 | The poetical works of John Godfrey Saxe |  |
203
SATIRES.
PROGRESS.
A SATIRE.
In this, our happy and “progressive” age,
When all alike ambitious cares engage;
When beardless boys to sudden sages grow,
And “Miss” her nurse abandons for a beau;
When for their dogmas Non-Resistants fight,
When dunces lecture, and when dandies write;
When matrons, seized with oratoric pangs,
Give happy birth to masculine harangues,
And spinsters, trembling for the nation's fate,
Neglect their stockings to preserve the state;
When critic wits their brazen lustre shed
On golden authors whom they never read,
With parrot praise of “Roman grandeur” speak,
And in bad English eulogize the Greek;—
When facts like these no reprehension bring,
May not, uncensured, an Attorney sing?
In sooth he may; and though “unborn” to climb
Parnassus' heights, and “build the lofty rhyme,”
Though Flaccus fret, and warningly advise
That “middling verses gods and men despise,”
Yet will he sing, to Yankee license true,
In spite of Horace and “Minerva” too!
When all alike ambitious cares engage;
When beardless boys to sudden sages grow,
And “Miss” her nurse abandons for a beau;
When for their dogmas Non-Resistants fight,
When dunces lecture, and when dandies write;
When matrons, seized with oratoric pangs,
Give happy birth to masculine harangues,
And spinsters, trembling for the nation's fate,
Neglect their stockings to preserve the state;
When critic wits their brazen lustre shed
On golden authors whom they never read,
With parrot praise of “Roman grandeur” speak,
And in bad English eulogize the Greek;—
When facts like these no reprehension bring,
May not, uncensured, an Attorney sing?
In sooth he may; and though “unborn” to climb
Parnassus' heights, and “build the lofty rhyme,”
Though Flaccus fret, and warningly advise
That “middling verses gods and men despise,”
Yet will he sing, to Yankee license true,
In spite of Horace and “Minerva” too!
My theme is Progress,—never-tiring theme
Of prosing dullness, and poetic dream;
Beloved of Optimists, who still protest
Whatever happens, happens for the best;
Who prate of “evil” as a thing unknown,
A fancied color, or a seeming tone,
A vague chimera cherished by the dull,
The empty product of an emptier skull.
Expert logicians they!—to show at will,
By ill philosophy, that naught is ill!
Should some sly rogue, the city's constant curse,
Deplete your pocket and relieve your purse,
Or if, approaching with ill-omened tread,
Some bolder burglar break your house and head,
Hold, friend, thy rage! nay, let the rascal flee;
No evil has been done the world, or thee:
Here comes Philosophy will make it plain
Thy seeming loss is universal gain!
“Thy heap of gold was clearly grown too great,—
'T were best the poor should share thy large estate;
While misers gather, that the knaves should steal,
Is most conducive to the general weal;
Thus thieves the wrongs of avarice efface,
And stand the friends and stewards of the race;
Thus every moral ill but serves, in fact,
Some other equal ill to counteract.”
Sublime Philosophy!—benignant light!
Which sees in every pair of wrongs, a right;
Which finds no evil or in sin or pain,
And proves that decalogues are writ in vain!
Of prosing dullness, and poetic dream;
Beloved of Optimists, who still protest
Whatever happens, happens for the best;
Who prate of “evil” as a thing unknown,
A fancied color, or a seeming tone,
A vague chimera cherished by the dull,
The empty product of an emptier skull.
Expert logicians they!—to show at will,
By ill philosophy, that naught is ill!
Should some sly rogue, the city's constant curse,
Deplete your pocket and relieve your purse,
Or if, approaching with ill-omened tread,
Some bolder burglar break your house and head,
Hold, friend, thy rage! nay, let the rascal flee;
No evil has been done the world, or thee:
Here comes Philosophy will make it plain
Thy seeming loss is universal gain!
“Thy heap of gold was clearly grown too great,—
'T were best the poor should share thy large estate;
While misers gather, that the knaves should steal,
Is most conducive to the general weal;
Thus thieves the wrongs of avarice efface,
And stand the friends and stewards of the race;
Thus every moral ill but serves, in fact,
Some other equal ill to counteract.”
Sublime Philosophy!—benignant light!
Which sees in every pair of wrongs, a right;
Which finds no evil or in sin or pain,
And proves that decalogues are writ in vain!
Hail, mighty Progress! loftiest we find
Thy stalking strides in science of the mind.
What boots it now that Locke was learned and wise?
What boots it now that men have ears and eyes?
“Pure Reason” in their stead now hears and sees,
And walks apart in stately scorn of these;
Laughs at “experience,” spurns “induction” hence,
Scouting “the senses,” and transcending sense.
No more shall flippant ignorance inquire,
“If German breasts may feel poetic fire,”
Nor German dullness write ten folios full,
To show, for once, that Dutchmen are not dull.
For here Philosophy, acute, refined,
Sings all the marvels of the human mind
In strains so passing “dainty sweet” to hear,
That e'en the nursery turns a ravished ear!
Here Wit and Fancy in scholastic bowers
Twine beauteous wreaths of metaphysic flowers;
Here Speculation pours her dazzling light,
Here grand Invention wings a daring flight,
And soars ambitious to the lofty moon,
Whence, haply, freighted with some precious boon,
Some old “Philosophy” in fog incased,
Or new “Religion” for the changing taste,
She straight descends to Learning's blest abodes,
Just simultaneous with the Paris modes!
Here Plato's dogmas eloquently speak,
Not as of yore, in grand and graceful Greek,
But (quite beyond the dreaming sage's hope
Of future glory in his fancy's scope),
Translated down, as by some wizard touch,
Find “immortality” in good high Dutch!
Thy stalking strides in science of the mind.
What boots it now that Locke was learned and wise?
204
“Pure Reason” in their stead now hears and sees,
And walks apart in stately scorn of these;
Laughs at “experience,” spurns “induction” hence,
Scouting “the senses,” and transcending sense.
No more shall flippant ignorance inquire,
“If German breasts may feel poetic fire,”
Nor German dullness write ten folios full,
To show, for once, that Dutchmen are not dull.
For here Philosophy, acute, refined,
Sings all the marvels of the human mind
In strains so passing “dainty sweet” to hear,
That e'en the nursery turns a ravished ear!
Here Wit and Fancy in scholastic bowers
Twine beauteous wreaths of metaphysic flowers;
Here Speculation pours her dazzling light,
Here grand Invention wings a daring flight,
And soars ambitious to the lofty moon,
Whence, haply, freighted with some precious boon,
Some old “Philosophy” in fog incased,
Or new “Religion” for the changing taste,
She straight descends to Learning's blest abodes,
Just simultaneous with the Paris modes!
Here Plato's dogmas eloquently speak,
Not as of yore, in grand and graceful Greek,
But (quite beyond the dreaming sage's hope
Of future glory in his fancy's scope),
Translated down, as by some wizard touch,
Find “immortality” in good high Dutch!
Happy the youth, in this our golden age,
Condemned no more to con the prosy page
Of Locke and Bacon, antiquated fools,
Now justly banished from our moral schools.
By easier modes philosophy is taught,
Than through the medium of laborious thought.
Imagination kindly serves instead,
And saves the pupil many an aching head.
Room for the sages!—hither come a throng
Of blooming Platos trippingly along,
In dress how fitted to beguile the fair!
What intellectual, stately heads—of hair!
Hark to the Oracle!—to Wisdom's tone
Breathed in a fragrant zephyr of Cologne.
That boy in gloves, the leader of the van,
Talks of the “outer” and the “inner man,”
And knits his girlish brow in stout resolve
Some mountain-sized “idea” to “evolve.”
Delusive toil!—thus in their infant days,
When children mimic manly deeds in plays,
Long will they sit, and eager “bob for whale”
Within the ocean of a water-pail!
The next, whose looks unluckily reveal
The ears portentous that his locks conceal,
Prates of the “orbs” with such a knowing frown,
You deem he puffs some lithographic town
In Western wilds, where yet unbroken ranks
Of thrifty beavers build unchartered “banks,”
And prowling panthers occupy the lots
Adorned with churches on the paper plots!
Condemned no more to con the prosy page
Of Locke and Bacon, antiquated fools,
Now justly banished from our moral schools.
By easier modes philosophy is taught,
Than through the medium of laborious thought.
Imagination kindly serves instead,
And saves the pupil many an aching head.
Room for the sages!—hither come a throng
Of blooming Platos trippingly along,
In dress how fitted to beguile the fair!
What intellectual, stately heads—of hair!
Hark to the Oracle!—to Wisdom's tone
Breathed in a fragrant zephyr of Cologne.
That boy in gloves, the leader of the van,
Talks of the “outer” and the “inner man,”
And knits his girlish brow in stout resolve
Some mountain-sized “idea” to “evolve.”
Delusive toil!—thus in their infant days,
When children mimic manly deeds in plays,
Long will they sit, and eager “bob for whale”
Within the ocean of a water-pail!
The next, whose looks unluckily reveal
The ears portentous that his locks conceal,
Prates of the “orbs” with such a knowing frown,
You deem he puffs some lithographic town
In Western wilds, where yet unbroken ranks
Of thrifty beavers build unchartered “banks,”
And prowling panthers occupy the lots
Adorned with churches on the paper plots!
But ah! what suffering harp is this we hear?
What jarring sounds invade the wounded ear?
Who o'er the lyre a hand spasmodic flings,
And grinds harsh discord from the tortured strings?
The Sacred Muses, at the sound dismayed,
Retreat disordered to their native shade,
And Phœbus hastens to his high abode,
And Orpheus frowns to hear an “Orphic ode!”
What jarring sounds invade the wounded ear?
Who o'er the lyre a hand spasmodic flings,
And grinds harsh discord from the tortured strings?
The Sacred Muses, at the sound dismayed,
Retreat disordered to their native shade,
And Phœbus hastens to his high abode,
And Orpheus frowns to hear an “Orphic ode!”
205
“Talk not, ye jockeys, of the wondrous speed
That marks your Northern or your Southern steed;
See Progress fly o'er Education's course!
Not far-famed Derby owns a fleeter horse!
On rare Improvement's “short and easy” road,
How swift her flight to Learning's blest abode!
In other times—'t was many years ago—
The scholar's course was toilsome, rough, and slow:
The fair Humanities were sought in tears,
And came, the trophy of laborious years.
Now Learning's shrine each idle youth may seek,
And, spending there a shilling and a week,
(At lightest cost of study, cash, and lungs,)
Comes back, like Rumor, with a hundred tongues!
That marks your Northern or your Southern steed;
See Progress fly o'er Education's course!
Not far-famed Derby owns a fleeter horse!
On rare Improvement's “short and easy” road,
How swift her flight to Learning's blest abode!
In other times—'t was many years ago—
The scholar's course was toilsome, rough, and slow:
The fair Humanities were sought in tears,
And came, the trophy of laborious years.
Now Learning's shrine each idle youth may seek,
And, spending there a shilling and a week,
(At lightest cost of study, cash, and lungs,)
Comes back, like Rumor, with a hundred tongues!
What boots such progress, when the golden load
From heedless haste is lost upon the road?
When each great science, to the student's pace,
Stands like the wicket in a hurdle race,
Which to o'erleap is all the courser's mind,
And all his glory that 't is left behind!
From heedless haste is lost upon the road?
When each great science, to the student's pace,
Stands like the wicket in a hurdle race,
Which to o'erleap is all the courser's mind,
And all his glory that 't is left behind!
Nor less, O Progress, are thy newest rules
Enforced and honored in the “Ladies' School;”
Where Education, in its nobler sense,
Gives place to Learning's shallowest pretense;
Where hapless maids, in spite of wish or taste,
On vain “accomplishments” their moments waste;
By cruel parents here condemned to wrench
Their tender throats in mispronouncing French;
Here doomed to force, by unrelenting knocks,
Reluctant music from a tortured box;
Here taught, in inky shades and rigid lines,
To perpetrate equivocal “designs;”
“Drawings” that prove their title plainly true,
By showing nature “drawn,” and “quartered” too!
In ancient times, I 've heard my grandam tell,
Young maids were taught to read, and write, and spell;
(Neglected arts! once learned by rigid rules,
As prime essentials in the “common schools;”)
Well taught beside in many a useful art
To mend the manners and improve the heart;
Nor yet unskilled to turn the busy wheel,
To ply the shuttle, and to twirl the reel,
Could thrifty tasks with cheerful grace pursue,
Themselves “accomplished,” and their duties too.
Of tongues, each maiden had but one, 't is said,
(Enough, 't was thought, to serve a lady's head,)
But that was English,—great and glorious tongue,
That Chatham spoke, and Milton, Shakespeare, sung!
Let thoughts too idle to be fitly dressed
In sturdy Saxon be in French expressed;
Let lovers breathe Italian,—like, in sooth,
Its singers, soft, emasculate, and smooth;
But for a tongue whose ample powers embrace
Beauty and force, sublimity and grace,
Ornate or plain, harmonious, yet strong,
And formed alike for eloquence and song,
Give me the English,—aptest tongue to paint
A sage or dunce, a villain or a saint,
To spur the slothful, counsel the distressed,
To lash the oppressor, and to soothe the oppressed,
To lend fantastic Humor freest scope
To marshall all his laughter-moving troop,
Give Pathos power, and Fancy lightest wings,
And Wit his merriest whims and keenest stings!
Enforced and honored in the “Ladies' School;”
Where Education, in its nobler sense,
Gives place to Learning's shallowest pretense;
Where hapless maids, in spite of wish or taste,
On vain “accomplishments” their moments waste;
By cruel parents here condemned to wrench
Their tender throats in mispronouncing French;
Here doomed to force, by unrelenting knocks,
Reluctant music from a tortured box;
Here taught, in inky shades and rigid lines,
To perpetrate equivocal “designs;”
“Drawings” that prove their title plainly true,
By showing nature “drawn,” and “quartered” too!
In ancient times, I 've heard my grandam tell,
Young maids were taught to read, and write, and spell;
(Neglected arts! once learned by rigid rules,
As prime essentials in the “common schools;”)
Well taught beside in many a useful art
To mend the manners and improve the heart;
Nor yet unskilled to turn the busy wheel,
To ply the shuttle, and to twirl the reel,
Could thrifty tasks with cheerful grace pursue,
Themselves “accomplished,” and their duties too.
Of tongues, each maiden had but one, 't is said,
(Enough, 't was thought, to serve a lady's head,)
But that was English,—great and glorious tongue,
That Chatham spoke, and Milton, Shakespeare, sung!
Let thoughts too idle to be fitly dressed
In sturdy Saxon be in French expressed;
Let lovers breathe Italian,—like, in sooth,
Its singers, soft, emasculate, and smooth;
But for a tongue whose ample powers embrace
Beauty and force, sublimity and grace,
Ornate or plain, harmonious, yet strong,
And formed alike for eloquence and song,
Give me the English,—aptest tongue to paint
A sage or dunce, a villain or a saint,
To spur the slothful, counsel the distressed,
To lash the oppressor, and to soothe the oppressed,
To lend fantastic Humor freest scope
To marshall all his laughter-moving troop,
206
And Wit his merriest whims and keenest stings!
The march of Progress let the Muse explore
In pseudo-science and empiric lore.
O sacred Science! how art thou profaned,
When shallow quacks and vagrants, unrestrained,
Flaunt in thy robes, and vagabonds are known
To brawl thy name, who never wrote their own;
When crazy theorists their addled schemes
(Unseemly product of dyspeptic dreams)
Impute to thee!—as courtesans of yore
Their spurious bantlings left at Mars's door;
When each projector of a patent pill,
Or happy founder of a coffee-mill,
Invokes thine aid to celebrate his wares,
And crown with gold his philanthropic cares;
Thus Islam's hawkers piously proclaim
Their figs and pippins in the Prophet's name!
In pseudo-science and empiric lore.
O sacred Science! how art thou profaned,
When shallow quacks and vagrants, unrestrained,
Flaunt in thy robes, and vagabonds are known
To brawl thy name, who never wrote their own;
When crazy theorists their addled schemes
(Unseemly product of dyspeptic dreams)
Impute to thee!—as courtesans of yore
Their spurious bantlings left at Mars's door;
When each projector of a patent pill,
Or happy founder of a coffee-mill,
Invokes thine aid to celebrate his wares,
And crown with gold his philanthropic cares;
Thus Islam's hawkers piously proclaim
Their figs and pippins in the Prophet's name!
Some sage Physician, studious to advance
The art of healing, and its praise enhance,
By observation “scientific” finds
(What else were hidden from inferior minds)
That Water 's useful in a thousand ways,
To cherish health, and lengthen out our days;
A mighty solvent in its simple scope
And quite “specific” with Castilian soap!
The doctor's labors let the thoughtless scorn,
See! a new “science” to the world is born;
“Disease is dirt! all pain the patient feels
Is but the soiling of the vital wheels;
To wash away all particles impure,
And cleanse the system, plainly is to cure!”
Thus shouts the doctor, eloquent, and proud
To teach his “science” to the gaping crowd;
Like “Father Mathew,” eager to allure
Afflicted mortals to his “water-cure!”
The art of healing, and its praise enhance,
By observation “scientific” finds
(What else were hidden from inferior minds)
That Water 's useful in a thousand ways,
To cherish health, and lengthen out our days;
A mighty solvent in its simple scope
And quite “specific” with Castilian soap!
The doctor's labors let the thoughtless scorn,
See! a new “science” to the world is born;
“Disease is dirt! all pain the patient feels
Is but the soiling of the vital wheels;
To wash away all particles impure,
And cleanse the system, plainly is to cure!”
Thus shouts the doctor, eloquent, and proud
To teach his “science” to the gaping crowd;
Like “Father Mathew,” eager to allure
Afflicted mortals to his “water-cure!”
'T is thus that modern “sciences” are made,
By bold assumption, puffing, and parade.
Take three stale “truths;” a dozen “facts,” assumed;
Two known “effects,” and fifty more presumed;
“Affinities” a score, to sense unknown,
And, just as “lucus, non lucendo” shown,
Add but a name of pompous Anglo-Greek,
And only not impossible to speak,
The work is done; a “science” stands confest,
And countless welcomes greet the queenly guest.
By bold assumption, puffing, and parade.
Take three stale “truths;” a dozen “facts,” assumed;
Two known “effects,” and fifty more presumed;
“Affinities” a score, to sense unknown,
And, just as “lucus, non lucendo” shown,
Add but a name of pompous Anglo-Greek,
And only not impossible to speak,
The work is done; a “science” stands confest,
And countless welcomes greet the queenly guest.
In closest girdle, O reluctant Muse,
In scantiest skirts, and lightest-stepping shoes,
Prepare to follow Fashion's gay advance,
And thread the mazes of her motley dance:
And, marking well each momentary hue,
And transient form, that meets the wondering view,
In kindred colors, gentle Muse, essay
Her Protean phases fitly to betray.
To-day, she slowly drags a cumbrous trail,
And “Ton” rejoices in its length of tail;
To-morrow, changing her capricious sport,
She trims her flounces just as much too short;
To-day, right jauntily, a hat she wears
That scarce affords a shelter to her ears;
To-morrow, haply, searching long in vain,
You spy her features down a Leghorn lane;
To-day, she glides along with queenly grace,
To-morrow, ambles in a mincing pace.
To-day, erect, she loves a martial air,
And envious train-bands emulate the fair;
To-morrow, changing as her whim may serve,
“She stoops to conquer” in a “Grecian curve.”
With stooping shoulders, and a cinctured waist.
To-day, with careful negligence arrayed
In scanty folds, of woven zephyrs made,
She moves like Dian in her woody bowers,
Or Flora floating o'er a bed of flowers;
To-morrow, laden with a motley freight,
Of startling bulk and formidable weight,
She waddles forth, ambitious to amaze
The vulgar crowd, who giggle as they gaze.
In scantiest skirts, and lightest-stepping shoes,
Prepare to follow Fashion's gay advance,
And thread the mazes of her motley dance:
And, marking well each momentary hue,
And transient form, that meets the wondering view,
In kindred colors, gentle Muse, essay
Her Protean phases fitly to betray.
To-day, she slowly drags a cumbrous trail,
And “Ton” rejoices in its length of tail;
To-morrow, changing her capricious sport,
She trims her flounces just as much too short;
To-day, right jauntily, a hat she wears
That scarce affords a shelter to her ears;
To-morrow, haply, searching long in vain,
You spy her features down a Leghorn lane;
To-day, she glides along with queenly grace,
To-morrow, ambles in a mincing pace.
To-day, erect, she loves a martial air,
And envious train-bands emulate the fair;
To-morrow, changing as her whim may serve,
207
Terence, who wrote comedies a little more than two thousand years ago, thus alludes to this and a kindred custom then prevalent among the Roman girls:—
“Virgines, quas matres student Demissis humeris esse, vincto corpore, ut graciles fiant.”
The sense of the passage may be given in English, with sufficient accuracy, thus:—
Maidens, whom fond maternal care has gracedWith stooping shoulders, and a cinctured waist.
To-day, with careful negligence arrayed
In scanty folds, of woven zephyrs made,
She moves like Dian in her woody bowers,
Or Flora floating o'er a bed of flowers;
To-morrow, laden with a motley freight,
Of startling bulk and formidable weight,
She waddles forth, ambitious to amaze
The vulgar crowd, who giggle as they gaze.
Despotic Fashion! potent is her sway,
Whom half the world full loyally obey;
Kings bow submissive to her stern decrees,
And proud Republics bend their necks and knees;
Where'er we turn the attentive eye, is seen
The worshiped presence of the modish queen;
In Dress, Philosophy, Religion, Art,
Whate'er employs the head, or hand, or heart.
Whom half the world full loyally obey;
Kings bow submissive to her stern decrees,
And proud Republics bend their necks and knees;
Where'er we turn the attentive eye, is seen
The worshiped presence of the modish queen;
In Dress, Philosophy, Religion, Art,
Whate'er employs the head, or hand, or heart.
Is some fine lady quite o'ercome with woes,
From an unyielding pimple on her nose,
Some unaccustomed “buzzing in her ears,”
Or other marvel to alarm her fears?
Fashion, with skill and judgment ever nice,
At once advises “medical advice!”
Then names her doctor, who, arrived in haste,
Proceeds accordant with the laws oi taste.
If real ills afflict the modish dame,
Her blind idolatry is still the same;
Less grievous far, she deems it, to endure
Genteel malpractice, than a vulgar cure.
If, spite of gilded pills and golden fees,
Her dear dyspepsia grows a dire disease,
And Doctor Dapper proves a shallow rogue,
The world must own that both were much in vogue.
From an unyielding pimple on her nose,
Some unaccustomed “buzzing in her ears,”
Or other marvel to alarm her fears?
Fashion, with skill and judgment ever nice,
At once advises “medical advice!”
Then names her doctor, who, arrived in haste,
Proceeds accordant with the laws oi taste.
If real ills afflict the modish dame,
Her blind idolatry is still the same;
Less grievous far, she deems it, to endure
Genteel malpractice, than a vulgar cure.
If, spite of gilded pills and golden fees,
Her dear dyspepsia grows a dire disease,
And Doctor Dapper proves a shallow rogue,
The world must own that both were much in vogue.
What impious mockery, when, with soulless art,
Fashion, intrusive, seeks to rule the heart!
Directs how grief may tastefully be borne;
Instructs Bereavement just how long to mourn;
Shows Sorrow how by nice degrees to fade,
And marks its measure in a ribbon's shade!
More impious still, when, through her wanton laws,
She desecrates Religion's sacred cause;
Shows how “the narrow road” is easiest trod,
And how, genteelest, worms may worship God;
How sacred rites may bear a worldly grace,
And self-abasement wear a haughty face;
How sinners, long in Folly's mazes whirled,
With pomp and splendor may “renounce the world;”
How, “with all saints hereafter to appear,”
Yet quite escape the vulgar portion here!
Fashion, intrusive, seeks to rule the heart!
Directs how grief may tastefully be borne;
Instructs Bereavement just how long to mourn;
Shows Sorrow how by nice degrees to fade,
And marks its measure in a ribbon's shade!
More impious still, when, through her wanton laws,
She desecrates Religion's sacred cause;
Shows how “the narrow road” is easiest trod,
And how, genteelest, worms may worship God;
How sacred rites may bear a worldly grace,
And self-abasement wear a haughty face;
How sinners, long in Folly's mazes whirled,
With pomp and splendor may “renounce the world;”
How, “with all saints hereafter to appear,”
Yet quite escape the vulgar portion here!
Imperial fashion! her impartial care
Things most momentous, and most trivial, share;
Now crushing conscience (her invet'rate foe),
And now a waist, and now, perchance, a toe;
At once for pistols and “the Polka” votes,
And shapes alike our characters and coats.
The gravest question which the world divides,
And lightest riddle, in a breath decides:
“If wrong may not, by circumstance, be right,”—
“If black cravats be more genteel than white,”—
“If by her ‘bishop,’ or her ‘grace,’ alone,
A genuine lady, or a church, is known;”—
Problems like these she solves with graceful air,
At once a casuist and a connoisseur.
Things most momentous, and most trivial, share;
Now crushing conscience (her invet'rate foe),
And now a waist, and now, perchance, a toe;
At once for pistols and “the Polka” votes,
And shapes alike our characters and coats.
The gravest question which the world divides,
And lightest riddle, in a breath decides:
“If wrong may not, by circumstance, be right,”—
“If black cravats be more genteel than white,”—
“If by her ‘bishop,’ or her ‘grace,’ alone,
A genuine lady, or a church, is known;”—
Problems like these she solves with graceful air,
At once a casuist and a connoisseur.
Does some sleek knave, whom magic money-bags
Have raised above his fellow-knaves in rags,
Some willing minion of unblushing Vice,
Who boasts that “Virtue ever has her price,”—
Does he, unpitying, blast thy sister's fame,
Or doom thy daughter to undying shame,
To bow her head beneath the eye of scorn,
And droop and wither in her maiden morn?
Fashion “regrets,” declares “'t was very wrong,”
And, quite dejected, hums an opera song.
Impartial friend, your cause to her appealed,
Yourself and foe she summons to the field,
Where Honor carefully the case observes,
And nicely weighs it in a scale of nerves.
Despotic rite! whose fierce, vindictive reign
Boasts, unrebuked, its countless victims slain,
While Christian rulers, recreant, support
The pagan honors of thy bloody court,
And “Freedom's champions” spurn their hallowed trust,
Kneel at thy nod, and basely lick the dust.
Have raised above his fellow-knaves in rags,
Some willing minion of unblushing Vice,
208
Does he, unpitying, blast thy sister's fame,
Or doom thy daughter to undying shame,
To bow her head beneath the eye of scorn,
And droop and wither in her maiden morn?
Fashion “regrets,” declares “'t was very wrong,”
And, quite dejected, hums an opera song.
Impartial friend, your cause to her appealed,
Yourself and foe she summons to the field,
Where Honor carefully the case observes,
And nicely weighs it in a scale of nerves.
Despotic rite! whose fierce, vindictive reign
Boasts, unrebuked, its countless victims slain,
While Christian rulers, recreant, support
The pagan honors of thy bloody court,
And “Freedom's champions” spurn their hallowed trust,
Kneel at thy nod, and basely lick the dust.
Degraded Congress! once the honored scene
Of patriotic deeds; where men of solemn mien,
In virtue strong, in understanding clear,
Earnest, though courteous, and, though smooth, sincere,
To gravest counsels lent the teeming hours,
And gave their country all their mighty powers.
But times are changed, a rude, degenerate race
Usurp the seats, and shame the sacred place.
Here plotting demagogues with zeal defend
The “people's rights,”—to gain some private end.
Here Southern youths, on Folly's surges tost,
Their fathers' wisdom eloquently boast.
(So dowerless spinsters proudly number o'er
The costly jewels that their grandams wore.)
Here would-be Tullys pompously parade
Their tumid tropes for simple “Buncombe” made,
Full on the chair the chilling torrent shower,
And work their word-pumps through the allotted hour.
Deluded “Buncombe!” while, with honest praise,
She notes each grand and patriotic phrase,
And, much rejoicing in her hopeful son,
Deems all her own the laurels he has won,
She little dreams how brother members fled,
And left the house as vacant as his head!
Here rural Chathams, eager to attest
The “growing greatness of the mighty West,”
To make the plainest proposition clear,
Crack Priscian's head, and Mr. Speaker's ear;
Then, closing up in one terrific shout,
Pour all their “wild-cats” furiously out!
Here lawless boors with ruffian bullies vie,
Who last shall give the rude, insulting “lie,”
While “Order! order!” loud the chairman calls,
And echoing “Order!” every member bawls;
Till rising high in rancorous debate,
And higher still in fierce envenomed hate,
Retorted blows the scene of riot crown,
And big Lycurgus knocks the lesser down!
Of patriotic deeds; where men of solemn mien,
In virtue strong, in understanding clear,
Earnest, though courteous, and, though smooth, sincere,
To gravest counsels lent the teeming hours,
And gave their country all their mighty powers.
But times are changed, a rude, degenerate race
Usurp the seats, and shame the sacred place.
Here plotting demagogues with zeal defend
The “people's rights,”—to gain some private end.
Here Southern youths, on Folly's surges tost,
Their fathers' wisdom eloquently boast.
(So dowerless spinsters proudly number o'er
The costly jewels that their grandams wore.)
Here would-be Tullys pompously parade
Their tumid tropes for simple “Buncombe” made,
Many readers, who have heard about “making speeches for Buncombe,” may not be aware that the phrase originated as follows: A member of Congress from the county of Buncombe, North Carolina, while pronouncing a magniloquent set-speech, was interrupted by a remark from the Chair that “the seats were quite vacant.” “Never mind, never mind,” replied the orator, “I'm talking for Buncombe!”
Full on the chair the chilling torrent shower,
And work their word-pumps through the allotted hour.
Deluded “Buncombe!” while, with honest praise,
She notes each grand and patriotic phrase,
And, much rejoicing in her hopeful son,
Deems all her own the laurels he has won,
She little dreams how brother members fled,
And left the house as vacant as his head!
Here rural Chathams, eager to attest
The “growing greatness of the mighty West,”
To make the plainest proposition clear,
Crack Priscian's head, and Mr. Speaker's ear;
Then, closing up in one terrific shout,
Pour all their “wild-cats” furiously out!
Here lawless boors with ruffian bullies vie,
Who last shall give the rude, insulting “lie,”
While “Order! order!” loud the chairman calls,
And echoing “Order!” every member bawls;
Till rising high in rancorous debate,
And higher still in fierce envenomed hate,
Retorted blows the scene of riot crown,
And big Lycurgus knocks the lesser down!
Ye honest dames in frequent proverbs named,
For finest fish and foulest English famed,
Whose matchless tongues, 't is said, were never heard
To speak a flattering or a feeble word,—
Here all your choice invective ye might urge
Our lawless Solons fittingly to scourge;
Here, in congenial company, might rail
Till, quite worn out, your creaking voices fail,—
Unless, indeed, for once compelled to yield
In wordy strife, ye vanquished quit the field!
For finest fish and foulest English famed,
Whose matchless tongues, 't is said, were never heard
To speak a flattering or a feeble word,—
Here all your choice invective ye might urge
Our lawless Solons fittingly to scourge;
Here, in congenial company, might rail
Till, quite worn out, your creaking voices fail,—
209
In wordy strife, ye vanquished quit the field!
Hail, Social Progress! each new moon is rife
With some new theory of social life,
Some matchless scheme ingeniously designed
From half their miseries to free mankind;
On human wrongs triumphant war to wage,
And bring anew the glorious golden age.
“Association” is the magic word
From many a social “priest and prophet” heard,
“Attractive Labor” is the angel given,
To render earth a sublunary Heaven!
“Attractive Labor!” ring the changes round,
And labor grows attractive in the sound;
And many a youthful mind, where haply lurk
Unwelcomed fancies at the name of “work,”
Sees pleasant pastime in its longing view
Of “toil made easy” and “attractive” too,
And, fancy-rapt, with joyful ardor, turns
Delightful grindstones and seductive churns!
“Men are not bad,” these social sages preach;
“Men are not what their actions seem to teach;
No moral ill is natural or fixed,—
Men only err by being badly mixed!”
To them the world a huge plum-pudding seems,
Made up of richest viands, fruits, and creams,
Which of all choice ingredients partook,
And then was ruined by a blundering cook!
With some new theory of social life,
Some matchless scheme ingeniously designed
From half their miseries to free mankind;
On human wrongs triumphant war to wage,
And bring anew the glorious golden age.
“Association” is the magic word
From many a social “priest and prophet” heard,
“Attractive Labor” is the angel given,
To render earth a sublunary Heaven!
“Attractive Labor!” ring the changes round,
And labor grows attractive in the sound;
And many a youthful mind, where haply lurk
Unwelcomed fancies at the name of “work,”
Sees pleasant pastime in its longing view
Of “toil made easy” and “attractive” too,
And, fancy-rapt, with joyful ardor, turns
Delightful grindstones and seductive churns!
“Men are not bad,” these social sages preach;
“Men are not what their actions seem to teach;
No moral ill is natural or fixed,—
Men only err by being badly mixed!”
To them the world a huge plum-pudding seems,
Made up of richest viands, fruits, and creams,
Which of all choice ingredients partook,
And then was ruined by a blundering cook!
Inventive France! what wonder-working schemes
Astound the world whene'er a Frenchman dreams
What fine-spun theories,—ingenious, new,
Sublime, stupendous, everything but true!
One little favor, O “Imperial France!”
Still teach the world to cook, to dress, to dance;
Let, if thou wilt, thy boots and barbers roam,
But keep thy morals and thy creeds at home!
Astound the world whene'er a Frenchman dreams
What fine-spun theories,—ingenious, new,
Sublime, stupendous, everything but true!
One little favor, O “Imperial France!”
Still teach the world to cook, to dress, to dance;
Let, if thou wilt, thy boots and barbers roam,
But keep thy morals and thy creeds at home!
O might the Muse prolong her flowing rhyme
(Too closely cramped by unrelenting Time,
Whose dreadful scythe swings heedlessly along,
And, missing speeches, clips the thread of song),
How would she strive, in fitting verse, to sing
The wondrous Progress of the Printing King!
Bibles and Novels, Treatises and Songs,
Lectures on “Rights,” and Strictures upon Wrongs;
Verse in all metres, Travels in all climes,
Rhymes without reason, Sonnets without rhymes;
“Translations from the French,” so vilely done,
The wheat escaping leaves the chaff alone;
Memoirs, where dunces steadily essay
To cheat Oblivion of her certain prey;
Critiques, where pedants vauntingly expose
Unlicensed verses in unlawful prose;
Lampoons, whose authors strive in vain to throw
Their headless arrows from a nerveless bow;
Poems by youths, who, crossing Nature's will,
Harangue the landscape they were born to till;
Huge tomes of Law, that lead by rugged routes
Through ancient dogmas down to modern doubts;
Where Judges oft, with well-affected ease,
Give learned reasons for absurd decrees,
Or, more ingenious still, contrive to found
Some just decision on fallacious ground,
Or blink the point, and, haply, in its place,
Moot and decide some hypothetic case;
Smart Epigrams, all sadly out of joint,
And pointless,—save the “exclamation point,”
Which stands in state, with vacant wonder fraught,
The pompous tombstone of some pauper thought;
Ingenious systems based on doubtful facts,
“Tracts for the Times,” and most untimely tracts;
Polemic Pamphlets, Literary Toys,
And Easy Lessons for uneasy boys;
Hebdomadal Gazettes, and Daily News,
Gay Magazines, and Quarterly Reviews:—
Small portion these, of all the vast array
Of darkened leaves that cloud each passing day,
And pour their tide unceasingly along,
A gathering, swelling, overwhelming throng!
(Too closely cramped by unrelenting Time,
Whose dreadful scythe swings heedlessly along,
And, missing speeches, clips the thread of song),
How would she strive, in fitting verse, to sing
The wondrous Progress of the Printing King!
Bibles and Novels, Treatises and Songs,
Lectures on “Rights,” and Strictures upon Wrongs;
Verse in all metres, Travels in all climes,
Rhymes without reason, Sonnets without rhymes;
“Translations from the French,” so vilely done,
The wheat escaping leaves the chaff alone;
Memoirs, where dunces steadily essay
To cheat Oblivion of her certain prey;
Critiques, where pedants vauntingly expose
Unlicensed verses in unlawful prose;
Lampoons, whose authors strive in vain to throw
Their headless arrows from a nerveless bow;
Poems by youths, who, crossing Nature's will,
Harangue the landscape they were born to till;
Huge tomes of Law, that lead by rugged routes
Through ancient dogmas down to modern doubts;
Where Judges oft, with well-affected ease,
Give learned reasons for absurd decrees,
Or, more ingenious still, contrive to found
Some just decision on fallacious ground,
Or blink the point, and, haply, in its place,
210
Smart Epigrams, all sadly out of joint,
And pointless,—save the “exclamation point,”
Which stands in state, with vacant wonder fraught,
The pompous tombstone of some pauper thought;
Ingenious systems based on doubtful facts,
“Tracts for the Times,” and most untimely tracts;
Polemic Pamphlets, Literary Toys,
And Easy Lessons for uneasy boys;
Hebdomadal Gazettes, and Daily News,
Gay Magazines, and Quarterly Reviews:—
Small portion these, of all the vast array
Of darkened leaves that cloud each passing day,
And pour their tide unceasingly along,
A gathering, swelling, overwhelming throng!
Cease, O my Muse, nor, indiscreet, prolong
To epic length thy unambitious song.
Good friends, be gentle to a maiden Muse,
Her errors pardon, and her faults excuse.
Not uninvited to her task she came,
To sue for favor, nor to seek for fame.
Be this, at least, her just though humble praise:
No stale excuses heralded her lays,
No singer's trick,—conveniently to bring
A sudden cough, when importuned to sing;
Ut nunquam inducant animum cantare rogati;
Injussi nunquam desistant.”
—Sat. iii.
No deprecating phrases, learned by rote,—
“She 'd quite forgot,” or “never knew a note,”—
But to her task, with ready zeal, addressed
Her earnest care, and aimed to do her best;
Strove to be just in each satiric word,
To doubtful wit undoubted truth preferred,
To please and profit equally has aimed,
Nor been ill-natured even when she blamed.
To epic length thy unambitious song.
Good friends, be gentle to a maiden Muse,
Her errors pardon, and her faults excuse.
Not uninvited to her task she came,
To sue for favor, nor to seek for fame.
Be this, at least, her just though humble praise:
No stale excuses heralded her lays,
No singer's trick,—conveniently to bring
A sudden cough, when importuned to sing;
The capriciousness of musical folk, here alluded to, is by no means peculiar to our times. A little before the Christian era, Horace had occasion to scold the Roman singers for the same fault:—
“Omnibus hoc vitium est cantoribus, inter amicos,Ut nunquam inducant animum cantare rogati;
Injussi nunquam desistant.”
—Sat. iii.
No deprecating phrases, learned by rote,—
“She 'd quite forgot,” or “never knew a note,”—
But to her task, with ready zeal, addressed
Her earnest care, and aimed to do her best;
Strove to be just in each satiric word,
To doubtful wit undoubted truth preferred,
To please and profit equally has aimed,
Nor been ill-natured even when she blamed.
Imitated from the opening couplet of Holmes's “Terpsichore,”—
“In narrowest girdle, O reluctant Muse,In closest frock, and Cinderella shoes,
THE MONEY-KING.
A POEM DELIVERED BEFORE THE PHI BETA KAPPA SOCIETY OF YALE COLLEGE, 1854.
As landsmen, sitting in luxurious ease,
Talk of the dangers of the stormy seas;
As fireside travelers, with portentous mien,
Tell tales of countries they have never seen;
As parlor-soldiers, graced with fancy-scars,
Rehearse their bravery in imagined wars;
As arrant dunces have been known to sit
In grave discourse of wisdom and of wit;
As paupers, gathered in congenial flocks,
Babble of banks, insurances, and stocks;
As each is oftenest eloquent of what
He hates or covets, but possesses not;—
As cowards talk of pluck; misers, of waste;
Scoundrels, of honor; country clowns, of taste;—
I sing of Money!—no ignoble theme,
But loftier far then poetasters dream,
Whose fancies, soaring to their native moon,
Rise like a bubble or a gay balloon,
Whose orb aspiring takes a heavenward flight,
Just in proportion as it 's thin and light!
Talk of the dangers of the stormy seas;
As fireside travelers, with portentous mien,
Tell tales of countries they have never seen;
As parlor-soldiers, graced with fancy-scars,
Rehearse their bravery in imagined wars;
As arrant dunces have been known to sit
In grave discourse of wisdom and of wit;
As paupers, gathered in congenial flocks,
Babble of banks, insurances, and stocks;
As each is oftenest eloquent of what
He hates or covets, but possesses not;—
As cowards talk of pluck; misers, of waste;
Scoundrels, of honor; country clowns, of taste;—
I sing of Money!—no ignoble theme,
But loftier far then poetasters dream,
Whose fancies, soaring to their native moon,
Rise like a bubble or a gay balloon,
Whose orb aspiring takes a heavenward flight,
Just in proportion as it 's thin and light!
Kings must have Poets. From the earliest times,
Monarchs have loved celebrity in rhymes;
From good King Robert, who, in Petrarch's days,
Taught to mankind the proper use of bays,
And, singling out the prince of Sonneteers,
Twined wreaths of laurel round his blushing ears;
Down to the Queen, who, to her chosen bard,
In annual token of her kind regard,
Sends not alone the old poetic greens,
But, like a woman and the best of queens,
Adds to the leaves, to keep them fresh and fine,
The wholesome moisture of a pipe of wine!—
So may her minstrel, crowned with royal bays,
Alternate praise her pipe and pipe her praise!
E'en let him chant his smooth, euphonious lays:
A loftier theme my humbler Muse essays;
A mightier monarch be it hers to sing,
And claim her laurel from the Money-King!
Monarchs have loved celebrity in rhymes;
From good King Robert, who, in Petrarch's days,
Taught to mankind the proper use of bays,
And, singling out the prince of Sonneteers,
Twined wreaths of laurel round his blushing ears;
Down to the Queen, who, to her chosen bard,
In annual token of her kind regard,
Sends not alone the old poetic greens,
But, like a woman and the best of queens,
211
The wholesome moisture of a pipe of wine!—
So may her minstrel, crowned with royal bays,
Alternate praise her pipe and pipe her praise!
E'en let him chant his smooth, euphonious lays:
A loftier theme my humbler Muse essays;
A mightier monarch be it hers to sing,
And claim her laurel from the Money-King!
Great was King Alfred; and if history state
His actions truly, good as well as great.
Great was the Norman; he whose martial hordes
Taught law and order to the Saxon lords,
With gentler thoughts their rugged minds imbued,
And raised the nation whom he first subdued.
Great was King Bess!—I see the critic smile,
As though the Muse mistook her proper style;
But to her purpose she will stoutly cling,
The royal maid was “every inch a King!”
Great was Napoleon,—and I would that fate
Might prove his namesake-nephew half as great;
Meanwhile this hint I venture to advance:—
What France admires is good enough for France!
Great princes were they all; but greater far
Than English King, or mighty Russian Czar,
Or Pope of Rome, or haughty Queen of of Spain,
Baron of Germany, or Royal Dane,
Or Gallic Emperor, or Persian Khan,
Or any other merely mortal man,
Is the great monarch that my Muse would sing,
That mighty potentate, the Money-King!
His kingdom vast extends o'er every land,
And nations bow before his high command,
The weakest tremble, and his power obey,
The strongest honor, and confess his sway.
He rules the Rulers!—e'en the tyrant Czar
Asks his permission ere he goes to war;
The Turk, submissive to his royal might,
By his decree has gracious leave to fight;
Whilst e'en Britannia makes her humblest bow
Before her Barings, not her Barons now,
Or on the Rothschild suppliantly calls
(Her affluent “uncle” with the golden balls),
Begs of the Jew that he will kindly spare
Enough to put her trident in repair,
And pawns her diamonds, while she humbly craves
The Money-King's consent to “rule the waves!”
His actions truly, good as well as great.
Great was the Norman; he whose martial hordes
Taught law and order to the Saxon lords,
With gentler thoughts their rugged minds imbued,
And raised the nation whom he first subdued.
Great was King Bess!—I see the critic smile,
As though the Muse mistook her proper style;
But to her purpose she will stoutly cling,
The royal maid was “every inch a King!”
Great was Napoleon,—and I would that fate
Might prove his namesake-nephew half as great;
Meanwhile this hint I venture to advance:—
What France admires is good enough for France!
Great princes were they all; but greater far
Than English King, or mighty Russian Czar,
Or Pope of Rome, or haughty Queen of of Spain,
Baron of Germany, or Royal Dane,
Or Gallic Emperor, or Persian Khan,
Or any other merely mortal man,
Is the great monarch that my Muse would sing,
That mighty potentate, the Money-King!
His kingdom vast extends o'er every land,
And nations bow before his high command,
The weakest tremble, and his power obey,
The strongest honor, and confess his sway.
He rules the Rulers!—e'en the tyrant Czar
Asks his permission ere he goes to war;
The Turk, submissive to his royal might,
By his decree has gracious leave to fight;
Whilst e'en Britannia makes her humblest bow
Before her Barings, not her Barons now,
Or on the Rothschild suppliantly calls
(Her affluent “uncle” with the golden balls),
Begs of the Jew that he will kindly spare
Enough to put her trident in repair,
And pawns her diamonds, while she humbly craves
The Money-King's consent to “rule the waves!”
He wears no crown upon his royal head,
But many millions in his purse, instead;
He keeps no halls of state; but holds his court
In dingy rooms where greed and thrift resort;
In iron chests his wondrous wealth he hoards;
Banks are his parlors; brokers are his lords,
Bonds, bills, and mortgages, his favorite books,
Gold is his food, and coiners are his cooks;
Ledgers his records; stock reports his news;
Merchants his yeomen, and his bondsmen Jews;
Kings are his subjects, gamblers are his knaves,
Spendthrifts his fools, and misers are his slaves!
The good, the bad, his golden favor prize;
The high, the low, the simple, and the wise,
The young the old, the stately, and the gay,—
All bow obedient to his royal sway!
See where, afar, the bright Pacific shore
Gleams in the sun with sands of shining ore,
His last, great empire rises to the view,
And shames the wealth of India and Peru!
Here, throned within his gorgeous “golden gate,”
He wields his sceptre o'er the rising State;
Surveys his conquest with a joyful eye,
Nor for a greater heaves a single sigh!
Here, quite beyond the classic poet's dream,
Pactolus runs in every winding stream;
The mountain cliffs the glittering ore enfold,
And every reed that rustles whispers, “Gold!”
But many millions in his purse, instead;
He keeps no halls of state; but holds his court
In dingy rooms where greed and thrift resort;
In iron chests his wondrous wealth he hoards;
Banks are his parlors; brokers are his lords,
Bonds, bills, and mortgages, his favorite books,
Gold is his food, and coiners are his cooks;
Ledgers his records; stock reports his news;
Merchants his yeomen, and his bondsmen Jews;
Kings are his subjects, gamblers are his knaves,
Spendthrifts his fools, and misers are his slaves!
The good, the bad, his golden favor prize;
The high, the low, the simple, and the wise,
The young the old, the stately, and the gay,—
All bow obedient to his royal sway!
See where, afar, the bright Pacific shore
212
His last, great empire rises to the view,
And shames the wealth of India and Peru!
Here, throned within his gorgeous “golden gate,”
He wields his sceptre o'er the rising State;
Surveys his conquest with a joyful eye,
Nor for a greater heaves a single sigh!
Here, quite beyond the classic poet's dream,
Pactolus runs in every winding stream;
The mountain cliffs the glittering ore enfold,
And every reed that rustles whispers, “Gold!”
If to his sceptre some dishonor clings,
Why should we marvel?—'t is the fate of kings!
Their power too oft perverted by abuse,
Their manners cruel, or their morals loose;
The best at times have wandered far astray
From simple Virtue's unseductive way;
And few, of all, at once could make pretense
To royal robes and rustic innocence!
Why should we marvel?—'t is the fate of kings!
Their power too oft perverted by abuse,
Their manners cruel, or their morals loose;
The best at times have wandered far astray
From simple Virtue's unseductive way;
And few, of all, at once could make pretense
To royal robes and rustic innocence!
He builds the house where Christian people pray,
And rears a bagnio just across the way;
Pays to the priest his stinted annual fee;
Rewards the lawyer for his venal plea;
Sends an apostle to the heathen's aid;
And cheats the Choctaws, for the good of trade;
Lifts by her heels an Ellsler to renown,
Or, bribing “Jenny,” brings an angel down!
He builds the Theatres and gambling Halls,
Lloyds and Almacks, St. Peter's and St. Paul's;
Sin's gay retreats and Fashion's gilded rooms,
Hotels and Factories, Palaces and Tombs;
Bids Commerce spread her wings to every gale;
Bends to the breeze the pirate's bloody sail;
Helps Science seek new worlds among the stars;
Profanes our own with mercenary wars;
The friend of wrong, the equal friend of right,
Oft may we bless and oft deplore his might,
As buoyant hope or darkening fears prevail,
And good or evil turns the moral scale.
And rears a bagnio just across the way;
Pays to the priest his stinted annual fee;
Rewards the lawyer for his venal plea;
Sends an apostle to the heathen's aid;
And cheats the Choctaws, for the good of trade;
Lifts by her heels an Ellsler to renown,
Or, bribing “Jenny,” brings an angel down!
He builds the Theatres and gambling Halls,
Lloyds and Almacks, St. Peter's and St. Paul's;
Sin's gay retreats and Fashion's gilded rooms,
Hotels and Factories, Palaces and Tombs;
Bids Commerce spread her wings to every gale;
Bends to the breeze the pirate's bloody sail;
Helps Science seek new worlds among the stars;
Profanes our own with mercenary wars;
The friend of wrong, the equal friend of right,
Oft may we bless and oft deplore his might,
As buoyant hope or darkening fears prevail,
And good or evil turns the moral scale.
All fitting honor I would fain accord,
Whene'er he builds a temple to the Lord;
But much I grieve he often spends his pelf,
As it were raised in honor of himself;
Or, what were worse, and more profanely odd,
A place to worship some Egyptian god!
I wish his favorite architects were graced
With sounder judgment, and a Christian taste.
Immortal Wren! what fierce, convulsive shocks
Would jar thy bones within their leaden box,
Couldst thou but look across the briny spray,
And see some churches of the present day!—
The lofty dome of consecrated bricks,
Where all the “orders” in disorder mix,
To form a temple whose incongruous frame
Confounds design and puts the Arts to shame!
Where “styles” discordant on the vision jar,
Where Greek and Roman are again at war,
And, as of old, the unrelenting Goth
Comes down at last and overwhelms them both!
Whene'er he builds a temple to the Lord;
But much I grieve he often spends his pelf,
As it were raised in honor of himself;
Or, what were worse, and more profanely odd,
A place to worship some Egyptian god!
I wish his favorite architects were graced
With sounder judgment, and a Christian taste.
Immortal Wren! what fierce, convulsive shocks
Would jar thy bones within their leaden box,
Couldst thou but look across the briny spray,
And see some churches of the present day!—
The lofty dome of consecrated bricks,
Where all the “orders” in disorder mix,
To form a temple whose incongruous frame
Confounds design and puts the Arts to shame!
Where “styles” discordant on the vision jar,
Where Greek and Roman are again at war,
And, as of old, the unrelenting Goth
Comes down at last and overwhelms them both!
Once on a time I heard a parson say
(Talking of churches in a sprightly way),
That there was more Religion in the walls
Of towering “Trinity,” or grand “St. Paul's.”
Than one could find, upon the strictest search,
In half the saints within the Christian Church!
A layman sitting at the parson's side
To the new dogma thus at once replied:
“If, as you say, Religion has her home
In the mere walls that form the sacred dome,
It seems to me the very plainest case,
To climb the steeple were a growth in grace;
And he to whom the pious strength were given
To reach the highest were the nearest Heaven!”
I thought the answer just; and yet 't is clear
A solemn aspect, grand and yet severe,
Becomes the house of God. 'T is hard to say
Who from the proper mark are most astray,—
They who erect, for holy Christian rites,
A gay Pagoda with its tinsel lights,
Or they who offer to the God of Love
A gorgeous Temple of the pagan Jove!
(Talking of churches in a sprightly way),
That there was more Religion in the walls
Of towering “Trinity,” or grand “St. Paul's.”
Than one could find, upon the strictest search,
In half the saints within the Christian Church!
A layman sitting at the parson's side
213
“If, as you say, Religion has her home
In the mere walls that form the sacred dome,
It seems to me the very plainest case,
To climb the steeple were a growth in grace;
And he to whom the pious strength were given
To reach the highest were the nearest Heaven!”
I thought the answer just; and yet 't is clear
A solemn aspect, grand and yet severe,
Becomes the house of God. 'T is hard to say
Who from the proper mark are most astray,—
They who erect, for holy Christian rites,
A gay Pagoda with its tinsel lights,
Or they who offer to the God of Love
A gorgeous Temple of the pagan Jove!
Immortal Homer and Tassoni sing
What vast results from trivial causes spring;
How naughty Helen by her stolen joy
Brought woe and ruin to unhappy Troy;
How, for a bucket, rash Bologna sold
More blood and tears than twenty such could hold!
Thy power, O Money, shows results as strange
As aught revealed in History's widest range;
Thy smallest coin of shining silver shows
More potent magic than a conjurer knows!
In olden times,—if classic poets say
The simple truth, as poets do to-day,—
When Charon's boat conveyed a spirit o'er
The Lethean water to the Hadean shore,
The fare was just a penny,—not too great,
The moderate, regular, Stygian statute rate.
Now, for a shilling, he will cross the stream,
(His paddles whirling to the force of steam!)
And bring, obedient to some wizard power,
Back to the Earth more spirits in an hour
Than Brooklyn's famous ferry could convey,
Or thine, Hoboken, in the longest day!
Time was when men bereaved of vital breath
Were calm and silent in the realms of Death;
When mortals dead and decently inurned
Were heard no more; no traveler returned,
Who once had crossed the dark Plutonian strand,
To whisper secrets of the spirit-land,—
Save when perchance some sad, unquiet soul
Among the tombs might wander on parole,—
A well-bred ghost, at night's bewitching noon,
Returned to catch some glimpses of the moon,
Wrapt in a mantle of unearthly white
(The only 'rapping of an ancient sprite),
Stalked round in silence till the break of day,
Then from the Earth passed unperceived away.
Now all is changed: the musty maxim fails,
And dead men do repeat the queerest tales!
Alas, that here, as in the books, we see
The travelers clash, the doctors disagree!
Alas, that all, the farther they explore,
For all their search are but confused the more!
Ye great departed!—men of mighty mark,—
Bacon and Newton, Adams, Adam Clarke,
Edwards and Whitefield, Franklin, Robert Hall,
Calhoun, Clay, Channing, Daniel Webster,—all
Ye great quit-tenants of this earthly ball,—
If in your new abodes ye cannot rest,
But must return, O, grant us this request:
Come with a noble and celestial air,
To prove your title to the names ye bear!
Give some clear token of your heavenly birth,
Write as good English as ye wrote on earth!
Show not to all, in ranting prose and verse.
The spirit's progress is from bad to worse;
And, what were once superfluous to advise,
Don't tell, I beg you, such egregious lies;
Or if perchance your agents are to blame,
Don't let them trifle with your honest fame;
Let chairs and tables rest, and “rap” instead,
Ay, “knock” your slippery “Mediums” on the head!
What vast results from trivial causes spring;
How naughty Helen by her stolen joy
Brought woe and ruin to unhappy Troy;
How, for a bucket, rash Bologna sold
More blood and tears than twenty such could hold!
Thy power, O Money, shows results as strange
As aught revealed in History's widest range;
Thy smallest coin of shining silver shows
More potent magic than a conjurer knows!
In olden times,—if classic poets say
The simple truth, as poets do to-day,—
When Charon's boat conveyed a spirit o'er
The Lethean water to the Hadean shore,
The fare was just a penny,—not too great,
The moderate, regular, Stygian statute rate.
Now, for a shilling, he will cross the stream,
(His paddles whirling to the force of steam!)
And bring, obedient to some wizard power,
Back to the Earth more spirits in an hour
Than Brooklyn's famous ferry could convey,
Or thine, Hoboken, in the longest day!
Time was when men bereaved of vital breath
Were calm and silent in the realms of Death;
When mortals dead and decently inurned
Were heard no more; no traveler returned,
Who once had crossed the dark Plutonian strand,
To whisper secrets of the spirit-land,—
Save when perchance some sad, unquiet soul
Among the tombs might wander on parole,—
A well-bred ghost, at night's bewitching noon,
Returned to catch some glimpses of the moon,
Wrapt in a mantle of unearthly white
(The only 'rapping of an ancient sprite),
Stalked round in silence till the break of day,
Then from the Earth passed unperceived away.
Now all is changed: the musty maxim fails,
And dead men do repeat the queerest tales!
Alas, that here, as in the books, we see
The travelers clash, the doctors disagree!
Alas, that all, the farther they explore,
For all their search are but confused the more!
Ye great departed!—men of mighty mark,—
Bacon and Newton, Adams, Adam Clarke,
Edwards and Whitefield, Franklin, Robert Hall,
Calhoun, Clay, Channing, Daniel Webster,—all
Ye great quit-tenants of this earthly ball,—
If in your new abodes ye cannot rest,
But must return, O, grant us this request:
Come with a noble and celestial air,
To prove your title to the names ye bear!
Give some clear token of your heavenly birth,
Write as good English as ye wrote on earth!
Show not to all, in ranting prose and verse.
214
And, what were once superfluous to advise,
Don't tell, I beg you, such egregious lies;
Or if perchance your agents are to blame,
Don't let them trifle with your honest fame;
Let chairs and tables rest, and “rap” instead,
Ay, “knock” your slippery “Mediums” on the head!
What direful woes the hapless man attend,
Who in the means sees life's supremest end;
The wretched miser,—money's sordid slave,—
His only joy to gather and to save.
For this he wakes at morning's early light,
Toils through the day, and ponders in the night;
For this,—to swell his heap of tarnished gold.—
Sweats in the sun, and shivers in the cold,
And suffers more from hunger every day
Than the starved beggar whom he spurns away.
Death comes erewhile to end his worldly strife;
With all his saving he must lose his life!
Perchance the doctor might protract his breath,
And stay the dreadful messenger of death;
But none is there to comfort or advise;
'T would cost a dollar;—so the miser dies.
Who in the means sees life's supremest end;
The wretched miser,—money's sordid slave,—
His only joy to gather and to save.
For this he wakes at morning's early light,
Toils through the day, and ponders in the night;
For this,—to swell his heap of tarnished gold.—
Sweats in the sun, and shivers in the cold,
And suffers more from hunger every day
Than the starved beggar whom he spurns away.
Death comes erewhile to end his worldly strife;
With all his saving he must lose his life!
Perchance the doctor might protract his breath,
And stay the dreadful messenger of death;
But none is there to comfort or advise;
'T would cost a dollar;—so the miser dies.
Sad is the sight when Money's power controls
In wedlock's chains the fate of human souls.
From mine to mint, curst is the coin that parts
In helpless grief two loving human hearts;
Or joins in discord, jealousy, and hate,
A sordid suitor to a loathing mate.
I waive the case, the barren case, of those
Who have no hearts to cherish or to lose;
Whose wedded state is but a bargain made
In due accordance with the laws of trade.
When the prim parson joins their willing hands,
To marry City lots to Western lands,
Or in connubial ecstasy to mix
Cash and “collateral,” ten-per-cents with six,
And in the “patent safe” of Hymen locks
Impassioned dollars with enamoured stocks,
Laugh if you will,—and who can well refrain?—
But waste no tears, nor pangs of pitying pain;
Hearts such as these may play the queerest pranks,
But never break,—except with breaking banks.
In wedlock's chains the fate of human souls.
From mine to mint, curst is the coin that parts
In helpless grief two loving human hearts;
Or joins in discord, jealousy, and hate,
A sordid suitor to a loathing mate.
I waive the case, the barren case, of those
Who have no hearts to cherish or to lose;
Whose wedded state is but a bargain made
In due accordance with the laws of trade.
When the prim parson joins their willing hands,
To marry City lots to Western lands,
Or in connubial ecstasy to mix
Cash and “collateral,” ten-per-cents with six,
And in the “patent safe” of Hymen locks
Impassioned dollars with enamoured stocks,
Laugh if you will,—and who can well refrain?—
But waste no tears, nor pangs of pitying pain;
Hearts such as these may play the queerest pranks,
But never break,—except with breaking banks.
Yet, let me hint, a thousand maxims prove
Plutus may be the truest friend to Love.
“Love in a cottage” cosily may dwell,
But much prefers to have it furnished well.
A parlor ample, and a kitchen snug,
A handsome carpet, an embroidered rug,
A well-stored pantry, and a tidy maid,
A blazing hearth, a cooling window-shade,
Though merely mortal, money-purchased things,
Have wondrous power to clip Love's errant wings!
“Love in a cottage” is n't just the same
When wind and water strive to quench his flame;
Too oft it breeds the sharpest discontent,
That puzzling question, “How to pay the rent;”
A smoky chimney may alone suffice
To dim the radiance of the fondest eyes;
A northern blast, beyond the slightest doubt,
May fairly blow the torch of Hymen out;
And I have heard a worthy patron hold
(As one who knew the truth of what she told),
Love once was drowned, though reckoned waterproof,
By the mere dripping of a leaky roof!
Full many a wise philosopher has tried
Mankind in fitting orders to divide;
And by their forms, their fashions, and their face,
To group, assort, and classify the race.
One would distinguish people by their books;
Another, quaintly, solely by their cooks;
And one, who graced the philosophic bench,
Found these three classes,—“women, men, and French!”
The best remains, of all that I have known,
A broad distinction, brilliant, and my own:
Of all mankind, I classify the lot,
Those who have Money, and those who have not!
Plutus may be the truest friend to Love.
“Love in a cottage” cosily may dwell,
But much prefers to have it furnished well.
A parlor ample, and a kitchen snug,
A handsome carpet, an embroidered rug,
A well-stored pantry, and a tidy maid,
A blazing hearth, a cooling window-shade,
Though merely mortal, money-purchased things,
Have wondrous power to clip Love's errant wings!
“Love in a cottage” is n't just the same
When wind and water strive to quench his flame;
Too oft it breeds the sharpest discontent,
That puzzling question, “How to pay the rent;”
A smoky chimney may alone suffice
To dim the radiance of the fondest eyes;
A northern blast, beyond the slightest doubt,
May fairly blow the torch of Hymen out;
And I have heard a worthy patron hold
(As one who knew the truth of what she told),
Love once was drowned, though reckoned waterproof,
By the mere dripping of a leaky roof!
215
Mankind in fitting orders to divide;
And by their forms, their fashions, and their face,
To group, assort, and classify the race.
One would distinguish people by their books;
Another, quaintly, solely by their cooks;
And one, who graced the philosophic bench,
Found these three classes,—“women, men, and French!”
The best remains, of all that I have known,
A broad distinction, brilliant, and my own:
Of all mankind, I classify the lot,
Those who have Money, and those who have not!
Think'st thou the line a poet's fiction?—then
Go look abroad upon the ways of men!
Go ask the banker, with his golden seals;
Go ask the borrower, cringing at his heels;
Go ask the maid, who, emulous of woe,
Discards the worthier for the wealthier beau;
Go ask the parson, when a higher prize
Points with the salary where his duty lies;
Go ask the lawyer, who, in legal smoke,
Stands, like a stoker, redolent of “Coke,”
And swings his arms to emphasize a plea
Made doubly ardent by a golden fee;
Go ask the doctor, who has kindly sped
Old Crœsus, dying on a damask bed,
While his poor neighbor—wonderful to tell—
Was left to Nature, suffered, and got well!
Go ask the belle, in high patrician pride,
Who spurns the maiden nurtured at her side,
Her youth's loved playmate at the village school,
Ere changing fortune taught the rigid rule
Which marks the loftier from the lowlier lot,—
Those who have money from those who have not!
Of all the ills that owe their baneful rise
To wealth o'ergrown, the most despotic vice
Is Circean Luxury; prolific dame
Of mental impotence and moral shame,
And all the cankering evils that debase
The human form and dwarf the human race.
See yon strange figure, and a moment scan
That slenderest sample of the genus man!
Mark, as he ambles, those precarious pegs
Which by their motion must be deemed his legs!
He has a head,—one may be sure of that
By just observing that he wears a hat;
That he has arms is logically plain
From his wide coat-sleeves and his pendent cane;
A tongue as well,—the inference is fair,
Since, on occasion, he can lisp and swear.
You ask his use?—that's not so very clear,
Unless to spend five thousand pounds a year
In modish vices which his soul adores,
Drink, dress, and gaming, horses, hounds, and scores
Of other follies which I can't rehearse,
Dear to himself and dearer to his purse.
Go look abroad upon the ways of men!
Go ask the banker, with his golden seals;
Go ask the borrower, cringing at his heels;
Go ask the maid, who, emulous of woe,
Discards the worthier for the wealthier beau;
Go ask the parson, when a higher prize
Points with the salary where his duty lies;
Go ask the lawyer, who, in legal smoke,
Stands, like a stoker, redolent of “Coke,”
And swings his arms to emphasize a plea
Made doubly ardent by a golden fee;
Go ask the doctor, who has kindly sped
Old Crœsus, dying on a damask bed,
While his poor neighbor—wonderful to tell—
Was left to Nature, suffered, and got well!
Go ask the belle, in high patrician pride,
Who spurns the maiden nurtured at her side,
Her youth's loved playmate at the village school,
Ere changing fortune taught the rigid rule
Which marks the loftier from the lowlier lot,—
Those who have money from those who have not!
Of all the ills that owe their baneful rise
To wealth o'ergrown, the most despotic vice
Is Circean Luxury; prolific dame
Of mental impotence and moral shame,
And all the cankering evils that debase
The human form and dwarf the human race.
See yon strange figure, and a moment scan
That slenderest sample of the genus man!
Mark, as he ambles, those precarious pegs
Which by their motion must be deemed his legs!
He has a head,—one may be sure of that
By just observing that he wears a hat;
That he has arms is logically plain
From his wide coat-sleeves and his pendent cane;
A tongue as well,—the inference is fair,
Since, on occasion, he can lisp and swear.
You ask his use?—that's not so very clear,
Unless to spend five thousand pounds a year
In modish vices which his soul adores,
Drink, dress, and gaming, horses, hounds, and scores
Of other follies which I can't rehearse,
Dear to himself and dearer to his purse.
No product he of Fortune's fickle dice,
The due result of Luxury and Vice,
Three generations have sufficed to bring
That narrow chested, pale, enervate thing
Down from a man,—for, marvel as you will,
His huge great-grandsire fought on Bunker Hill!
Bore, without gloves, a musket through the war;
Came back adorned with many a noble scar;
Labored and prospered at a thriving rate,
And, dying, left his heir a snug estate,—
Which grew apace upon his busy hands,
Stocks, ships, and factories, tenements and lands.
All here at last,—the money and the race,—
The latter ending in that foolish face;
The former wandering, far beyond his aim,
Back to the rough plebeians whence it came!
The due result of Luxury and Vice,
Three generations have sufficed to bring
That narrow chested, pale, enervate thing
Down from a man,—for, marvel as you will,
His huge great-grandsire fought on Bunker Hill!
Bore, without gloves, a musket through the war;
Came back adorned with many a noble scar;
Labored and prospered at a thriving rate,
And, dying, left his heir a snug estate,—
Which grew apace upon his busy hands,
Stocks, ships, and factories, tenements and lands.
216
The latter ending in that foolish face;
The former wandering, far beyond his aim,
Back to the rough plebeians whence it came!
Enough of censure; let my humble lays
Employ one moment in congenial praise.
Let other pens with pious ardor paint
The selfish virtues of the cloistered saint;
In lettered marble let the stranger read
Of him who, dying, did a worthy deed,
And left to charity the cherished store
Which, to his sorrow, he could hoard no more.
I venerate the nobler man who gives
His generous dollars while the donor lives;
Gives with a heart as liberal as the palms
That to the needy spread his honored alms;
Gives with a head whose yet unclouded light
To worthiest objects points the giver's sight;
Gives with a hand still potent to enforce
His well-aimed bounty, and direct its course;—
Such is the giver who must stand confest
In giving glorious, and supremely blest!
One such as this the captious world could find
In noble Perkins, angel of the blind;
One such as this in princely Lawrence shone,
Ere heavenly kindred claimed him for their own!
Employ one moment in congenial praise.
Let other pens with pious ardor paint
The selfish virtues of the cloistered saint;
In lettered marble let the stranger read
Of him who, dying, did a worthy deed,
And left to charity the cherished store
Which, to his sorrow, he could hoard no more.
I venerate the nobler man who gives
His generous dollars while the donor lives;
Gives with a heart as liberal as the palms
That to the needy spread his honored alms;
Gives with a head whose yet unclouded light
To worthiest objects points the giver's sight;
Gives with a hand still potent to enforce
His well-aimed bounty, and direct its course;—
Such is the giver who must stand confest
In giving glorious, and supremely blest!
One such as this the captious world could find
In noble Perkins, angel of the blind;
One such as this in princely Lawrence shone,
Ere heavenly kindred claimed him for their own!
To me the boon may gracious Heaven assign,—
No cringing suppliant at Mammon's shrine,
Nor slave of Poverty,—with joy to share
The happy mean expressed in Agur's prayer:—
A house (my own) to keep me safe and warm,
A shade in sunshine, and a shield in storm;
A generous board, and fitting raiment, clear
Of debts and duns throughout the circling year;
Silver and gold, in moderate store, that I
May purchase joys that only these can buy;
Some gems of art, a cultured mind to please,
Books, pictures, statues, literary ease.
That “Time is money” prudent Franklin shows
In rhyming couplets and sententious prose.
Oh, had he taught the world, in prose and rhyme,
The higher truth that Money may be Time!
And showed the people, in his pleasant ways,
The art of coining dollars into days!
Days for improvement, days for social life,
Days for your God, your children, and your wife;
Some days for pleasure, and an hour to spend
In genial converse with an honest friend.
Such days be mine!—and grant me, Heaven, but this,
With blooming health, man's highest earthly bliss,—
And I will read, without a sigh or frown,
The startling news that stocks are going down;
Hear without envy that a stranger hoards
Or spends more treasure than a mint affords;
See my next neighbor pluck a golden plum,
Calm and content within my cottage-home;
Take for myself what honest thrift may bring,
And for his kindness bless the Money-King!
No cringing suppliant at Mammon's shrine,
Nor slave of Poverty,—with joy to share
The happy mean expressed in Agur's prayer:—
A house (my own) to keep me safe and warm,
A shade in sunshine, and a shield in storm;
A generous board, and fitting raiment, clear
Of debts and duns throughout the circling year;
Silver and gold, in moderate store, that I
May purchase joys that only these can buy;
Some gems of art, a cultured mind to please,
Books, pictures, statues, literary ease.
That “Time is money” prudent Franklin shows
In rhyming couplets and sententious prose.
Oh, had he taught the world, in prose and rhyme,
The higher truth that Money may be Time!
And showed the people, in his pleasant ways,
The art of coining dollars into days!
Days for improvement, days for social life,
Days for your God, your children, and your wife;
Some days for pleasure, and an hour to spend
In genial converse with an honest friend.
Such days be mine!—and grant me, Heaven, but this,
With blooming health, man's highest earthly bliss,—
And I will read, without a sigh or frown,
The startling news that stocks are going down;
Hear without envy that a stranger hoards
Or spends more treasure than a mint affords;
See my next neighbor pluck a golden plum,
Calm and content within my cottage-home;
Take for myself what honest thrift may bring,
And for his kindness bless the Money-King!
| The poetical works of John Godfrey Saxe | |