 | The poetical works of John Godfrey Saxe |  |
TRAVESTIES.
ICARUS.
I.
All modern themes of poesy are spun so very fine,That now the most amusing muse, e gratia, such as mine,
Is often forced to cut the thread that strings our recent rhymes,
And try the stronger staple of the good old classic times.
II.
There lived and flourished long ago, in famous Athens town,One Dædalus, a carpenter of genius and renown;
('T was he who with an anger taught mechanics how to bore,—
An art which the philosophers monopolized before.)
III.
His only son was Icarus, a most precocious lad,The pride of Mrs. Dædalus, the image of his dad;
And while he yet was in his teens such progress he had made,
He 'd got above his father's size, and much above his trade.
IV.
Now Dædalus, the carpenter, had made a pair of wings,Contrived of wood and feathers and a cunning set of springs,
By means of which the wearer could ascend to any height,
And sail about among the clouds as easy as a kite!
V.
“O father,” said young Icarus, “how I should like to fly!And go like you where all is blue along the upper sky;
How very charming it would be above the moon to climb,
And scamper through the Zodiac, and have a high old time!
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VI.
“Oh would n't it be jolly, though,—to stop at all the inns;To take a luncheon at ‘The Crab,’ and tipple at ‘The Twins;’
And, just for fun and fancy, while careering through the air,
To kiss the Virgin, tease the Ram, and bait the biggest Bear?
VII.
“O father, please to let me go!” was still the urchin's cry;“I'll be extremely careful, sir, and won't go very high;
Oh if this little pleasure-trip you only will allow,
I promise to be back again in time to fetch the cow!”
VIII.
“You 're rather young,” said Dædalus, “to tempt the upper air;But take the wings, and mind your eye with very special care;
And keep at least a thousand miles below the nearest star
Young lads, when out upon a lark, are apt to go too far!”
IX.
He took the wings—that foolish boy—without the least dismay;His father stuck 'em on with wax, and so he soared away;
Up, up he rises, like a bird, and not a moment stops
Until he's fairly out of sight beyond the mountain-tops!
X.
And still he flies—away—away; it seems the merest fun;No marvel he is getting bold, and aiming at the sun;
No marvel he forgets his sire; it is n't very odd
That one so far above the earth should think himself a god!
XI.
Already, in his silly pride, he's gone too far aloft;The heat begins to scorch his wings; the wax is waxing soft;
Down—down he goes!—Alas!—next day poor Icarus was found
Afloat upon the Ægean Sea, extremely damp and drowned!
L'ENVOI.
The moral of this mournful tale is plain enough to all:—Don't get above your proper sphere, or you may chance to fall;
Remember, too, that borrowed plumes are most uncertain things;
And never try to scale the sky with other people's wings!
PYRAMUS AND THISBE.
This tragical tale, which, they say, is a true one,
Is old, but the manner is wholly a new one.
One Ovid, a writer of some reputation,
Has told it before in a tedious narration;
In a style, to be sure, of remarkable fullness,
But which nobody reads on account of its dullness.
Is old, but the manner is wholly a new one.
One Ovid, a writer of some reputation,
Has told it before in a tedious narration;
In a style, to be sure, of remarkable fullness,
But which nobody reads on account of its dullness.
Young Peter Pyramus, I call him Peter,
Not for the sake of the rhyme or metre,
But merely to make the name completer,—
For Peter lived in the olden times,
And in one of the worst of Pagan climes
That flourish now in classical fame,
Long before
Either noble or boor
Had such a thing as a Christian name,—
Young Peter then was a nice young beau
As any young lady would wish to know;
In years, I ween,
He was rather green,
That is to say, he was just eighteen,—
A trifle too short, and a shaving too lean,
But “a nice young man” as ever was seen,
And fit to dance with a May-day queen!
Not for the sake of the rhyme or metre,
But merely to make the name completer,—
For Peter lived in the olden times,
And in one of the worst of Pagan climes
That flourish now in classical fame,
Long before
Either noble or boor
Had such a thing as a Christian name,—
Young Peter then was a nice young beau
As any young lady would wish to know;
In years, I ween,
He was rather green,
That is to say, he was just eighteen,—
A trifle too short, and a shaving too lean,
But “a nice young man” as ever was seen,
And fit to dance with a May-day queen!
Now Peter loved a beautiful girl
As ever ensnared the heart of an earl
In the magical trap of an auburn curl,—
A little Miss Thisbe who lived next door
(They slept in fact on the very same floor,
With a wall between them, and nothing more,
Those double dwellings were common of yore),
And they loved each other, the legends say,
In that very beautiful, bountiful way
That every young maid,
And every young blade,
Are wont to do before they grow staid
And learn to love by the laws of trade.
But alack-a-day for the girl and boy,
A little impediment checked their joy,
And gave them, awhile, the deepest annoy.
For some good reason, which history cloaks,
The match did n't happen to please the old folks!
As ever ensnared the heart of an earl
In the magical trap of an auburn curl,—
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(They slept in fact on the very same floor,
With a wall between them, and nothing more,
Those double dwellings were common of yore),
And they loved each other, the legends say,
In that very beautiful, bountiful way
That every young maid,
And every young blade,
Are wont to do before they grow staid
And learn to love by the laws of trade.
But alack-a-day for the girl and boy,
A little impediment checked their joy,
And gave them, awhile, the deepest annoy.
For some good reason, which history cloaks,
The match did n't happen to please the old folks!
So Thisbe's father and Peter's mother
Began the young couple to worry and bother,
And tried their innocent passions to smother
By keeping the lovers from seeing each other!
But whoever heard
Of a marriage deterred,
Or even deferred,
By any contrivance so very absurd
As scolding the boy, and caging his bird?
Began the young couple to worry and bother,
And tried their innocent passions to smother
By keeping the lovers from seeing each other!
But whoever heard
Of a marriage deterred,
Or even deferred,
By any contrivance so very absurd
As scolding the boy, and caging his bird?
Now Peter, who was n't discouraged at all
By obstacles such as the timid appall,
Contrived to discover a hole in the wall,
Which was n't so thick
But removing a brick
Made a passage,—though rather provokingly small.
Through this little chink the lover could greet her,
And secrecy made their courting the sweeter,
While Peter kissed Thisbe and Thisbe kissed Peter,—
For kisses, like folks with diminutive souls,
Will manage to creep through the smallest of holes!
'T was here that the lovers, intent upon love,
Laid a nice little plot
To meet at a spot
Near a mulberry-tree in a neighboring grove;
For the plan was all laid
By the youth and the maid
(Whose hearts, it would seem, were uncommonly bold ones),
To run off and get married in spite of the old ones.
By obstacles such as the timid appall,
Contrived to discover a hole in the wall,
Which was n't so thick
But removing a brick
Made a passage,—though rather provokingly small.
Through this little chink the lover could greet her,
And secrecy made their courting the sweeter,
While Peter kissed Thisbe and Thisbe kissed Peter,—
For kisses, like folks with diminutive souls,
Will manage to creep through the smallest of holes!
'T was here that the lovers, intent upon love,
Laid a nice little plot
To meet at a spot
Near a mulberry-tree in a neighboring grove;
For the plan was all laid
By the youth and the maid
(Whose hearts, it would seem, were uncommonly bold ones),
To run off and get married in spite of the old ones.
In the shadows of evening, as still as a mouse,
The beautiful maiden slipt out of the house,
The mulberry-tree impatient to find,
While Peter, the vigilant matrons to blind,
Strolled leisurely out some minutes behind.
While waiting alone by the trysting tree,
A terrible lion
As e'er you set eye on
Came roaring along quite horrid to see,
And caused the young maiden in terror to flee
(A lion 's a creature whose regular trade is
Blood,—and “a terrible thing among ladies”),
And losing her veil as she ran from the wood,
The monster bedabbled it over with blood.
The beautiful maiden slipt out of the house,
The mulberry-tree impatient to find,
While Peter, the vigilant matrons to blind,
Strolled leisurely out some minutes behind.
While waiting alone by the trysting tree,
A terrible lion
As e'er you set eye on
Came roaring along quite horrid to see,
And caused the young maiden in terror to flee
(A lion 's a creature whose regular trade is
Blood,—and “a terrible thing among ladies”),
And losing her veil as she ran from the wood,
The monster bedabbled it over with blood.
Now Peter arriving, and seeing the veil
All covered o'er
And reeking with gore,
Turned all of a sudden exceedingly pale,
And sat himself down to weep and to wail,—
For, soon as he saw the garment, poor Peter
Made up in his mind, in very short metre,
That Thisbe was dead, and the lion had eat her!
So breathing a prayer,
He determined to share
The fate of his darling, “the loved and the lost,”
And fell on his dagger, and gave up the ghost!
Now Thisbe returning, and viewing her beau,
Lying dead by the veil (which she happened to know),
She guessed, in a moment, the cause of his erring,
And seizing the knife
Which had taken his life,
In less than a jiffy was dead as a herring!
All covered o'er
And reeking with gore,
Turned all of a sudden exceedingly pale,
And sat himself down to weep and to wail,—
For, soon as he saw the garment, poor Peter
Made up in his mind, in very short metre,
That Thisbe was dead, and the lion had eat her!
So breathing a prayer,
He determined to share
The fate of his darling, “the loved and the lost,”
And fell on his dagger, and gave up the ghost!
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Lying dead by the veil (which she happened to know),
She guessed, in a moment, the cause of his erring,
And seizing the knife
Which had taken his life,
In less than a jiffy was dead as a herring!
MORAL.
Young gentlemen! pray recollect, if you please,
Not to make assignations near mulberry-trees;
Should your mistress be missing, it shows a weak head
To be stabbing yourself till you know she is dead.
Not to make assignations near mulberry-trees;
Should your mistress be missing, it shows a weak head
To be stabbing yourself till you know she is dead.
Young ladies! you should n't go strolling about
When your anxious mammas don't know you are out,
And remember that accidents often befall
From kissing young fellows through holes in the wall.
When your anxious mammas don't know you are out,
And remember that accidents often befall
From kissing young fellows through holes in the wall.
THE CHOICE OF KING MIDAS.
King Midas, prince of Phrygia, several thousand years ago,
Was a very worthy monarch, as the classic annals show;
You may read 'em at your leisure, when you have a mind to doze,
In the finest Latin verses, or in choice Hellenic prose.
Was a very worthy monarch, as the classic annals show;
You may read 'em at your leisure, when you have a mind to doze,
In the finest Latin verses, or in choice Hellenic prose.
Now this notable old monarch, King of Phrygia, as aforesaid
(Of whose royal state and character there might be vastly more said),
Though he occupied a palace, kept a very open door,
And had still a ready welcome for the stranger and the poor.
(Of whose royal state and character there might be vastly more said),
Though he occupied a palace, kept a very open door,
And had still a ready welcome for the stranger and the poor.
Now it chanced that old Silenus, who, it seems, had lost his way,
Following Bacchus through the forest, in the pleasant month of May
(Which was n't very singular, for at the present day
The followers of Bacchus very often go astray),
Following Bacchus through the forest, in the pleasant month of May
(Which was n't very singular, for at the present day
The followers of Bacchus very often go astray),
Came at last to good King Midas, who received him in his court,
Gave him comfortable lodgings, and—to cut the matter short—
With as much consideration treated weary old Silenus,
As if the entertainment were for Mercury or Venus.
Gave him comfortable lodgings, and—to cut the matter short—
With as much consideration treated weary old Silenus,
As if the entertainment were for Mercury or Venus.
Now when Bacchus heard the story, he proceeded to the king,
And says he: “By old Silenus you have done the handsome thing;
He 's my much-respected tutor, who has taught me how to read,
And I'm sure your royal kindness should receive its proper meed;
And says he: “By old Silenus you have done the handsome thing;
He 's my much-respected tutor, who has taught me how to read,
And I'm sure your royal kindness should receive its proper meed;
“So I grant you full permission to select your own reward.
Choose a gift to suit your fancy,—something worthy of a lord!”
“Bully Bacche!” cried the monarch, “if I do not make too bold,
Let whatever I may handle be transmuted into gold!”
Choose a gift to suit your fancy,—something worthy of a lord!”
“Bully Bacche!” cried the monarch, “if I do not make too bold,
Let whatever I may handle be transmuted into gold!”
Midas, sitting down to dinner, sees the answer to his wish,
For the turbot on the platter turns into a golden fish!
And the bread between his fingers is no longer wheaten bread,
But the slice he tries to swallow is a wedge of gold instead!
For the turbot on the platter turns into a golden fish!
And the bread between his fingers is no longer wheaten bread,
But the slice he tries to swallow is a wedge of gold instead!
And the roast he takes for mutton fills his mouth with golden meat,
Very tempting to the vision, but extremely hard to eat;
And the liquor in his goblet, very rare, select, and old,
Down the monarch's thirsty throttle runs a stream of liquid gold!
Very tempting to the vision, but extremely hard to eat;
And the liquor in his goblet, very rare, select, and old,
Down the monarch's thirsty throttle runs a stream of liquid gold!
Quite disgusted with his dining, he betakes him to his bed;
But, alas! the golden pillow does n't rest his weary head
Nor does all the gold around him soothe the monarch's tender skin;
Golden sheets, to sleepy mortals, might as well be sheets of tin.
But, alas! the golden pillow does n't rest his weary head
Nor does all the gold around him soothe the monarch's tender skin;
Golden sheets, to sleepy mortals, might as well be sheets of tin.
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Now poor Midas, straight repenting of his rash and foolish choice,
Went to Bacchus, and assured him, in a very plaintive voice,
That his golden gift was working in a manner most unpleasant,—
And the god, in sheer compassion, took away the fatal present.
Went to Bacchus, and assured him, in a very plaintive voice,
That his golden gift was working in a manner most unpleasant,—
And the god, in sheer compassion, took away the fatal present.
MORAL.
By this mythologic story we are very plainly told,That, though gold may have its uses, there are better things than gold;
That a man may sell his freedom to procure the shining pelf;
And that Avarice, though it prosper, still contrives to cheat itself.
PHAËTHON;
OR, THE AMATEUR COACHMAN.
Dan Phaëthon—so the histories run—
Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the Sun,—
Or rather of Phœbus: but as to his mother,
Genealogists make a dence of a pother,
Some going for one, and some for another.
For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer,
This roaring young blade was the son of Aurora!
Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the Sun,—
Or rather of Phœbus: but as to his mother,
Genealogists make a dence of a pother,
Some going for one, and some for another.
For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer,
This roaring young blade was the son of Aurora!
Now old Father Phœbus, are railways begun
To elevate funds and depreciate fun,
Drove a very fast coach by the name of “The Sun;”
Running, they say,
Trips every day
(On Sundays and all, in a heathenish way),
All lighted up with a famous array
Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display,
And dashing along like a gentleman's “shay,”
With never a fare, and nothing to pay!
Now Phaëthon begged of his doting old father
To grant him a favor, and this the rather,
Since some one had hinted, the youth to annoy,
That he was n't by any means Phœbus's boy!
Intending, the rascally son of a gun,
To darken the brow of the son of the Sun!
“By the terrible Styx!” said the angry sire,
While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire,
“To prove your reviler an infamous liar,
I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire!”
“Then by my head,”
The youngster said,
“I'll mount the coach when the horses are fed!—
For there's nothing I'd choose, as I'm alive,
Like a seat on the box, and a dashing drive!”
“Nay, Phaëthon, don't,—
I beg you won't,—
Just stop a moment and think upon't!”
“You 're quite too young,” continued the sage,
“To tend a coach at your tender age!
Besides, you see,
'T will really be
Your first appearance on any stage!
Desist, my child,
The cattle are wild,
And when their mettle is thoroughly ‘riled,’
Depend upon 't the coach'll be ‘spiled,’—
They 're not the fellows to draw it mild!
Desist, I say,
You'll rue the day,—
So mind, and don't be foolish, Pha!”
But the youth was proud,
And swore aloud,
'T was just the thing to astonish the crowd,—
He 'd have the horses and would n't be cowed!
In vain the boy was cautioned at large,
He called for the chargers, unheeding the charge,
And vowed that any young fellow of force
Could manage a dozen coursers, of course!
Now Phœbus felt exceedingly sorry
He had given his word in such a hurry,
But having sworn by the Styx, no doubt
He was in for it now, and could n't back out.
So calling Phaëthon up in a trice,
He gave the youth a bit of advice:—“
Parce stimulis, utere loris!
(A ‘stage direction,’ of which the core is,
Don't use the whip,—they 're ticklish things,—
But, whatever you do, hold on to the strings!)
Remember the rule of the Jehu-tribe is,
Medio tutissimus ibis,
As the Judge remarked to a rowdy Scotchman,
Who was going to quod between two watchmen!
So mind your eye, and spare your goad,
Be shy of the stones, and keep in the road!”
To elevate funds and depreciate fun,
Drove a very fast coach by the name of “The Sun;”
Running, they say,
Trips every day
(On Sundays and all, in a heathenish way),
All lighted up with a famous array
Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display,
And dashing along like a gentleman's “shay,”
With never a fare, and nothing to pay!
Now Phaëthon begged of his doting old father
To grant him a favor, and this the rather,
Since some one had hinted, the youth to annoy,
That he was n't by any means Phœbus's boy!
Intending, the rascally son of a gun,
To darken the brow of the son of the Sun!
“By the terrible Styx!” said the angry sire,
While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire,
“To prove your reviler an infamous liar,
I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire!”
“Then by my head,”
The youngster said,
“I'll mount the coach when the horses are fed!—
For there's nothing I'd choose, as I'm alive,
Like a seat on the box, and a dashing drive!”
“Nay, Phaëthon, don't,—
I beg you won't,—
Just stop a moment and think upon't!”
“You 're quite too young,” continued the sage,
“To tend a coach at your tender age!
Besides, you see,
'T will really be
Your first appearance on any stage!
Desist, my child,
The cattle are wild,
And when their mettle is thoroughly ‘riled,’
Depend upon 't the coach'll be ‘spiled,’—
They 're not the fellows to draw it mild!
Desist, I say,
You'll rue the day,—
So mind, and don't be foolish, Pha!”
But the youth was proud,
And swore aloud,
'T was just the thing to astonish the crowd,—
He 'd have the horses and would n't be cowed!
In vain the boy was cautioned at large,
He called for the chargers, unheeding the charge,
And vowed that any young fellow of force
Could manage a dozen coursers, of course!
Now Phœbus felt exceedingly sorry
He had given his word in such a hurry,
But having sworn by the Styx, no doubt
234
So calling Phaëthon up in a trice,
He gave the youth a bit of advice:—“
Parce stimulis, utere loris!
(A ‘stage direction,’ of which the core is,
Don't use the whip,—they 're ticklish things,—
But, whatever you do, hold on to the strings!)
Remember the rule of the Jehu-tribe is,
Medio tutissimus ibis,
As the Judge remarked to a rowdy Scotchman,
Who was going to quod between two watchmen!
So mind your eye, and spare your goad,
Be shy of the stones, and keep in the road!”
Now Phaëthon, perched in the coachman's place,
Drove off the steeds at a furious pace,
Fast as coursers running a race,
Or bounding along in a steeple-chase!
Of whip and shout there was no lack,
“Crack—whack—
Whack—crack,”
Resounded along the horses' back!
Frightened beneath the stinging lash,
Cutting their flanks in many a gash,
On, on they sped as swift as a flash,
Through thick and thin away they dash,
(Such rapid driving is always rash!)
When all at once, with a dreadful crash,
The whole “establishment” went to smash!
And Phaëthon, he,
As all agree,
Off the coach was suddenly hurled,
Into a puddle, and out of the world!
Drove off the steeds at a furious pace,
Fast as coursers running a race,
Or bounding along in a steeple-chase!
Of whip and shout there was no lack,
“Crack—whack—
Whack—crack,”
Resounded along the horses' back!
Frightened beneath the stinging lash,
Cutting their flanks in many a gash,
On, on they sped as swift as a flash,
Through thick and thin away they dash,
(Such rapid driving is always rash!)
When all at once, with a dreadful crash,
The whole “establishment” went to smash!
And Phaëthon, he,
As all agree,
Off the coach was suddenly hurled,
Into a puddle, and out of the world!
MORAL.
Don't rashly take to dangerous courses,—Nor set it down in your table of forces,
That any one man equals any four horses!
Don't swear by the Styx!—
It 's one of Old Nick's
Diabolical tricks
To get people into a regular “fix,”
And hold 'em there as fast as bricks!
POLYPHEMUS AND ULYSSES.
A very remarkable history this is
Of one Polyphemus and Captain Ulysses:
The latter a hero, accomplished and bold,
The former a knave, and a fright to behold,—
A horrid big giant who lived in a den,
And dined every day on a couple of men,
Ate a woman for breakfast, and (dreadful to see!)
Had a nice little baby served up with his tea;
Indeed, if there 's truth in the sprightly narration
Of Homer, a poet of some reputation,
Or Virgil, a writer but little inferior,
And in some things, perhaps, the other's superior,—
Polyphemus was truly a terrible creature,
In manners and morals, in form and in feature;
For law and religion he cared not a copper,
And, in short, led a life that was very improper:—
What made him a very remarkable guy,
Like the late Mr. Thompson, he 'd only one eye;
But that was a whopper,—a terrible one,—
“As large” (Virgil says) “as the disk of the sun;”
A brilliant, but rather extravagant figure,
Which means, I suppose, that his eye was much bigger
Than yours,—or even the orb of your sly
Old bachelor-friend who's “a wife in his eye.”
Ulysses, the hero I mentioned before,
Was shipwrecked, one day, on the pestilent shore
Where the Cyclops resided, along with their chief,
Polyphemus, the terrible man-eating thief,
Whose manners they copied, and laws they obeyed,
While driving their horrible cannibal trade.
With many expressions of civil regret
That Ulysses had got so unpleasantly wet,
With many expressions of pleasure profound
That all had escaped being thoroughly drowned,
The rascal declared he was “fond of the brave,”
And invited the strangers all home to his cave.
Of one Polyphemus and Captain Ulysses:
The latter a hero, accomplished and bold,
The former a knave, and a fright to behold,—
A horrid big giant who lived in a den,
And dined every day on a couple of men,
Ate a woman for breakfast, and (dreadful to see!)
Had a nice little baby served up with his tea;
Indeed, if there 's truth in the sprightly narration
Of Homer, a poet of some reputation,
Or Virgil, a writer but little inferior,
And in some things, perhaps, the other's superior,—
Polyphemus was truly a terrible creature,
In manners and morals, in form and in feature;
For law and religion he cared not a copper,
And, in short, led a life that was very improper:—
What made him a very remarkable guy,
Like the late Mr. Thompson, he 'd only one eye;
But that was a whopper,—a terrible one,—
“As large” (Virgil says) “as the disk of the sun;”
A brilliant, but rather extravagant figure,
Which means, I suppose, that his eye was much bigger
Than yours,—or even the orb of your sly
Old bachelor-friend who's “a wife in his eye.”
Ulysses, the hero I mentioned before,
Was shipwrecked, one day, on the pestilent shore
Where the Cyclops resided, along with their chief,
Polyphemus, the terrible man-eating thief,
Whose manners they copied, and laws they obeyed,
While driving their horrible cannibal trade.
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That Ulysses had got so unpleasantly wet,
With many expressions of pleasure profound
That all had escaped being thoroughly drowned,
The rascal declared he was “fond of the brave,”
And invited the strangers all home to his cave.
Here the cannibal king, with as little remorse
As an omnibus feels for the death of a horse,
Seized, crushed, and devoured a brace of the Greeks,
As a Welshman would swallow a couple of leeks,
Or a Frenchman, supplied with his usual prog,
Would punish the hams of a favorite frog.
Dashed and smashed against the stones,
He broke their bodies and cracked their bones,
Minding no more their moans and groans
Than the grinder heeds his organ's tones!
With purple gore the pavement swims,
While the giant crushes their crackling limbs,
And poor Ulysses trembles with fright
At the horrid sound, and the horrid sight,—
Trembles lest the monster grim
Should make his “nuts and raisins” of him!
And, really, since
The man was a Prince,
It 's not very odd that his Highness should wince
(Especially after such very strong hints),
At the cannibal's manner, as rather more free
Than his Highness at court was accustomed to see!
But the crafty Greek, to the tyrant's hurt
(Though he did n't deserve so fine a dessert),
Took a dozen of wine from his leather trunk,
And plied the giant until he was drunk!—
Drunker than any one you or I know,
Who buys his “Rhenish” with ready rhino,—
Exceedingly drunk,—Sepultus vino!
As an omnibus feels for the death of a horse,
Seized, crushed, and devoured a brace of the Greeks,
As a Welshman would swallow a couple of leeks,
Or a Frenchman, supplied with his usual prog,
Would punish the hams of a favorite frog.
Dashed and smashed against the stones,
He broke their bodies and cracked their bones,
Minding no more their moans and groans
Than the grinder heeds his organ's tones!
With purple gore the pavement swims,
While the giant crushes their crackling limbs,
And poor Ulysses trembles with fright
At the horrid sound, and the horrid sight,—
Trembles lest the monster grim
Should make his “nuts and raisins” of him!
And, really, since
The man was a Prince,
It 's not very odd that his Highness should wince
(Especially after such very strong hints),
At the cannibal's manner, as rather more free
Than his Highness at court was accustomed to see!
But the crafty Greek, to the tyrant's hurt
(Though he did n't deserve so fine a dessert),
Took a dozen of wine from his leather trunk,
And plied the giant until he was drunk!—
Drunker than any one you or I know,
Who buys his “Rhenish” with ready rhino,—
Exceedingly drunk,—Sepultus vino!
Gazing a moment upon the sleeper,
Ulysses cried: “Let's spoil his peeper!—
'T will put him, my boys, in a pretty trim,
If we can manage to douse his glim!”
So, taking a spar that was lying in sight,
They poked it into his “forward light,”
And gouged away with furious spite,
Ramming and jamming with all their might!
Ulysses cried: “Let's spoil his peeper!—
'T will put him, my boys, in a pretty trim,
If we can manage to douse his glim!”
So, taking a spar that was lying in sight,
They poked it into his “forward light,”
And gouged away with furious spite,
Ramming and jamming with all their might!
In vain the giant began to roar,
And even swore
That he never before
Had met, in his life, such a terrible bore.
They only plied the auger the more,
And mocked his grief with a bantering cry,
“Don't babble of pain,—It's all in your eye!”
Until, alas for the wretched Cyclops!
He gives a groan, and out his eye pops!
Leaving the knave, one need n't be told,
As blind as a puppy of three days old.
And even swore
That he never before
Had met, in his life, such a terrible bore.
They only plied the auger the more,
And mocked his grief with a bantering cry,
“Don't babble of pain,—It's all in your eye!”
Until, alas for the wretched Cyclops!
He gives a groan, and out his eye pops!
Leaving the knave, one need n't be told,
As blind as a puppy of three days old.
The rest of the tale I can't tell now,—
Except that Ulysses got out of the row,
With the rest of his crew,—it's no matter how;
While old Polyphemus, until he was dead,—
Which was n't till many years after, 't is said,—
Had a grief in his heart and a hole in his head!
Except that Ulysses got out of the row,
With the rest of his crew,—it's no matter how;
While old Polyphemus, until he was dead,—
Which was n't till many years after, 't is said,—
Had a grief in his heart and a hole in his head!
MORAL.
Don't use strong drink,—pray let me advise,—It 's bad for the stomach, and ruins the eyes;
Don't impose upon sailors with landlubber tricks,
Or you'll catch it some day like a thousand of bricks!
236
ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE.
Sir Orpheus, whom the poets have sung
In every metre and every tongue,
Was, you may remember, a famous musician,—
At least, for a youth in his pagan condition,—
For historians tell he played on his shell
From morning till night, so remarkably well
That his music created a regular spell
On trees and stones in forest and dell!
What sort of an instrument his could be
Is really more than is known to me,—
For none of the books have told, d'ye see!
It's very certain those heathen “swells”
Knew nothing at all of oyster-shells,
And it's clear Sir Orpheus never could own a
Shell like those they make in Cremona;
But whatever it was, to “move the stones”
It must have shelled out some powerful tones,
And entitled the player to rank in my rhyme
As the very Vieuxtemps of the very old time!
In every metre and every tongue,
Was, you may remember, a famous musician,—
At least, for a youth in his pagan condition,—
For historians tell he played on his shell
From morning till night, so remarkably well
That his music created a regular spell
On trees and stones in forest and dell!
What sort of an instrument his could be
Is really more than is known to me,—
For none of the books have told, d'ye see!
It's very certain those heathen “swells”
Knew nothing at all of oyster-shells,
And it's clear Sir Orpheus never could own a
Shell like those they make in Cremona;
But whatever it was, to “move the stones”
It must have shelled out some powerful tones,
And entitled the player to rank in my rhyme
As the very Vieuxtemps of the very old time!
But alas for the joys of this mutable life!
Sir Orpheus lost his beautiful wife,—
Eurydice,—who vanished one day
From Earth, in a very unpleasant way!
It chanced, as near as I can determine,
Through one of those vertebrated vermin
That lie in the grass so prettily curled,
Waiting to “snake” you out of the world!
And the poets tell she went to—well—
A place where Greeks and Romans dwell
After they burst their mortal shell;
A region that in the deepest shade is,
And known by the classical name of Hades,—
A different place from the terrible furnace
Of Tartarus, down below Avernus.
Sir Orpheus lost his beautiful wife,—
Eurydice,—who vanished one day
From Earth, in a very unpleasant way!
It chanced, as near as I can determine,
Through one of those vertebrated vermin
That lie in the grass so prettily curled,
Waiting to “snake” you out of the world!
And the poets tell she went to—well—
A place where Greeks and Romans dwell
After they burst their mortal shell;
A region that in the deepest shade is,
And known by the classical name of Hades,—
A different place from the terrible furnace
Of Tartarus, down below Avernus.
Now, having a heart uncommonly stout,
Sir Orpheus did n't go whining about,
Nor marry another, as you would, no doubt,
But made up his mind to fiddle her out!
But near the gate he had to wait,
For there in state old Cerberus sate.
A three-headed dog, as cruel as Fate,
Guarding the entrance early and late;
A beast so sagacious and very voracious,
So uncommonly sharp and extremely rapacious,
That it really may be doubted whether
He 'd have his match, should a common tether
Unite three aldermen's heads together!
Sir Orpheus did n't go whining about,
Nor marry another, as you would, no doubt,
But made up his mind to fiddle her out!
But near the gate he had to wait,
For there in state old Cerberus sate.
A three-headed dog, as cruel as Fate,
Guarding the entrance early and late;
A beast so sagacious and very voracious,
So uncommonly sharp and extremely rapacious,
That it really may be doubted whether
He 'd have his match, should a common tether
Unite three aldermen's heads together!
But Orpheus, not in the least afraid,
Tuned up his shell, and quickly essayed
What could be done with a serenade;
In short, so charming an air he played,
He quite succeeded in overreaching
The cunning cur, by musical teaching,
And put him to sleep as fast as preaching!
Tuned up his shell, and quickly essayed
What could be done with a serenade;
In short, so charming an air he played,
He quite succeeded in overreaching
The cunning cur, by musical teaching,
And put him to sleep as fast as preaching!
And now our musical champion, Orpheus,
Having given the janitor over to Morpheus,
Went groping around among the ladies
Who throng the dismal halls of Hades,
Calling aloud
To the shady crowd,
In a voice as shrill as a martial fife,
“Oh tell me where in hell is my wife!”
(A natural question, 't is very plain,
Although it may sound a little profane.)
“Eurydice! Eu-ryd-i-ce!”
He cried as loud as loud could be,—
(A singular sound, and funny withal,
In a place where nobody rides at all!)
“Eurydice!—Eurydice!
Oh come, my dear, along with me!”
And then he played so remarkably fine
That it really might be called divine,—
For who can show,
On earth or below,
Such wonderful feats in the musical line?
Having given the janitor over to Morpheus,
Went groping around among the ladies
Who throng the dismal halls of Hades,
Calling aloud
To the shady crowd,
In a voice as shrill as a martial fife,
“Oh tell me where in hell is my wife!”
(A natural question, 't is very plain,
Although it may sound a little profane.)
“Eurydice! Eu-ryd-i-ce!”
He cried as loud as loud could be,—
(A singular sound, and funny withal,
In a place where nobody rides at all!)
“Eurydice!—Eurydice!
Oh come, my dear, along with me!”
And then he played so remarkably fine
That it really might be called divine,—
For who can show,
On earth or below,
Such wonderful feats in the musical line?
E'en Tantalus ceased from trying to sip
The cup that flies from his arid lip;
Ixion, too, the magic could feel,
And, for a moment, blocked his wheel;
Poor Sisyphus, doomed to tumble and toss
The notable stone that gathers no moss,
Let go his burden, and turned to hear
The charming sounds that ravished his ear;
And even the Furies,—those terrible shrews
Whom no one before could ever amuse,—
Those strong-bodied ladies with strong-minded views
Whom even the Devil would doubtless refuse,
Were his Majesty only permitted to choose,—
Each felt for a moment her nature desert her,
And wept like a girl o'er the “Sorrows of Werther.”
The cup that flies from his arid lip;
Ixion, too, the magic could feel,
And, for a moment, blocked his wheel;
Poor Sisyphus, doomed to tumble and toss
The notable stone that gathers no moss,
237
The charming sounds that ravished his ear;
And even the Furies,—those terrible shrews
Whom no one before could ever amuse,—
Those strong-bodied ladies with strong-minded views
Whom even the Devil would doubtless refuse,
Were his Majesty only permitted to choose,—
Each felt for a moment her nature desert her,
And wept like a girl o'er the “Sorrows of Werther.”
And still Sir Orpheus chanted his song,
Sweet and clear and strong and long,
“Eurydice!—Eurydice!”
He cried as loud as loud could be;
And Echo, taking up the word,
Kept it up till the lady heard,
And came with joy to meet her lord.
And he led her along the infernal route,
Until he had got her almost out,
When, suddenly turning his head about
(To take a peep at his wife, no doubt),
He gave a groan,
For the lady was gone,
And had left him standing there all alone!
For by an oath the gods had bound
Sir Orpheus not to look around
Till he was clear of the sacred ground,
If he'd have Eurydice safe and sound;
For the moment he did an act so rash
His wife would vanish as quick as a flash!
Sweet and clear and strong and long,
“Eurydice!—Eurydice!”
He cried as loud as loud could be;
And Echo, taking up the word,
Kept it up till the lady heard,
And came with joy to meet her lord.
And he led her along the infernal route,
Until he had got her almost out,
When, suddenly turning his head about
(To take a peep at his wife, no doubt),
He gave a groan,
For the lady was gone,
And had left him standing there all alone!
For by an oath the gods had bound
Sir Orpheus not to look around
Till he was clear of the sacred ground,
If he'd have Eurydice safe and sound;
For the moment he did an act so rash
His wife would vanish as quick as a flash!
MORAL.
Young women! beware, for goodness' sake,
Of every sort of “sarpent snake;”
Remember the rogue is apt to deceive,
And played the deuce with Grandmother Eve!
Of every sort of “sarpent snake;”
Remember the rogue is apt to deceive,
And played the deuce with Grandmother Eve!
Young men! it 's a critical thing to go
Exactly right with a lady in tow;
But when you are in the proper track,
Just go ahead, and never look back!
Exactly right with a lady in tow;
But when you are in the proper track,
Just go ahead, and never look back!
JUPITER AND DANAË:
OR, HOW TO WIN A WOMAN.
Imperial Jove, who, with wonderful art,
Was one of those suitors that always prevail,
Once made an assault on so flinty a heart
That he feared for a while he was destined to fail.
Was one of those suitors that always prevail,
Once made an assault on so flinty a heart
That he feared for a while he was destined to fail.
A beautiful maiden, Miss Danaë by name,
The Olympian lover endeavored to win;
But she peeped from the casement whenever he came,
Exclaiming, “You 're handsome, but cannot come in!”
The Olympian lover endeavored to win;
But she peeped from the casement whenever he came,
Exclaiming, “You 're handsome, but cannot come in!”
With sweet adulation he tickled her ear;
But still at her window she quietly sat,
And said, though his speeches were pleasant to hear,
She 'd always been used to such homage as that!
But still at her window she quietly sat,
And said, though his speeches were pleasant to hear,
She 'd always been used to such homage as that!
Then he spoke, in a fervid and rapturous strain,
Of a bosom consuming with burning desire;
But his eloquent pleading was wholly in vain,—
She thought it imprudent to meddle with fire!
Of a bosom consuming with burning desire;
But his eloquent pleading was wholly in vain,—
She thought it imprudent to meddle with fire!
Then he begged her in mercy to pity his case,
And spoke of his dreadfully painful condition;
But the lady replied, with a sorrowful face,
She was only a maiden, and not a physician!
And spoke of his dreadfully painful condition;
But the lady replied, with a sorrowful face,
She was only a maiden, and not a physician!
In vain with these cunning conventional snares,
To win her the gallant Lothario strove;
In spite of his smiles, and his tears, and his prayers,
She could n't, she would n't, be courted by Jove!
To win her the gallant Lothario strove;
In spite of his smiles, and his tears, and his prayers,
She could n't, she would n't, be courted by Jove!
238
At last he contrived,—so the story is told,—
By some means or other, one evening, to pour
Plump into her apron a shower of gold,
Which opened her heart,—and unbolted her door!
By some means or other, one evening, to pour
Plump into her apron a shower of gold,
Which opened her heart,—and unbolted her door!
MORAL.
Hence suitors may learn in matters of love'T is idle in manners or merit to trust;
The only sure way is to imitate Jove,—
Just open your purse, and come down with the dust.
VENUS AND VULCAN:
OR, THE MYSTERY EXPLAINED.
When the peerless Aphrodite
First appeared among her kin,
What a flutter of excitement
All the goddesses were in!
First appeared among her kin,
What a flutter of excitement
All the goddesses were in!
How the gods, in deep amazement,
Bowed before the Queen of Beauty,
And in loyal adoration
Proffered each his humble duty!
Bowed before the Queen of Beauty,
And in loyal adoration
Proffered each his humble duty!
Phœbus, first, to greet her coming,
Met her with a grand oration;
Mars, who ne'er before had trembled,
Showed the plainest trepidation!
Met her with a grand oration;
Mars, who ne'er before had trembled,
Showed the plainest trepidation!
Hermes fairly lost his cunning,
Gazing at the new Elysian;
Plutus quite forgot his money
In the rapture of his vision!
Gazing at the new Elysian;
Plutus quite forgot his money
In the rapture of his vision!
Even Jove was deeply smitten
(So the Grecian poets tell us),
And, as might have been expected,
Juno was extremely jealous!
(So the Grecian poets tell us),
And, as might have been expected,
Juno was extremely jealous!
Staid Minerva thought her silly;
Chaste Diana called her vain;
But not one of all the ladies
Dared to say that she was “plain”!
Chaste Diana called her vain;
But not one of all the ladies
Dared to say that she was “plain”!
Surely such a throng of lovers
Never mortal yet could boast;
Everywhere throughout Olympus
“Charming Venus!” was the toast!
Never mortal yet could boast;
Everywhere throughout Olympus
“Charming Venus!” was the toast!
Even Vulcan, lame and ugly,
Paid the dame his awkward court;
But the goddess, in derision,
Turned his passion into sport;
Paid the dame his awkward court;
But the goddess, in derision,
Turned his passion into sport;
Laughed aloud at all his pleading,
Bade him wash his visage sooty,
And go wooing with the Harpies,
What had he to do with Beauty?
Bade him wash his visage sooty,
And go wooing with the Harpies,
What had he to do with Beauty?
Well—how fared it with the goddess?
Sure, the haughty queen of love,
Choosing one to suit her fancy,
Married Phœbus, Mars, or Jove?
Sure, the haughty queen of love,
Choosing one to suit her fancy,
Married Phœbus, Mars, or Jove?
No!—at last—as often happens
To coquettes of lower station—
Venus found herself neglected,
With a damaged reputation;
To coquettes of lower station—
Venus found herself neglected,
With a damaged reputation;
And esteeming any husband
More desirable than none,
She was glad to marry Vulcan
As the best that could be done!
More desirable than none,
She was glad to marry Vulcan
As the best that could be done!
L'ENVOI.
Hence you learn the real reason,Which your wonder oft arouses,
Why so many handsome women
Have such very ugly spouses!
RICHARD OF GLOSTER.
A TRAVESTY.
Perhaps, my dear boy, you may never have heard
Of that wicked old monarch, King Richard the Third,—
Whose actions were often extremely absurd;
And who lived such a sad life,
Such a wanton and mad life;
Indeed, I may say, such a wretchedly bad life,
I suppose I am perfectly safe in declaring,
There was ne'er such a monster of infamous daring.
In all sorts of crime he was wholly unsparing;
In pride and ambition was quite beyond bearing;
And had a bad habit of cursing and swearing.
I must own, my dear boy, I have more than suspected
The King's education was rather neglected;
And that at your school with any two “Dicks”
Whom your excellent teacher diurnally pricks
In his neat little tables, in order to fix
Each pupil's progression with numeral nicks,
Master Richard Y. Gloster would often have heard
His standing recorded as “Richard—the third!”
But whatever of learning his Majesty had,
'T is clear the King's English was shockingly bad.
At the slightest pretense
Of disloyal offense,
His anger exceeded all reason or sense;
And, having no need to foster or nurse it, he
Would open his wrath, then, as if to disperse it, he
Would scatter his curses like College degrees;
And, quite at his ease,
Conferred his “d-d's,”
As plenty and cheap as a young University!
And yet Richard's tongue was remarkably smooth,
Could utter a lie quite as easy as truth
(Another bad habit he got in his youth),
And had, on occasion, a powerful battery
Of plausible phrases and eloquent flattery,
Which gave him, my boy, in that barbarous day
(Things are different now, I am happy to say),
Over feminine hearts a most perilous sway.
The women, in spite of an odious hump
Which he wore on his back, all thought him a trump;
And just when he 'd played them the scurviest trick,
They'd swear in their hearts that this crooked old stick,—
This treacherous, dangerous, dissolute Dick,
For honor and virtue beat Cato all hollow;
And in figure and face was another Apollo!
Of that wicked old monarch, King Richard the Third,—
Whose actions were often extremely absurd;
And who lived such a sad life,
Such a wanton and mad life;
Indeed, I may say, such a wretchedly bad life,
I suppose I am perfectly safe in declaring,
There was ne'er such a monster of infamous daring.
In all sorts of crime he was wholly unsparing;
In pride and ambition was quite beyond bearing;
And had a bad habit of cursing and swearing.
239
The King's education was rather neglected;
And that at your school with any two “Dicks”
Whom your excellent teacher diurnally pricks
In his neat little tables, in order to fix
Each pupil's progression with numeral nicks,
Master Richard Y. Gloster would often have heard
His standing recorded as “Richard—the third!”
But whatever of learning his Majesty had,
'T is clear the King's English was shockingly bad.
At the slightest pretense
Of disloyal offense,
His anger exceeded all reason or sense;
And, having no need to foster or nurse it, he
Would open his wrath, then, as if to disperse it, he
Would scatter his curses like College degrees;
And, quite at his ease,
Conferred his “d-d's,”
As plenty and cheap as a young University!
And yet Richard's tongue was remarkably smooth,
Could utter a lie quite as easy as truth
(Another bad habit he got in his youth),
And had, on occasion, a powerful battery
Of plausible phrases and eloquent flattery,
Which gave him, my boy, in that barbarous day
(Things are different now, I am happy to say),
Over feminine hearts a most perilous sway.
The women, in spite of an odious hump
Which he wore on his back, all thought him a trump;
And just when he 'd played them the scurviest trick,
They'd swear in their hearts that this crooked old stick,—
This treacherous, dangerous, dissolute Dick,
For honor and virtue beat Cato all hollow;
And in figure and face was another Apollo!
He murdered their brothers,
And fathers and mothers;
And, worse than all that, he slaughtered by dozens
His own royal uncles and nephews and cousins;
And then, in the cunningest sort of orations,
In smooth conversations,
And flattering ovations,
Made love to the principal female relations!
'T was very improper, my boy, you must know,
For the son of a King to behave himself so;
And you'll scarcely believe what the chronicles show
Of his wonderful wooings,
And infamous doings;
But here 's an exploit that he certainly did do,—
Killed his own cousin Ned,
As he slept in his bed,
And married, next day, the disconsolate widow!
And fathers and mothers;
And, worse than all that, he slaughtered by dozens
His own royal uncles and nephews and cousins;
And then, in the cunningest sort of orations,
In smooth conversations,
And flattering ovations,
Made love to the principal female relations!
'T was very improper, my boy, you must know,
For the son of a King to behave himself so;
And you'll scarcely believe what the chronicles show
Of his wonderful wooings,
And infamous doings;
But here 's an exploit that he certainly did do,—
Killed his own cousin Ned,
As he slept in his bed,
And married, next day, the disconsolate widow!
I don't understand how such ogres arise,
But beginning, perhaps, with things little in size,
Such as torturing beetles and blue-bottle-flies,
Or scattering snuff in a poodle-dog's eyes,—
King Richard had grown so wantonly cruel,
He minded a murder no more than a duel;
He 'd indulge, on the slightest pretense or occasion,
In his favorite amusement of decapitation,
Until “Off with his head!”
It is credibly said,
From his Majesty's mouth came as easy and pat
As from an old constable, “Off with his hat!”
One really shivers,
And fairly quivers,
To think of the treatment of Grey and Rivers
And Hastings and Vaughn and other good livers,
All suddenly sent, at the tap of a drum,
From the Kingdom of England to Kingdom-Come!
Of Buckingham doomed to a tragical end
For being the tyrant's particular friend;
Of Clarence who died, it is mournful to think,
Of wine that he was n't permitted to drink;
And the beautiful babies of royal blood,
Two little White Roses both nipt in the bud;
And silly Queen Anne,—what sorrow it cost her
(And served her right!) for daring to foster
The impudent suit of this Richard of Gloster,
Who, instead of conferring a royal gratuity,
A dower, or even a decent Anne-uity,
Just gave her a portion of—something or other
That made her as quiet as Pharaoh's mother!
But beginning, perhaps, with things little in size,
Such as torturing beetles and blue-bottle-flies,
Or scattering snuff in a poodle-dog's eyes,—
King Richard had grown so wantonly cruel,
He minded a murder no more than a duel;
He 'd indulge, on the slightest pretense or occasion,
In his favorite amusement of decapitation,
Until “Off with his head!”
It is credibly said,
From his Majesty's mouth came as easy and pat
As from an old constable, “Off with his hat!”
One really shivers,
And fairly quivers,
To think of the treatment of Grey and Rivers
240
All suddenly sent, at the tap of a drum,
From the Kingdom of England to Kingdom-Come!
Of Buckingham doomed to a tragical end
For being the tyrant's particular friend;
Of Clarence who died, it is mournful to think,
Of wine that he was n't permitted to drink;
And the beautiful babies of royal blood,
Two little White Roses both nipt in the bud;
And silly Queen Anne,—what sorrow it cost her
(And served her right!) for daring to foster
The impudent suit of this Richard of Gloster,
Who, instead of conferring a royal gratuity,
A dower, or even a decent Anne-uity,
Just gave her a portion of—something or other
That made her as quiet as Pharaoh's mother!
Ah Richard! you're going it quite too fast;
Your doom is slow, but it's coming at last;
Your bloody crown
Will topple down,
And you'll be done uncommonly brown!
Your foes are thick,
My daring Dick,
And Richmond, a prince, and a regular brick,
Is after you now with a very sharp stick!
Your doom is slow, but it's coming at last;
Your bloody crown
Will topple down,
And you'll be done uncommonly brown!
Your foes are thick,
My daring Dick,
And Richmond, a prince, and a regular brick,
Is after you now with a very sharp stick!
On Bosworth field the armies to-night
Are pitching their tents in each other's sight;
And to-morrow! to-morrow! they 're going to fight!
And now King Richard has gone to bed;
But e'en in his sleep
He cannot keep
The past or the future out of his head.
In his deep remorse
Each mangled corse
Of all he had slain,—or, what was worse,
Their ghosts,—came up in terrible force,
And greeted his ear with unpleasant discourse,
Until, with a scream,
He woke from his dream,
And shouted aloud for “another horse!”
Are pitching their tents in each other's sight;
And to-morrow! to-morrow! they 're going to fight!
And now King Richard has gone to bed;
But e'en in his sleep
He cannot keep
The past or the future out of his head.
In his deep remorse
Each mangled corse
Of all he had slain,—or, what was worse,
Their ghosts,—came up in terrible force,
And greeted his ear with unpleasant discourse,
Until, with a scream,
He woke from his dream,
And shouted aloud for “another horse!”
Perhaps you may think, my little dear,
King Richard's request was rather queer;
But I'll presently make it exceedingly clear:—
The royal sleeper was overfed!
I mean to say that, against his habit,
He 'd eaten Welsh-rabbit
With very bad whiskey on going to bed.
I 've had the Night-Mare with horrible force,
And much prefer a different horse!
King Richard's request was rather queer;
But I'll presently make it exceedingly clear:—
The royal sleeper was overfed!
I mean to say that, against his habit,
He 'd eaten Welsh-rabbit
With very bad whiskey on going to bed.
I 've had the Night-Mare with horrible force,
And much prefer a different horse!
But see! the murky night is gone!
The Morn is up, and the Fight is on!
The Knights are engaging, the warfare is waging,
On the right, on the left, the battle is raging;
King Richard is down!
Will he save his crown?
There's a crack in it now!—he 's beginning to bleed!
Aha! King Richard has lost his steed!
(At a moment like this 't is a terrible need!)
He shouts aloud with thundering force,
And offers a very high price for a horse,
But it 's all in vain,—the battle is done,—
The day is lost!—and the day is won!—
And Richmond is King! and Richard's a corse!
The Morn is up, and the Fight is on!
The Knights are engaging, the warfare is waging,
On the right, on the left, the battle is raging;
King Richard is down!
Will he save his crown?
There's a crack in it now!—he 's beginning to bleed!
Aha! King Richard has lost his steed!
(At a moment like this 't is a terrible need!)
He shouts aloud with thundering force,
And offers a very high price for a horse,
But it 's all in vain,—the battle is done,—
The day is lost!—and the day is won!—
And Richmond is King! and Richard's a corse!
MORAL.
Remember, my boy, that moral enormitiesAre apt to attend corporeal deformities.
Whatever you have, or whatever you lack,
Beware of getting a crook in your back;
And, while you 're about it, I'd very much rather
You 'd grow tall and superb, i. e. copy your father!
Don't learn to be cruel, pray let me advise,
By torturing beetles and blue-bottle-flies,
Or scattering snuff in a poodle-dog's eyes.
If you ever should marry, remember to wed
A handsome, plump, modest, sweet-spoken, well-bred,
And sensible maiden of twenty,—instead
Of a widow whose husband is recently dead!
If you 'd shun in your naps those horrible Incubi,
Beware what you eat, and be careful what drink you buy;
Or else you may see, in your sleep's perturbations,
Some old and uncommonly ugly relations,
Who'll be very apt to disturb your nutations
By unpleasant allusions and rude observations!
By torturing beetles and blue-bottle-flies,
Or scattering snuff in a poodle-dog's eyes.
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A handsome, plump, modest, sweet-spoken, well-bred,
And sensible maiden of twenty,—instead
Of a widow whose husband is recently dead!
If you 'd shun in your naps those horrible Incubi,
Beware what you eat, and be careful what drink you buy;
Or else you may see, in your sleep's perturbations,
Some old and uncommonly ugly relations,
Who'll be very apt to disturb your nutations
By unpleasant allusions and rude observations!
OTHELLO, THE MOOR.
Romances of late are so wretchedly poor,
Here goes for the old one:—Othello, the Moor;
A warrior of note, and by no means a boor,
Though the skin on his face
Was as black as the ace
Of spades: or (a simile nearer the case)
Say, black as the Deuce; or black as a brace
Of very black cats in a very dark place!
That 's the German idea;
But how he could be a
Regular negro don't seem very clear;
For Horace, you know,
A great while ago,
Put a sentiment forth which we all must agree to:
“Hic niger est; hunc tu, Romane, caveto!”
(A nigger's a rascal that one ought to see to.)
I rather, in sooth,
Think it nearer the truth
To take the opinion of young Mr. Booth,
Who makes his Othello
A grim-looking fellow
Of a color compounded of lamp-black and yellow.
Now Captain Othello, a true son of Mars,
The foe being vanquished, returned from the wars,
All covered with ribbons, and garters, and stars,
Not to mention a score of magnificent scars;
And calling, one day,
In a neighborly way,
On Signor Brabantio,—one of the men
Who figured in Venice as Senator then,—
Was invited to tell
Of all that befell
Himself and his friends while campaigning so well,
From the time of his boyhood till now he was grown
The greatest of Captains that Venice had known.
As a neighbor should do,
He ran it quite through,
(I would n't be bail it was all of it true),
Recounting, with ardor, such trophies and glories,
Among Ottoman rebels and Cyprian tories,
Not omitting a parcel of cock-and-bull stories,—
That he quite won the heart of the Senator's daughter,
Who, like most of the sex, had a passion for slaughter:
And was wondrously bold
In battles,—as told
By brilliant romancers, who picture in gold
What, in its own hue, you 'd be shocked to behold.
Here goes for the old one:—Othello, the Moor;
A warrior of note, and by no means a boor,
Though the skin on his face
Was as black as the ace
Of spades: or (a simile nearer the case)
Say, black as the Deuce; or black as a brace
Of very black cats in a very dark place!
That 's the German idea;
But how he could be a
Regular negro don't seem very clear;
For Horace, you know,
A great while ago,
Put a sentiment forth which we all must agree to:
“Hic niger est; hunc tu, Romane, caveto!”
(A nigger's a rascal that one ought to see to.)
I rather, in sooth,
Think it nearer the truth
To take the opinion of young Mr. Booth,
Who makes his Othello
A grim-looking fellow
Of a color compounded of lamp-black and yellow.
Now Captain Othello, a true son of Mars,
The foe being vanquished, returned from the wars,
All covered with ribbons, and garters, and stars,
Not to mention a score of magnificent scars;
And calling, one day,
In a neighborly way,
On Signor Brabantio,—one of the men
Who figured in Venice as Senator then,—
Was invited to tell
Of all that befell
Himself and his friends while campaigning so well,
From the time of his boyhood till now he was grown
The greatest of Captains that Venice had known.
As a neighbor should do,
He ran it quite through,
(I would n't be bail it was all of it true),
Recounting, with ardor, such trophies and glories,
Among Ottoman rebels and Cyprian tories,
Not omitting a parcel of cock-and-bull stories,—
That he quite won the heart of the Senator's daughter,
Who, like most of the sex, had a passion for slaughter:
And was wondrously bold
In battles,—as told
By brilliant romancers, who picture in gold
What, in its own hue, you 'd be shocked to behold.
Now Captain Othello, who never had known a
Young lady so lovely as “Fair Desdemona,”
Not even his patroness, Madam Bellona,—
Was delighted, one day,
At hearing her say,
Of all men in the world he'd the charmingest way
Of talking to women; and if any one should,
(Tho' she did n't imagine that any one would,—
For where, to be sure, was another who could?)
But if—and suppose—a lover came to her,
And told her his story, 't would certainly woo her.
With so lucid a hint,
The dickens were in 't,
If he could n't have read her as easy as print;
And thus came of course,—but as to the rest,—
The billing and cooing I leave to be guessed,—
And how, when their passion was fairly confessed,
They sent for a parson to render them “blest,”—
Although it was done, I am sorry to say,
In what Mrs. P.—had it happened to-day—
Would be likely to call a clamdestiny way!
I cannot recount
One half the amount
Of curses that burst from his cardiac fount
When Signor Brabantio learned that the Moor
Had married his daughter: “How dared he to woo her?
The sooty-skinned knave,—thus to blight and undo her?
With what villanous potions the scoundrelly sinner
Must have poisoned her senses in order to win her!”
And more of the same,—
But my language is lame,
E'en a fishwoman's tongue were decidedly tame
A tithe of the epithets even to name,
Compounded of scorn and derision and hate,
Which Signor Brabantio poured on the pate
Of the beautiful girl's nigritudinous mate!
I cannot delay
To speak of the way
The matter was settled; suffice it to say
'T was exactly the same as you see in a play,
Where the lady persuades her affectionate sire
That the fault was her own,—which softens his ire,
And, though for a season extremely annoyed,
At last he approves—what he cannot avoid!
Philosophers tell us
A mind like Othello's—
Strong, manly, and brave—is n't apt to be jealous;
But now, you must know,
The Moor had a foe,
Iago, by name, who concealed with a show
Of honest behavior the wickedest heart
That Satan e'er filled with his treacherous art,
And who, as a friend,
Was accustomed to lend
His gifts to the most diabolical end,
To wit, the destruction of Captain Othello,
Desdemona, his wife, and an excellent fellow,
One Cassio, a soldier,—too apt to get mellow,—
But as honest a man as ever broke bread,
A bottle of wine, or an Ottoman head.
Young lady so lovely as “Fair Desdemona,”
Not even his patroness, Madam Bellona,—
Was delighted, one day,
At hearing her say,
Of all men in the world he'd the charmingest way
Of talking to women; and if any one should,
(Tho' she did n't imagine that any one would,—
For where, to be sure, was another who could?)
But if—and suppose—a lover came to her,
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With so lucid a hint,
The dickens were in 't,
If he could n't have read her as easy as print;
And thus came of course,—but as to the rest,—
The billing and cooing I leave to be guessed,—
And how, when their passion was fairly confessed,
They sent for a parson to render them “blest,”—
Although it was done, I am sorry to say,
In what Mrs. P.—had it happened to-day—
Would be likely to call a clamdestiny way!
I cannot recount
One half the amount
Of curses that burst from his cardiac fount
When Signor Brabantio learned that the Moor
Had married his daughter: “How dared he to woo her?
The sooty-skinned knave,—thus to blight and undo her?
With what villanous potions the scoundrelly sinner
Must have poisoned her senses in order to win her!”
And more of the same,—
But my language is lame,
E'en a fishwoman's tongue were decidedly tame
A tithe of the epithets even to name,
Compounded of scorn and derision and hate,
Which Signor Brabantio poured on the pate
Of the beautiful girl's nigritudinous mate!
I cannot delay
To speak of the way
The matter was settled; suffice it to say
'T was exactly the same as you see in a play,
Where the lady persuades her affectionate sire
That the fault was her own,—which softens his ire,
And, though for a season extremely annoyed,
At last he approves—what he cannot avoid!
Philosophers tell us
A mind like Othello's—
Strong, manly, and brave—is n't apt to be jealous;
But now, you must know,
The Moor had a foe,
Iago, by name, who concealed with a show
Of honest behavior the wickedest heart
That Satan e'er filled with his treacherous art,
And who, as a friend,
Was accustomed to lend
His gifts to the most diabolical end,
To wit, the destruction of Captain Othello,
Desdemona, his wife, and an excellent fellow,
One Cassio, a soldier,—too apt to get mellow,—
But as honest a man as ever broke bread,
A bottle of wine, or an Ottoman head.
'T is a very long story,
And would certainly bore ye,
Being not very brilliant with grandeur or glory,
How the wicked Iago contrived to abuse
The gallant Othello respecting his views
Of his fair lady's honor;
Reflecting upon her
In damnable hints, and by fragments of news
About palming and presents, himself had invented,
Until the poor husband was fairly demented,
And railed at his wife, like a cowardly varlet,
And gave her an epithet,—rhyming with scarlet,
And prated of Cassio with virulent spleen,
And called for a handkerchief some one had seen,
And wanted to know what the deuce it could mean?
And—to state the case honestly—really acted
In the manner that women call “raving-distracted!”
And would certainly bore ye,
Being not very brilliant with grandeur or glory,
How the wicked Iago contrived to abuse
The gallant Othello respecting his views
Of his fair lady's honor;
Reflecting upon her
In damnable hints, and by fragments of news
About palming and presents, himself had invented,
Until the poor husband was fairly demented,
And railed at his wife, like a cowardly varlet,
And gave her an epithet,—rhyming with scarlet,
And prated of Cassio with virulent spleen,
And called for a handkerchief some one had seen,
And wanted to know what the deuce it could mean?
And—to state the case honestly—really acted
In the manner that women call “raving-distracted!”
It is sad to record
How her lunatic lord
Spurned all explanation the dame could afford,
And still kept repeating the odious word,
So false, and so foul to a virtuous ear,
That I could n't be tempted to mention it here.
'T is sadder to tell
Of the crime that befell,
When, moved, it would seem, by the demons of hell,
He seized a knife,
And, kissing his wife,
Extinguished the light of her innocent life;
And how, also, before the poor body was cool,
He found he had acted as villany's tool,
And died exclaiming, “O fool! fool! FOOL!”
How her lunatic lord
Spurned all explanation the dame could afford,
243
So false, and so foul to a virtuous ear,
That I could n't be tempted to mention it here.
'T is sadder to tell
Of the crime that befell,
When, moved, it would seem, by the demons of hell,
He seized a knife,
And, kissing his wife,
Extinguished the light of her innocent life;
And how, also, before the poor body was cool,
He found he had acted as villany's tool,
And died exclaiming, “O fool! fool! FOOL!”
MORAL.
Young ladies!—beware of hasty connections;
And don't marry suitors with swarthy complexions;
For though they may chance to be capital fellows,
Depend upon it, they're apt to be jealous!
And don't marry suitors with swarthy complexions;
For though they may chance to be capital fellows,
Depend upon it, they're apt to be jealous!
Young gentlemen! pray recollect, if you can,
To give a wide birth to a meddlesome man;
And horsewhip the knave who would poison your life
By breeding distrust between you and your wife!
To give a wide birth to a meddlesome man;
And horsewhip the knave who would poison your life
By breeding distrust between you and your wife!
| The poetical works of John Godfrey Saxe | |