Malvern Hills :: :: University of Virginia Library

A MOTLEY company I see,
All picking straws, and earnestly;
The youth, the middle-aged, and grey,
Make picking straws their only play;
It has a mystic charm, I ween,
For such a sight is always seen.

255

The blast is high, but what to them
Is oak-tree rifted to its stem;
The thunder rattles through the sky;
The lightning flashes fearfully;
Yet nothing from their sport can take 'em,
Not storms that drench, nor winds that shake 'em.

A house adjacent now is flaming,
But trifle this not worth the naming:
A funeral passes slowly near!
And there the orphan train appear!
Yet, dead to each obtruding sight,
They pick their straws from morn to night.

“Was ever folly so degrading!”
But cease this spirit of upbraiding.
Similitudes of fools like these
Are found in men of all degrees;
And few, the polish'd or the rude,
May scorn this straw-pleased multitude.

The hosts who drown in wine their sorrow,
And think not of a worse to-morrow;
The huntsmen who their necks endanger,
By following Brash, and Dash, and Ranger,
Can never laugh, whate'er they say,
At men more rational than they.

And gamesters, whether old or young,
Concerning straws, must hold their tongue;
For they who stake upon a throw
Their children's bread, their all below,
Have lost the very power to feel;
Their breasts are stone, their hearts are steel.

256

The miser, too, whose anger waxes,
At thought of spendthrifts, cheats, and taxes;
Who mourns each penny that he spends,
(As friends bewail departed friends,)
Till heirs, impatient, close his eyes,
He cannot picking straws despise.

And can they boast a nobler treasure,
The men, misnamed, the men of pleasure,
Who, if aroused to see their state,
Repentance purchase when too late!
Can these, with commerce so ungainful,
Upon straw-pickers look disdainful?

While those who leave their proper calling,
On names, and thread-bare dogmas, bawling;
Who, tippling, rapturous hail the story
Of chiefs, and high concerns, and glory,—
With starving wife and child at home,
For fools, such have not far to roam.

Nor wiser they, whose footsteps falter,
Who built the house, again to alter,
With fifty rooms, where ten might do,
(Which once a year they scarce can view)
That ages hence, oh, melancholy!
Might blaze their riches, and their folly.

What can such restless crowds decoy,
From home, the seat of every joy,
Where they, with all a parent's pride,
Might sit beside their own fireside,
But that they distant realms might see,
To pick new straws in luxury?

257

Many there are, of old, as now
Who weave straw-chaplets for their brow?
In quest of food, like roving bird,
Who migrate where the lute is heard;
Wasting whole nights, mid catch and glee,
'Tween tweedledum, and tweedledee.

And what if some who loudest rail
At senseless straws, themselves should fail!
And prove to be, through life's short day,
Straw-pickers, in a different way!
Clear is the truth as yonder sun,
Which those who spell, may read, and run.

Restrain your smile at this rehearsal;
The taste for straws is universal.
This is the sport that suits all ages,
Noviciates, with wits and sages.
From east to west, where'er we turn,
Straw-picking is the great concern.

Ah! now the grand solution rises,
So simple that it half surprises.
Untaught by ages past away,
Men hold the tyrant, Death, at bay,
And, strange to tell, “with strong endeavour,”
Believe their lives will last for ever!

Or, else, e'en brutes would men resemble,
Not at Eternity to tremble!
To stand on Time's uncertain shore,
With mist, and darkness, all, before,
Yet solemn thoughts disturb them never!
They must expect to live for ever.

258

Fresh proofs, and sad, of this confession,
Before me pass in long succession.—
All fools, all abject fools are these!
Each, just regarding what he sees,
Makes this poor world his idol mother,
And never thinks upon another!