 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
THE IRON-BARRED PHILOSOPHER.
While rummaging on yesterday within a lumber closet,
Which for a year had been a place of general deposit,
Where various odds and ends that will accumulate in households,
Had been together thrown to make nice vermin-dens and mouse-holes,
Amid the heterogeneous mass whose uses once could none bar,
I found a rusted gridiron, which had lost three legs and one bar.
Which for a year had been a place of general deposit,
Where various odds and ends that will accumulate in households,
Had been together thrown to make nice vermin-dens and mouse-holes,
Amid the heterogeneous mass whose uses once could none bar,
I found a rusted gridiron, which had lost three legs and one bar.
Now there is naught in such a thing, in general, to recall to
The mind the past, or furnish one a metal feast to fall to;
But with this worn-out implement there were associations,
To wake the sense of pleasant hours and pleasanter sensations;
And memory running gaily in, without my having sought it,
Recalled the poor thing's history from the day that I had bought it.
The mind the past, or furnish one a metal feast to fall to;
But with this worn-out implement there were associations,
To wake the sense of pleasant hours and pleasanter sensations;
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Recalled the poor thing's history from the day that I had bought it.
And then I thought of steaks it cooked, of juicy chops and tender,
Of young spring chickens unto which all appetites surrender;
And deep remorse within me rose to think that this utensil,
Which oft had ministered to me had met with recompense ill;
When to my great surprise—so much, a child could me have knocked o'er—
It winked the eye in its handle, saying—“Listen to me, Doctor!”
Of young spring chickens unto which all appetites surrender;
And deep remorse within me rose to think that this utensil,
Which oft had ministered to me had met with recompense ill;
When to my great surprise—so much, a child could me have knocked o'er—
It winked the eye in its handle, saying—“Listen to me, Doctor!”
I'd heard of Balaam's ass who spoke; of swans who sang when dying;
Of fish, in the Arabian tales, who spoke when they were frying—
(Or, being fried, whiche'er you choose) of Memnon's vocal statue;
Of frogs, who, pelted with a stone, would fling reproving at you;
Of Friar Bacon's brazen head, whose words struck foes of his dumb;
But never thought a gridiron would attempt to teach me wisdom.
Of fish, in the Arabian tales, who spoke when they were frying—
(Or, being fried, whiche'er you choose) of Memnon's vocal statue;
Of frogs, who, pelted with a stone, would fling reproving at you;
Of Friar Bacon's brazen head, whose words struck foes of his dumb;
But never thought a gridiron would attempt to teach me wisdom.
“You write, my friend, to please the mob,” my interlocutor said—
And as he spoke he shook his bars, and winked his eye aforesaid—
“The mob is your proprietor and cooks some mental diet
Upon the bars of your intellect; but you gain nothing by it.
The mob it polishes with rubs, whene'er it wants to use you,
Then hauls you roughly o'er the coals, to burn and to abuse you.
And as he spoke he shook his bars, and winked his eye aforesaid—
“The mob is your proprietor and cooks some mental diet
Upon the bars of your intellect; but you gain nothing by it.
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Then hauls you roughly o'er the coals, to burn and to abuse you.
“You think you're honored by the use, but there you'll change ideas—
This gridiron thought so once, but now a different notion he has—
You'll find when you are worn so much, your bars won't hold the juices
Which force themselves from out the food you cook for others' uses,
Though you, perchance, have furnished it good things in countless number,
The mob will throw you scornfully, among a heap of lumber.
This gridiron thought so once, but now a different notion he has—
You'll find when you are worn so much, your bars won't hold the juices
Which force themselves from out the food you cook for others' uses,
Though you, perchance, have furnished it good things in countless number,
The mob will throw you scornfully, among a heap of lumber.
“I know you have a living hope to do mankind some service,
And think to work in spite of foes, best way to show your nerve is;
That still you have ambition; you are proud to let each man see
You cook the steaks of argument and mutton-chops of fancy.
But, never mind! experience will do more than all my speeches,
Though, like the olden pedagogues, it birches while it teaches.
And think to work in spite of foes, best way to show your nerve is;
That still you have ambition; you are proud to let each man see
You cook the steaks of argument and mutton-chops of fancy.
But, never mind! experience will do more than all my speeches,
Though, like the olden pedagogues, it birches while it teaches.
“Be good and you'll be happy!” here the gridiron seemed to stutter,
And lose the thread of argument; but next I heard him mutter—
“One thing I must insist upon, however hot your life is,
The woes assailing out of doors, don't bring them where your wife is.
Domestic broils are terrible things, whoever first begun them;
You see how they have burned me up, and therefore do you shun them.”
And lose the thread of argument; but next I heard him mutter—
“One thing I must insist upon, however hot your life is,
The woes assailing out of doors, don't bring them where your wife is.
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You see how they have burned me up, and therefore do you shun them.”
He didn't say another word—the reason why was puzzling;
'Twas certainly no fear of me which utterance was muzzling;
But, to a bottle on a shelf, half hidden with the dirt, he
Pointed; 'twas labelled “Gin,” and dated—“Eighteen hundred and thirty;”
'Twas nearly empty;—more his words, if that had been about less;
But as it stood, some one was drunk—it was the gridiron doubtless.
'Twas certainly no fear of me which utterance was muzzling;
But, to a bottle on a shelf, half hidden with the dirt, he
Pointed; 'twas labelled “Gin,” and dated—“Eighteen hundred and thirty;”
'Twas nearly empty;—more his words, if that had been about less;
But as it stood, some one was drunk—it was the gridiron doubtless.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |