, o'er the plain where it flies
Empoisons and blasts each green blade that may rise,
So, wherever the leaves of your shrub find their way,
The social affections soon suffer decay:
Like to Java's drear waste they embarren the heart,
Till the blossoms of love and of friendship depart.
Who discharge on our coast your cursed quantums of tea,
517
Of the plagues and vexations ye deal to our land.
As the Upas' dread breath, o'er the plain where it flies
Empoisons and blasts each green blade that may rise,
So, wherever the leaves of your shrub find their way,
The social affections soon suffer decay:
Like to Java's drear waste they embarren the heart,
Till the blossoms of love and of friendship depart.
Ah, ladies, and was it by heaven design'd,
That ye should be merciful, loving and kind!
Did it form you like angels, and send you below
To prophesy peace—to bid charity flow!
And have ye thus left your primeval estate,
And wandered so widely—so strangely of late?
Alas! the sad cause I too plainly can see—
These evils have all come upon you through tea!
Cursed weed that can make our fair spirits resign
The character mild of their mission divine;
That can blot from their bosoms that tenderness true;
Which from female to female forever is due!
Oh how nice is the texture—how fragile the frame
Of that delicate blossom, a female's fair fame!
Tis the sensitive plant, it recoils from the breath
And shrinks from the touch as if pregnant with death.
How often, how often, has innocence sigh'd;
Has beauty been rest of its honor—its pride;
Has virtue, though pure as an angel of light,
Been painted as dark as a demon of night:
All offer'd up victims, an auto de fe,
At the gloomy cabals—the dark orgies of tea?
That ye should be merciful, loving and kind!
Did it form you like angels, and send you below
To prophesy peace—to bid charity flow!
And have ye thus left your primeval estate,
And wandered so widely—so strangely of late?
Alas! the sad cause I too plainly can see—
These evils have all come upon you through tea!
Cursed weed that can make our fair spirits resign
The character mild of their mission divine;
That can blot from their bosoms that tenderness true;
Which from female to female forever is due!
Oh how nice is the texture—how fragile the frame
Of that delicate blossom, a female's fair fame!
Tis the sensitive plant, it recoils from the breath
And shrinks from the touch as if pregnant with death.
How often, how often, has innocence sigh'd;
Has beauty been rest of its honor—its pride;
Has virtue, though pure as an angel of light,
Been painted as dark as a demon of night:
All offer'd up victims, an auto de fe,
At the gloomy cabals—the dark orgies of tea?
518
If I, in the remnant that's left me of life,
Am to suffer the torments of slanderous strife,
Let me fall I implore in the slang-whangers claw,
Where the evil is open, and subject to law.
Not nibbled and mumbled and put to the rack
By the sly underminings of tea party clack:
Condemn me, ye gods, to a newspaper roasting,
But spare me! oh spare me a tea table toasting!
Am to suffer the torments of slanderous strife,
Let me fall I implore in the slang-whangers claw,
Where the evil is open, and subject to law.
Not nibbled and mumbled and put to the rack
By the sly underminings of tea party clack:
Condemn me, ye gods, to a newspaper roasting,
But spare me! oh spare me a tea table toasting!
| [Poems by Paulding in] Salmagundi ; or, the whim-whams and opinions of Launcelot Langstaff, Esq. and others . | |