The Poetical Works of Horace Smith Now First Collected. In Two Volumes |
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THE POET AMONG THE TREES. |
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 | The Poetical Works of Horace Smith |  |
179
THE POET AMONG THE TREES.
Oak is the noblest tree that grows,
Its leaves are Freedom's type and herald,
If we may put our faith in those
Of Literary-Fund Fitzgerald.
Its leaves are Freedom's type and herald,
If we may put our faith in those
Of Literary-Fund Fitzgerald.
Willow's a sentimental wood,
And many sonneteers, to quicken 'em,
A relic keep of that which stood
Before Pope's Tusculum at Twickenham.
And many sonneteers, to quicken 'em,
A relic keep of that which stood
Before Pope's Tusculum at Twickenham.
The Birch-tree, with its pendent curves,
Exciting many a sad reflection,
Not only present praise deserves,
But our posterior recollection.
Exciting many a sad reflection,
Not only present praise deserves,
But our posterior recollection.
180
The Banyan, though unknown to us,
Is sacred to the Eastern Magi;
Some like the taste of Tityrus,
“Recubans sub tegmine fagi.”
Is sacred to the Eastern Magi;
Some like the taste of Tityrus,
“Recubans sub tegmine fagi.”
Some like the Juniper—in gin;
Some fancy that its berries droop, as
Knowing a poison lurks within,
More rank than that distill'd from th' Upas.
Some fancy that its berries droop, as
Knowing a poison lurks within,
More rank than that distill'd from th' Upas.
But he who wants a useful word,
To tag a line or point a moral,
Will find there's none to be preferr'd
To that inspiring tree—the Laurel.
To tag a line or point a moral,
Will find there's none to be preferr'd
To that inspiring tree—the Laurel.
The hero-butchers of the sword,
In Rome and Greece, and many a far land,
Like Bravos, murder'd for reward,
The settled price—a laurel-garland.
In Rome and Greece, and many a far land,
Like Bravos, murder'd for reward,
The settled price—a laurel-garland.
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On bust or coin we mark the wreath,
Forgetful of its bloody story,
How many myriads writhed in death,
That one might bear this type of glory.
Forgetful of its bloody story,
How many myriads writhed in death,
That one might bear this type of glory.
Cæsar first wore the badge, 'tis said,
'Cause his bald sconce had nothing on it,
Knocking some millions on the head,
To get his own a leafy bonnet.
'Cause his bald sconce had nothing on it,
Knocking some millions on the head,
To get his own a leafy bonnet.
Luckily for the Laurel's name,
Profaned to purposes so frightful,
'Twas worn by nobler heirs of fame,
All innocent, and some delightful.
Profaned to purposes so frightful,
'Twas worn by nobler heirs of fame,
All innocent, and some delightful.
With its green leaves were victors crown'd
In the Olympic games for running,
Who wrestled best, or gallop'd round
The Circus with most speed and cunning.
In the Olympic games for running,
Who wrestled best, or gallop'd round
The Circus with most speed and cunning.
182
Apollo, crown'd with Bays, gives laws
To the Parnassian Empyrean;
And every schoolboy knows the cause,
Who ever dipp'd in Tooke's Pantheon.
To the Parnassian Empyrean;
And every schoolboy knows the cause,
Who ever dipp'd in Tooke's Pantheon.
Daphne, like many another fair,
To whom connubial ties are horrid,
Fled from his arms, but left a rare
Memento sprouting on his forehead.
To whom connubial ties are horrid,
Fled from his arms, but left a rare
Memento sprouting on his forehead.
For Bays did ancient bards compete,
Gather'd on Pindus or Parnassus,
They by the leaf were paid, not sheet,
And that's the reason they surpass us.
Gather'd on Pindus or Parnassus,
They by the leaf were paid, not sheet,
And that's the reason they surpass us.
One wreath thus twines the heads about,
Whose brains have brighten'd all our sconces,
And those who others' brains knock'd out,
'Cause they themselves were royal dunces.
Whose brains have brighten'd all our sconces,
And those who others' brains knock'd out,
'Cause they themselves were royal dunces.
183
Men fight in these degenerate days,
For crowns of gold, not laurel fillets;
And bards who borrow fire from bays,
Must have them in the grate for billets.
For crowns of gold, not laurel fillets;
And bards who borrow fire from bays,
Must have them in the grate for billets.
Laureats we have (for cash and sack)
Of all calibres and diameters,
But 'stead of poetry, alack!
They give us lachrymose Hexameters.
Of all calibres and diameters,
But 'stead of poetry, alack!
They give us lachrymose Hexameters.
And that illustrious leaf for which
Folks wrote and wrestled, sang and bluster'd,
Is now boil'd down to give a rich
And dainty flavour to our custard!
Folks wrote and wrestled, sang and bluster'd,
Is now boil'd down to give a rich
And dainty flavour to our custard!
| The Poetical Works of Horace Smith | |