 | Poems by John Godfrey Saxe. Complete in one volume : thirty-fifth edition |  |
57
To Mrs. George P. Marsh:
A Lady endowed with the best Gifts of Nature and Culture, and adorned with all Womanly Graces,—this volume is inscribed by her Friend,
The Author.
58
THE DOG-DAYS.
“Hot! hot!—all piping hot.”—
City Cries.
City Cries.
Heaven help us all in these terrific days!
The burning sun upon the earth is pelting
With his directest, fiercest, hottest rays,
And everything is melting!
The burning sun upon the earth is pelting
With his directest, fiercest, hottest rays,
And everything is melting!
Fat men, infatuate, fan the stagnant air,
In rash essay to cool their inward glowing,
While with each stroke, in dolorous despair,
They feel the fever growing!
In rash essay to cool their inward glowing,
While with each stroke, in dolorous despair,
They feel the fever growing!
The lean and lathy find a fate as hard,
For, all a-dry, they burn like any tinder
Beneath the solar blaze, till withered, charred,
And crisped away to cinder!
For, all a-dry, they burn like any tinder
Beneath the solar blaze, till withered, charred,
And crisped away to cinder!
E'en Stoics now are in the melting mood,
And vestal cheeks are most unseemly florid;
The very zone that girts the frigid prude
Is now intensely torrid!
And vestal cheeks are most unseemly florid;
The very zone that girts the frigid prude
Is now intensely torrid!
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The dogs lie lolling in the deepest shade;
The pigs are all a-wallow in the gutters,
And not a household creature—cat or maid,
But querulously mutters!
The pigs are all a-wallow in the gutters,
And not a household creature—cat or maid,
But querulously mutters!
‘'Tis dreadful, dreadful hot!’ exclaims each one
Unto his sweating, sweltering, roasting neighbor,
Then mops his brow, and sighs, as he had done
A quite herculean labor!
Unto his sweating, sweltering, roasting neighbor,
Then mops his brow, and sighs, as he had done
A quite herculean labor!
And friends who pass each other in the town
Say no good-morrows when they come together,
But only mutter, with a dismal frown,
‘What horrid, horrid weather!’
Say no good-morrows when they come together,
But only mutter, with a dismal frown,
‘What horrid, horrid weather!’
While prudent mortals curb with strictest care
All vagrant curs, it seems the queerest puzzle
The Dog-star rages rabid through the air,
Without the slightest muzzle!
All vagrant curs, it seems the queerest puzzle
The Dog-star rages rabid through the air,
Without the slightest muzzle!
But Jove is wise and equal in his sway,
Howe'er it seems to clash with human reason,
His fiery dogs will soon have had their day,
And men shall have a season!
Howe'er it seems to clash with human reason,
His fiery dogs will soon have had their day,
And men shall have a season!
69
WOMAN'S WILL.
AN EPIGRAM.
Men dying make their wills,—but wivesEscape a work so sad;
Why should they make what all their lives
The gentle dames have had?
80
GUNEOPATHY.
I saw a lady yesterday,
A regular M. D.,
Who 'd taken from the Faculty
Her medical degree;
And I thought, if ever I was sick,
My doctor she should be!
A regular M. D.,
Who 'd taken from the Faculty
Her medical degree;
And I thought, if ever I was sick,
My doctor she should be!
I pity the deluded man
Who foolishly consults
Another man, in hopes to find
Such magical results
As when a pretty woman lays
Her hand upon his pulse!
Who foolishly consults
Another man, in hopes to find
Such magical results
As when a pretty woman lays
Her hand upon his pulse!
I had a strange disorder once,
A kind of chronic chill,
That all the doctors in the town,
With all their vaunted skill,
Could never cure, I'm very sure,
With powder nor with pill;
A kind of chronic chill,
That all the doctors in the town,
With all their vaunted skill,
Could never cure, I'm very sure,
With powder nor with pill;
I don't know what they called it
In their pompous terms of Art,
Nor if they thought it mortal
In such a vital part,—
I only know 't was reckoned
‘Something icy round the heart’!
In their pompous terms of Art,
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In such a vital part,—
I only know 't was reckoned
‘Something icy round the heart’!
A lady came,—her presence brought
The blood into my ears!
She took my hand—and something like
A fever now appears!
Great Galen!—I was all aglow,
Though I'd been cold for years!
The blood into my ears!
She took my hand—and something like
A fever now appears!
Great Galen!—I was all aglow,
Though I'd been cold for years!
Perhaps it is n't every case
That's fairly in her reach,
But should I e'er be ill again,
I fervently beseech
That I may have, for life or death,
A lady for my ‘leech’!
That's fairly in her reach,
But should I e'er be ill again,
I fervently beseech
That I may have, for life or death,
A lady for my ‘leech’!
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THE TIMES.
A POEM READ BEFORE THE BOSTON MERCANTILE LIBRARY ASSOCIATION, NOVEMBER 14, 1849.
The Muses once,—so sacred myths declare,—
(See classic Keightly, Cruzer, or Lempriere,)—
On cleft Parnassus held a lofty seat,
Where, in the quiet of their calm retreat,
With sweet accord they spent the rosy hours,
And wove bright garlands of perennial flowers;
Nine blooming sisters, each with separate aim,
Yet all rejoicing in the common fame,
Alone attentive to their high behests,
No jealous cares disturbed their tender breasts,
For Phœbus, watchful of the sacred Nine,
Warned off intruders with a magic sign!—
You've seen the like in Lowell mills, where scores,
In gold or ochre, guard the inner doors;
A frequent sight in any factory town,
Where idle cit, or curious country clown,
Reads, at a glance, in letters large and clear,
The startling caution,—‘No admittance here!’
(See classic Keightly, Cruzer, or Lempriere,)—
On cleft Parnassus held a lofty seat,
Where, in the quiet of their calm retreat,
With sweet accord they spent the rosy hours,
And wove bright garlands of perennial flowers;
Nine blooming sisters, each with separate aim,
Yet all rejoicing in the common fame,
Alone attentive to their high behests,
No jealous cares disturbed their tender breasts,
For Phœbus, watchful of the sacred Nine,
Warned off intruders with a magic sign!—
You've seen the like in Lowell mills, where scores,
In gold or ochre, guard the inner doors;
A frequent sight in any factory town,
Where idle cit, or curious country clown,
Reads, at a glance, in letters large and clear,
The startling caution,—‘No admittance here!’
What amorous bard, the hidden Nine to view,
First scaled the wall, or forced a passage through,—
What ‘gay Lothario’ found at length a way
To win the maids and lead them all astray,—
Is yet unknown:—this only can be told,
Some curst intruder broke Apollo's fold,
And all-remorseless for the grave abuse,
In Phœbus' spite let all the Muses loose!
Far from their old Parnassian groves to roam,—
To grace, instead, some airy garret-home,
(Where, free from bailiffs, poetasters rhyme,
And, thankless, waste their tapers and their time,
While through the night they fondly toil for naught,
Angling in inkstands for some gudgeon-thought).
Nor this the worst that sprang from such a cause.
Released at once from chaste Diana's laws,
All moral canons eager now to waive,
Save only those that wanton Nature gave,
The Nine are grown a thousand!—and the Earth
Hails every morning yet another birth!
First scaled the wall, or forced a passage through,—
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To win the maids and lead them all astray,—
Is yet unknown:—this only can be told,
Some curst intruder broke Apollo's fold,
And all-remorseless for the grave abuse,
In Phœbus' spite let all the Muses loose!
Far from their old Parnassian groves to roam,—
To grace, instead, some airy garret-home,
(Where, free from bailiffs, poetasters rhyme,
And, thankless, waste their tapers and their time,
While through the night they fondly toil for naught,
Angling in inkstands for some gudgeon-thought).
Nor this the worst that sprang from such a cause.
Released at once from chaste Diana's laws,
All moral canons eager now to waive,
Save only those that wanton Nature gave,
The Nine are grown a thousand!—and the Earth
Hails every morning yet another birth!
What hinders then, when every youth may choose,
As Fancy bids, a musket or a Muse,
And throw his lead among his fellow-men,
From the dark muzzle of a gun or pen;
When blooming school-girls, who absurdly think
That naught but drapery can be spoiled with ink,
Ply ceaseless quills, that, true to early use,
Keep the old habit of the pristine goose,
While each, a special Sappho in her teens,
Shines forth a goddess in the magazines;
When waning spinsters, happy to rehearse
Their maiden griefs in doubly grievous verse,
Write doleful ditties, or distressful strains,
To wicked rivals, or unfaithful swains,
Or serenade, at night's bewitching noon,
The mythic man whose home is in the moon;
When pattern wives no thrifty arts possess,
Save that of weaving—fustian for the Press,
Write Lyrics, heedless of their scorching buns,
Dress up their Sonnets, but neglect their sons,
Make dainty doughnuts from Parnassian wheat,
And fancy-stockings for poetic feet,—
While husbands—those who love their coffee hot,
And like no ‘fire’ that does n't boil the pot—
Wish old Apollo, just to plague his life,
Had, for his own, a literary wife!
As Fancy bids, a musket or a Muse,
And throw his lead among his fellow-men,
From the dark muzzle of a gun or pen;
When blooming school-girls, who absurdly think
That naught but drapery can be spoiled with ink,
Ply ceaseless quills, that, true to early use,
Keep the old habit of the pristine goose,
While each, a special Sappho in her teens,
Shines forth a goddess in the magazines;
When waning spinsters, happy to rehearse
Their maiden griefs in doubly grievous verse,
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To wicked rivals, or unfaithful swains,
Or serenade, at night's bewitching noon,
The mythic man whose home is in the moon;
When pattern wives no thrifty arts possess,
Save that of weaving—fustian for the Press,
Write Lyrics, heedless of their scorching buns,
Dress up their Sonnets, but neglect their sons,
Make dainty doughnuts from Parnassian wheat,
And fancy-stockings for poetic feet,—
While husbands—those who love their coffee hot,
And like no ‘fire’ that does n't boil the pot—
Wish old Apollo, just to plague his life,
Had, for his own, a literary wife!
What hinders then that I, a sober elf,
Who, like the others, keep a Muse myself,
Should venture here, as kind occasion lends
A fitting time to please these urgent friends,
To waive at once my modest Muse's doubt,
And, jockey-like, to trot the lady out?—
Who, like the others, keep a Muse myself,
Should venture here, as kind occasion lends
A fitting time to please these urgent friends,
To waive at once my modest Muse's doubt,
And, jockey-like, to trot the lady out?—
An honest creature, I am bound to say,
Who does her duty in a roguish way;
A laughing jade, of not ungentle mould,
Although, in sooth, she 's something apt to scold,
And, like some worthy people you have seen,
Who 're always talking sharper than they mean,
A genuine Sphinx as ever poet sung,
With much good-nature and a shrewish tongue!
Who does her duty in a roguish way;
A laughing jade, of not ungentle mould,
Although, in sooth, she 's something apt to scold,
And, like some worthy people you have seen,
Who 're always talking sharper than they mean,
A genuine Sphinx as ever poet sung,
With much good-nature and a shrewish tongue!
Yet, like your neighbor, be it understood,
She never censures but for public good,
And like her, too, would feel herself unsexed
If voted angry when she 's only vexed!
She never censures but for public good,
And like her, too, would feel herself unsexed
If voted angry when she 's only vexed!
104
Don't let me rouse unreasonable fears,
While I, like Brutus, ask you for your ears;
Bear as you can the transient twinge of pain,
In half an hour you'll have them back again.
While I, like Brutus, ask you for your ears;
Bear as you can the transient twinge of pain,
In half an hour you'll have them back again.
We 're a vast people—that 's beyond a doubt—
And nothing loath to let the secret out!
Vain were his labors who should now begin
To stop our growth, or fence the country in!
Let the bold sceptic who denies our worth
Just hear it proved on any ‘Glorious Fourth,’
When patriot tongues the thrilling tale rehearse
In grand orations, or resounding verse;
When poor John Bull beholds his navies sink
Before the blast, in swelling floods of ink,
And vents his wrath till all around is blue,
To see his armies yearly flogged anew;
While honest Dutchmen, round the speaker's stand,
Forget, for once, their dearer father-land,
And thrifty Caledonians bless the fate
That gives them freedom at so cheap a rate,
And a clear right to celebrate the day,
And not a baubee for the boon to pay;
And Gallia's children prudently relieve
Their bursting bosoms, with as loud a ‘vive’
For ‘L'Amérique,’ as when their voices swell
With equal glory for ‘la bagatelle;’
And ardent sons of Erin's blessèd Isle
Grow patriotic in the Celtic style,
And, all for friendship, bruise each other's eyes,
As when Saint Patrick claims the sacrifice;
While thronging Yankees, all intent to hear,
As if the speaker were an auctioneer,
Swell with the theme, till every mother's son
Feels all his country's magnitude his own!
And nothing loath to let the secret out!
Vain were his labors who should now begin
To stop our growth, or fence the country in!
Let the bold sceptic who denies our worth
Just hear it proved on any ‘Glorious Fourth,’
When patriot tongues the thrilling tale rehearse
In grand orations, or resounding verse;
When poor John Bull beholds his navies sink
Before the blast, in swelling floods of ink,
And vents his wrath till all around is blue,
To see his armies yearly flogged anew;
While honest Dutchmen, round the speaker's stand,
Forget, for once, their dearer father-land,
And thrifty Caledonians bless the fate
That gives them freedom at so cheap a rate,
And a clear right to celebrate the day,
And not a baubee for the boon to pay;
And Gallia's children prudently relieve
Their bursting bosoms, with as loud a ‘vive’
For ‘L'Amérique,’ as when their voices swell
With equal glory for ‘la bagatelle;’
And ardent sons of Erin's blessèd Isle
Grow patriotic in the Celtic style,
And, all for friendship, bruise each other's eyes,
As when Saint Patrick claims the sacrifice;
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As if the speaker were an auctioneer,
Swell with the theme, till every mother's son
Feels all his country's magnitude his own!
You'll hear about that sturdy little flock
Who landed once on Plymouth's barren rock,
Daring the dangers of the angry main,
For civil freedom and for godly gain;
An honest, frugal, hardy, dauntless band,
Who sought a refuge in this Western land,
Where—(if their own quaint language I may use
That carried back the first Colonial news)—
‘Where all the saints may worship as they wish,
And catch abundance of the finest fish!’
Who landed once on Plymouth's barren rock,
Daring the dangers of the angry main,
For civil freedom and for godly gain;
An honest, frugal, hardy, dauntless band,
Who sought a refuge in this Western land,
Where—(if their own quaint language I may use
That carried back the first Colonial news)—
‘Where all the saints may worship as they wish,
And catch abundance of the finest fish!’
You'll hear, amazed, the hardships they endured,
To what untold privations were inured,—
What wondrous feats of stout, herculean toil,
Ere they subdued the savage and the soil,
And drave, at last, the intruding heathen out,
Till Witches, Quakers, all were put to rout!
To what untold privations were inured,—
What wondrous feats of stout, herculean toil,
Ere they subdued the savage and the soil,
And drave, at last, the intruding heathen out,
Till Witches, Quakers, all were put to rout!
Here grant the Muse one moment to explain,
Lest you accuse her of a mocking strain.
I love the Puritan; and from my youth
Was taught to admire his valor and his truth.
The veriest caviller must acknowledge still
His honest purpose, and his manly will.
I own I reverence that peculiar race
Who valued steeples less than Christian grace,
Preferred a hut where frost and freedom reigned,
To sumptuous halls at freedom's cost obtained,
And, proudly scorning all that royal knaves,
For bartered conscience, sold to cringing slaves,
Gave up their homes for rights respected more
Than all the allurements of their native shore,
In stranger lands their tattered flag unfurled,
And taught this doctrine to a startled world:
‘Mitres and thrones are man-created things,—
We own no master, save the King of kings!’
'T is little marvel that their honored nameLest you accuse her of a mocking strain.
I love the Puritan; and from my youth
Was taught to admire his valor and his truth.
The veriest caviller must acknowledge still
His honest purpose, and his manly will.
I own I reverence that peculiar race
Who valued steeples less than Christian grace,
Preferred a hut where frost and freedom reigned,
To sumptuous halls at freedom's cost obtained,
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For bartered conscience, sold to cringing slaves,
Gave up their homes for rights respected more
Than all the allurements of their native shore,
In stranger lands their tattered flag unfurled,
And taught this doctrine to a startled world:
‘Mitres and thrones are man-created things,—
We own no master, save the King of kings!’
Bears, as it must, some maculæ of shame;
'T is only pity that they e'er forgot
The golden lessons their experience taught;
Thought ‘Toleration’ due to ‘saints alone,
And ‘Rights of Conscience’ only meant their own
Enforcing laws, concocted to their need,
On all nonjurors to the ruling creed,
Till Baptists groaned beneath their iron heel,
And Quakers quaked with unaccustomed zeal!
And when I hear, as oft the listener may
In song and sermon on a festal day,
Their virtues lauded to the wondering skies,
As none were e'er so great, or good, or wise,
I straight bethink me of the Irish wit,
(A people famed for many a ready hit,)
Who, sitting once, and rather ill at ease,
To hear, in prose, such huge hyperboles,
Gave for a toast, to chide the fulsome tone,
Old Plymouth Rock,—the Yankee Blarney-stone!
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Led by their twentieth episode astray,
And thus recall their pristine theme anew,
Lost in the mazes of the shifting view,—
But to resume: these hardy pioneers
Grow, in the flight of scarce a hundred years,
Till, where a few weak colonies were seen,
Thrive in their strength ‘the glorious Old Thirteen;
And these, anon, released from British rule,
Swarm like the pupils of a parish school;
And still they flourish at a wondrous rate,
Towns follow towns, and state succeeds to state,
Until, at last, among its crimson bars,
Our country's banner, crowded full of stars,
O'er Freedom's sons in happy triumph waves,
Some twenty millions,—not to count the slaves!
We 're fond of Missions, and rejoice to lend
Our ready aid the Gospel light to send
To chase the gloom that clouds the Pagan's soul,
And haply make his broken spirit whole;
To take the wanderer led by sin astray,
And win his footsteps to the better way.
No cavilling voice at schemes like this I raise,—
All this is well, and to the nation's praise.
Still let the work with growing force proceed,
That kindly answers to the Heathen's need.
But O that some brave proselyte would come
And preach good morals to the folks at home!
O that the next Australian whom they get
Safe in the meshes of the Gospel net,
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With all the Christian doctrine he has got,
That he may teach it, uncorrupt, and clear
Of all perversion, to our Heathen here!
Accursed War, and deadly lust of Gold,
These and their horrors let his eyes behold,
Now,—in the moral summer of the days,—
Here,—in the focus of the Gospel blaze,—
How would he beg the doctors to explain,
And solve the puzzle ere it turned his brain!
And when their best excuses he had heard,
How would his breast with honest zeal be stirred
To teach our graduates in the Christian school
The simple lessons of the Golden Rule!
And how, the while he spoke with pleasure true,
As one unfolding something good and new,
How would the wings of his amazement soar
To find their ears had heard it all before!
O murderous War! how long shall History choose
Thee for the favorite topic of her Muse?
As if the real business of mankind,
The noblest purpose of the immortal mind,
Were shown in him who has the greatest skill
In that old mystery,—the art to kill!
And he adorned with most heroic grace,
Who deals the largest slaughter to the race!
A neighboring people rich in landed spoils,
But weak with ignorance and domestic broils;
A haughty nation, full of pride for what
Their fathers were, although themselves are not;
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Replete at once with gas and gasconade,
With all the vapor of the Spanish sire,
Without a flicker of Castilian fire,—
A race like this—O tell it not in Gath!—
Excites our avarice and provokes our wrath,
And so we loose the fiendish dogs of war,
And ply our stripes to gain another star!
Tell not, ye Rabbies of the Whiggish creed,
Who trim your doctrines to your party's need,
And let your lips with fluent phrases move
To censure measures which your acts approve,—
Tell not, except to credulous marines,
How you abhor our recent warlike scenes,
And don't again repeat that precious joke
Which gives the odium all to Colonel Polk,
For he may find, who probes the matter well,
At least a dozen Colonels in the shell!
Pray just review the leaders of the bands,
And, as you pass them, let them raise their hands;
Count well the blades that glitter in the sun,
And mark their gallant bearers, one by one,—
For every Whig whose sword your eye may catch,
You'll scarcely find a ‘Loco-foco’ match!
Who trim your doctrines to your party's need,
And let your lips with fluent phrases move
To censure measures which your acts approve,—
Tell not, except to credulous marines,
How you abhor our recent warlike scenes,
And don't again repeat that precious joke
Which gives the odium all to Colonel Polk,
For he may find, who probes the matter well,
At least a dozen Colonels in the shell!
Pray just review the leaders of the bands,
And, as you pass them, let them raise their hands;
Count well the blades that glitter in the sun,
And mark their gallant bearers, one by one,—
For every Whig whose sword your eye may catch,
You'll scarcely find a ‘Loco-foco’ match!
We 're all alike,—no thinking man defines
The people's temper by their party lines.
With bright exceptions, few and far between,
Like spots of verdure in a winter scene,
From Rio Grandé to Penobscot's flood,
The whole vast nation loves the smell of blood!
The people's temper by their party lines.
With bright exceptions, few and far between,
Like spots of verdure in a winter scene,
From Rio Grandé to Penobscot's flood,
The whole vast nation loves the smell of blood!
110
But wars cost money; and though fond of wars,
We worship Mammon quite as much as Mars,
And so consent the battle to forego,
And wait till Interest justifies the blow.
Meantime, though Mars upon the shelf is laid,
We yet can summon Draco to our aid.
The cockpit 's vulgar; and the pleasant game
Of baiting bears is reckoned much the same;
‘The manly Ring’ is held improper, too;
The Duel 's wicked, and will never do;
'T is plain to see as any comet's tail,
That war 's immoral on so small a scale!
But Draco 's grave, decorous, and discreet,
And gives diversions in a mode so neat,
‘The most fastidious’—in the showman phrase—
Can't be offended with his bloody ways.
For, like the doctors, though he cut and bleed,
He shows a broad diploma for the deed!
As boys expend their zoölogic rage
On annual tigers in a travelling cage,
So, by the strictest pathologic rule,
A monthly hanging keeps the nation cool!
The public right to guard the common wealWe worship Mammon quite as much as Mars,
And so consent the battle to forego,
And wait till Interest justifies the blow.
Meantime, though Mars upon the shelf is laid,
We yet can summon Draco to our aid.
The cockpit 's vulgar; and the pleasant game
Of baiting bears is reckoned much the same;
‘The manly Ring’ is held improper, too;
The Duel 's wicked, and will never do;
'T is plain to see as any comet's tail,
That war 's immoral on so small a scale!
But Draco 's grave, decorous, and discreet,
And gives diversions in a mode so neat,
‘The most fastidious’—in the showman phrase—
Can't be offended with his bloody ways.
For, like the doctors, though he cut and bleed,
He shows a broad diploma for the deed!
As boys expend their zoölogic rage
On annual tigers in a travelling cage,
So, by the strictest pathologic rule,
A monthly hanging keeps the nation cool!
From thief and ruffian, naught but maniac zeal
Will e'er deny, while every worthy cause
Rests in the proper sanction of the laws.
But when will men the Christian lesson learn,
That 't is not theirs to throttle or to burn
Their brother sinner to his mortal hurt,
Only because they deem it his desert?
111
Demand the forfeit, be it great or small,
Let not your heart usurp the sacred throne
Of Him who said that vengeance was his own!
In meek submission drop the uplifted rod,
And leave the sinner to the sinner's God
In vain we boast the freedom Nature gave:
Alas! the Ethiop 's not the only slave!
When from their chains shall Saxon minds be freed,
The slaves to lust, to party, and to creed?
Alas! the Ethiop 's not the only slave!
When from their chains shall Saxon minds be freed,
The slaves to lust, to party, and to creed?
Slaves to their Clique, who favor or oppose,
As crafty leaders pull the party-nose;
While the ‘dear country,’ as the reader learns,
Is saved or ruined in quadrennial turns!
As crafty leaders pull the party-nose;
While the ‘dear country,’ as the reader learns,
Is saved or ruined in quadrennial turns!
Slaves to the Mode, who pinch the aching waist,
And mend God's image to the Gallic taste;
Who sell their comfort for a narrow boot,
Nor heed the ‘corn-laws’ of the suffering foot!
And mend God's image to the Gallic taste;
Who sell their comfort for a narrow boot,
Nor heed the ‘corn-laws’ of the suffering foot!
Slaves to the ruling Sentiment, whose choice
Is but the echo of the public voice,
While their own thoughts the wretches fear to speak,
Not Sundays only, but throughout the week!
Is but the echo of the public voice,
While their own thoughts the wretches fear to speak,
Not Sundays only, but throughout the week!
Slaves to Antiquity, who put their trust
In mouldy dogmas, mummies, moth, and rust;
Who buy old nothings at the highest cost,
And deem no art worth having till it 's lost!
In mouldy dogmas, mummies, moth, and rust;
Who buy old nothings at the highest cost,
And deem no art worth having till it 's lost!
Slaves to their Sect, who deem all heavenly light
Through one small taper cheers the moral night,—
Which, should it fail to throw its radiant spark,
Would leave the hapless nations in the dark!
Slaves to Consistency and prudent fears,Through one small taper cheers the moral night,—
112
Would leave the hapless nations in the dark!
As if mistakes grew sacred with their years!
Fearful of change, and much ashamed to show
They 're wiser now than twenty years ago,
Because, forsooth, 't would make the matter plain
They once were wrong, and may be so again!
Slaves to Ambition and the lust of fame,
Who sell their substance for a shadowy name,
And barter happy years for one brief hour
Of courtly dalliance with the harlot, Power!
Who sell their substance for a shadowy name,
And barter happy years for one brief hour
Of courtly dalliance with the harlot, Power!
Bond slaves to Avarice, who perversely soil
Their willing hands with hard, unceasing toil,
For no reward except the menial strife,
As knaves turn tread-mills in a convict life!
But lest the Muse should give her hearers painTheir willing hands with hard, unceasing toil,
For no reward except the menial strife,
As knaves turn tread-mills in a convict life!
By overstraining her heroic strain,—
A metre strong and well contrived, in sooth,
To bear full measures of satiric truth,
But rather grave, and something apt to tire
Those ears perverse that love an easy lyre,—
She'll drop the proud heroic for a while
For a new topic and a nimbler style,
And, just for change, endeavor to unfold
The shining treasures of the Land of Gold!
113
EL DORADO.
I.
Hurrah for the land where the moor and the mountainAre sparkling with treasures no language hath told,
Where the wave of the river and spray of the fountain
Are bright with the glitter of genuine gold!
Who cares for the pleasures and duties of home,
And all the refinements that grow in its bowers?
To the happy Dorado away we will roam,—
'T will be time to ‘refine’ when the metal is ours!
II.
Hurrah for the country where Mercury and MammonAre the rulers enthroned in the Capitol-seat;
Where Order is chaos, and Justice is gammon,
And yet there 's no Bacon to read or to eat!
Let Famine stalk gaunt and ungainly around,
So thin that his features you scarce can behold,—
Who 'd live upon bread at an ounce for a pound?
Or exchange for potatoes his carats of gold?
III.
Hurrah for the country where Ceres and HymenAre driven abashed from the bountiful soil,
And Music 's unheard, save the musical chiming
Of pickaxe and pan in the clatter of toil.
114
Or would seek for a single philosopher's stone,
When out of the heaps of auriferous ore
He can fill up his pockets with ‘rocks’ of his own?
IV.
Hurrah for the country where Plutus is chief,And where, for a wonder especially odd,
His worshippers freely avow their belief,
And are never ashamed to acknowledge their god!
Where the currency 's ruled by a natural law,
And Biddles and Barings are voted no thanks,—
Where, in spite of the heavy, perpetual draw,
There 's always abundance of gold in the Banks!
V.
If a brother, seduced by our precious estate,And mad with the frenzy that lucre inspires,
Should hit us, some day, on the back of the pate,
With a heartier thump than affection requires,
And our bodies be hid in the glittering dust,—
What matters the incident? why should we care?
To die very rich is the national lust,
To be ‘buried in gold’ is the popular prayer!
VI.
Then away with all doubting and fanciful ills,Away with impressions that duty would print,
The Pactolian drops that affection distils
Can never be coined into drops of the mint!
115
Are sparkling with treasures no tongue can unfold,
Where the wave of the river and spray of the fountain
Are bright with the glitter of genuine gold!
Delve in the dirt to gather golden store.
Let others, patient of the menial toil
And daily suffering, seek the precious spoil;
While most shall struggle through the weary years
With naught of Midas save his ample ears!
No hero I, in such a cause to brave
Hunger and pain, the robber and the grave.
I'll work, instead, exempt from hate and harm,
The fruitful ‘placers’ of my mountain-farm,
Where the bright ploughshare opens richest veins,
From whence shall issue countless golden grains,
Which in the fulness of the year shall come,
In bounteous sheaves, to bless my harvest-home!
But, haply, good may come of mining yet:
'T will help to pay the nation's foreign debt;
'T will further liberal arts; plate rings and pins,
Gild books and coaches, mirrors, signs, and sins;
'T will cheapen pens and pencils, and perchance
May give us honest dealing for Finance,
(That magic art, unknown to darker times
When fraud and falsehood were reputed crimes.
116
How whole estates are made from parts of speech
How lying rags for honest coin shall pass,
And foreign gold be paid in native brass!)
'T will save, perhaps, each deep-indebted State
From all temptation to ‘repudiate,’
Till Time restore our precious credit lost,
And hush the wail of Peter Plymley's ghost!
But lest, O Muse, thy weary friends complain
Thou lov'st o'ermuch the harsh, satiric strain,
Perversely pleased with hateful themes alone,
And ever singing in a scolding tone,
E'en change the note, and dedicate thy lays
For one brief moment to discerning praise.
While drones and dreaming optimists protest,
‘The worst is well, and all is for the best;’
And sturdy croakers chant the counter song,
That ‘man grows worse, and everything is wrong;
Truth, as of old, still loves a golden mean,
And shuns extremes to walk erect between!
The world improves; with slow, unequal pace,
‘The Good Time 's coming’ to our hapless race.
The general tide beneath the refluent surge
Rolls on, resistless, to its destined verge!
Unfriendly hills no longer interpose
As stubborn walls to geographic foes,
Nor envious streams run only to divide
The hearts of brethren ranged on either side.
Promethean Science, with untiring eye
Searching the mysteries of the earth and sky;
And cunning Art, with strong and plastic hand
To work the marvels Science may command;
And broad-winged Commerce, swift to carry o'er
Earth's countless blessings to her farthest shore,—
These, and no German nor Genevan sage,
These are the great reformers of the age!
‘The worst is well, and all is for the best;’
And sturdy croakers chant the counter song,
That ‘man grows worse, and everything is wrong;
Truth, as of old, still loves a golden mean,
And shuns extremes to walk erect between!
The world improves; with slow, unequal pace,
‘The Good Time 's coming’ to our hapless race.
The general tide beneath the refluent surge
Rolls on, resistless, to its destined verge!
Unfriendly hills no longer interpose
As stubborn walls to geographic foes,
Nor envious streams run only to divide
The hearts of brethren ranged on either side.
Promethean Science, with untiring eye
Searching the mysteries of the earth and sky;
117
To work the marvels Science may command;
And broad-winged Commerce, swift to carry o'er
Earth's countless blessings to her farthest shore,—
These, and no German nor Genevan sage,
These are the great reformers of the age!
See Art, exultant in her stately car,
On Nature's Titans wage triumphant war!
While e'en the Lightnings by her wondrous skill
Are tamed for heralds of her sovereign will!
Old Ocean's breast a new invader feels,
And heaves in vain to clog her iron wheels;
In vain the Forests marshal all their force,
And Mountains rise to stay her onward course;
From out her path each bold opposer hurled,
She throws her girdle round a captive world!
I 've kept my promise. Of a prosy songOn Nature's Titans wage triumphant war!
While e'en the Lightnings by her wondrous skill
Are tamed for heralds of her sovereign will!
Old Ocean's breast a new invader feels,
And heaves in vain to clog her iron wheels;
In vain the Forests marshal all their force,
And Mountains rise to stay her onward course;
From out her path each bold opposer hurled,
She throws her girdle round a captive world!
Men want but little, nor that little long;
Yet even dulness may afford relief
On some occasions, if it 's only brief;
As transient cloudlets soothe the aching sight,
Blind with the dazzle of untempered light!
'T is something that my Pegasus, though slow,
Don't stand curvetting when he 's bid to go;
And, clear at least of one egregious fault,
Knows like a Major when and where to halt!
If in his flight he ventured not to soar
Where Helios' son, too rashly, went before,
(A pregnant hint for feeble bards who dare
The awful heights beyond their native air,)
118
But only mercy for his rider's neck,—
Whom, were he lost among the fogs that lie
Between the empyrean and the nether sky,
And headlong hurled to some Bœotian deep,
No pitying nymphs had gathered round to weep!
| Poems by John Godfrey Saxe. Complete in one volume : thirty-fifth edition | |