Puslapio vaizdai
PDF
„ePub“

From the albatross wearied in its flight, to the | Liveth there no advocate for him? no judge to wren in her covered nest, avenge his wrongs?

From the death-moth and lace-winged dragon-fly, No voice that shall be heard in his defense? no to the lady-bird and the gnat, sentence to be passed on his oppressor? The verdict of all things is unanimous, finding Yea, the sad eye of the tortured pleadeth patheti their master cruel : cally for him; The dog, thy humble friend, thy trusting, honest Yea, all the justice in heaven is roused in indigfriend; nation at his woes;

The ass, thine uncomplaining slave, drudging Yea, all the pity upon earth shall call down a from morn to even; curse upon the cruel;

The lamb, and the timorous hare, and the laboring Yea, the burning malice of the wicked is their ox at plow;

The speckled trout basking in the shallow, and
the partridge gleaming in the stubble,
And the stag at bay, and the worm in thy
path, and the wild bird pining in cap-
tivity,

And all things that minister alike to thy life and
thy comfort and thy pride,

Testify with one sad voice that man is a cruel master.

Verily, they are all thine freely mayst thou serve thee of them all:

own exceeding punishment.

The Angel of Mercy stoppeth not to comfort, but
passeth by on the other side,
And hath no tear to shed, when a cruel man is
damned.

MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER,

PLEA FOR THE ANIMALS.

FROM "THE SEASONS." ENSANGUINED man Is now become the lion of the plain, They are thine by gift for thy needs, to be used And worse. The wolf, who from the nightly fold in all gratitude and kindness; Fierce drags the bleating prey, ne'er drunk her milk,

[ocr errors]

Gratitude to their God and thine, their Father and thy Father,

Kindness to them who toil for thee, and help thee

with their all :

For meat, but not by wantonness of slaying; for
burden, but with limits of humanity;
For luxury, but not through torture; for draught,
but according to the strength:

For a dog cannot plead his own right, nor render
a reason for exemption,

Nor give a soft answer unto wrath, to turn aside the undeserved lash;

The galled ox cannot complain, nor supplicate a
moment's respite;

The spent horse hideth his distress, till he panteth
out his spirit at the goal;
Also, in the winter of life, when worn by constant

toil,

If ingratitude forget his services, he cannot bring them to remembrance :

Behold, he is faint with hunger; the big tear standeth in his eye;

His skin is sore with stripes, and he tottereth

beneath his burden;

At whose strong chest the deadly tiger hangs,
Nor wore her warming fleece; nor has the steer,
E'er plowed for him. They too are tempered
high,

With hunger stung and wild necessity;
Nor lodges pity in their shaggy breast.
But man, whom Nature formed of milder clay,
With every kind emotion in his heart,
And taught alone to weep, - while from her lap
She ten thousand delicacies, herbs,
pours
And fruits as numerous as the drops of rain
Or beams that gave them birth, — shall he, fair

form!

Who wears sweet smiles, and looks erect on heaven,
And dip his tongue in gore? The beast of prey,
E'er stoop to mingle with the prowling herd,
Blood-stained, deserves to bleed; but you, ye
flocks,

To merit death? you who have given us milk What have ye done? ye peaceful people, what, Against the winter's cold? And the plain ox, In luscious streams, and lent us your own coat In what has he offended? he whose toil, That harmless, honest, guileless animal, Patient and ever-ready, clothes the land With all the pomp of harvest, - shall he bleed, Yet once more mutely and meekly endureth he Even of the clown he feeds? and that, perhaps, And struggling groan beneath the cruel hand,

His limbs are stiff with age, his sinews have lost their vigor,

And pain is stamped upon his face, while he wrestleth unequally with toil;

the crushing blow;

That struggle hath cracked his heart-strings,

the generous brute is dead!

[blocks in formation]

DUELING.

FROM "CONVERSATION."

THE point of honor has been deemed of use, To teach good manners, and to curb abuse; Admit it true, the consequence is clear, Our polished manners are a mask we wear, And, at the bottom, barbarous still and rude, We are restrained, indeed, but not subdued. The very remedy, however sure, Springs from the mischief it intends to cure, And savage in its principle appears, Tried, as it should be, by the fruit it bears. "T is hard, indeed, if nothing will defend Mankind from quarrels but their fatal end; That now and then a hero must decease, That the surviving world may live in peace. Perhaps at last close scrutiny may show The practice dastardly and mean and low; That men engage in it compelled by force, And fear, not courage, is its proper source; The fear of tyrant custom, and the fear Lest fops should censure us, and fools should sneer; At least, to trample on our Maker's laws, And hazard life for any or no cause, To rush into a fixed eternal state Out of the very flames of rage and hate, Or send another shivering to the bar With all the guilt of such unnatural war, Whatever Use may urge, or Honor plead, On Reason's verdict is a madman's deed. Am I to set my life upon a throw Because a bear is rude and surly? No,A moral, sensible, and well-bred man Will not affront me; and no other can. Were I empowered to regulate the lists, They should encounter with well-loaded fists; A Trojan combat would be something new, Let Dares beat Entellus black and blue; Then each might show, to his admiring friends, In honorable bumps his rich amends, And carry, in contusions of his skull, A satisfactory receipt in full.

GOLD.

WILLIAM Cowper.

FROM "MISS KILMANSEGG."

GOLD! gold gold! gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold,
Molten, graven, hammered and rolled;
Heavy to get, and light to hold ;
Hoarded, bartered, bought, and sold,
Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled :
Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old
To the very verge of the churchyard mold;
Price of many a crime untold:

[blocks in formation]

IN this one passion man can strength enjoy,
As fits give vigor just when they destroy.
Time, that on all things lays his lenient hand,
Yet tames not this; it sticks to our last sand.
Consistent in our follies and our sins,
Here honest Nature ends as she begins.

Old politicians chew on wisdom past,
And totter on in business to the last;
As weak, as earnest; and as gravely out,
As sober Lanesborow dancing in the gout.

Behold a reverend sire, whom want of grace
Has made the father of a nameless race,
Shoved from the wall perhaps, or rudely pressed
By his own son, that passes by unblessed :
Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees,
And envies every sparrow that he sees.

[ocr errors]

A salmon's belly, Helluo, was thy fate. The doctor, called, declares all help too late. Mercy!" cries Helluo, "mercy on my soul! Is there no hope?--Alas!-- then bring the jowl." The frugal crone, whom praying priests attend, Still tries to save the hallowed taper's end, Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires, For one puff more, and in that puff expires.

"Odious! in woolen! 't would a saint provoke," Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke; "No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face : One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead,

And Betty give this cheek a little red.”

The courtier smooth, who forty years had shined An humble servant to all human-kind,

Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue Pitholeon libelled me — "But here's a letter

[blocks in formation]

FROM THE "PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES."

SHUT, shut the door, good John! fatigued I said,
Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.
The Dog-star rages! nay, 't is past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?!
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they
glide,

By land, by water, they renew the charge,
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is sacred, not the church is free,
Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me:
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
Happy to catch me, just at dinner-time.

Is there a parson much be-mused in beer,
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,
A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a stanza, when he should engross ?
Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls
With desperate charcoal-round his darkened walls?
All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain

A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped,

If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.
Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie:
To laugh were want of goodness and of grace,
And to be grave exceeds all power of face.
I sit with sad civility, I read
With honest anguish and an aching head;
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years."
"Nine years!" cries he who, high in Drury Lane,
Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends,
Obliged by hunger, and request of friends.
"The piece, you think, is incorrect? why, take it,
I'm all submission; what you'd have it, make it."
Three things another's modest wishes bound,
My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.
Pitholeon sends to me: "You know his Grace,
I want a patron; ask him for a place."

[ocr errors]

Informs you, sir, 't was when he knew no better.
Dare you refuse him? Curl invites to dine,
He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine."
Bless me! a packet. "T is a stranger sues,
A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse.
If I dislike it, Furies, death, and rage!"
If I approve, "Commend it to the stage.'
There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends,
The players and I are, luckily, no friends.
Fired that the house reject him, "'Sdeath, I'll

print it,

66

[ocr errors]

And shame the fools. Your interest, sir, with Lintot."

Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much: Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch."

66

All my demurs but double his attacks;

At last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks."
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door,
Sir, let me see your works and you no more.

Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through,

He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew :
Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain,
The creature's at his dirty work again,
Throned in the center of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines!

Of all mad creatures, if the learned are right,
It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.
A fool quite angry is quite innocent,
Alas! 't is ten times worse when they repent.
One dedicates in high heroic prose,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:
One from all Grub Street will my fame defend,
And, more abusive, calls himself my friend.
This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe."
There are,
who to my person pay their court:
I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short;
Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high,
Such Ovid's nose, and "Sir! you have an eye."
Go on, obliging creatures, make me see
All that disgraced my betters met in me.
Say for my comfort, languishing in bed,
"Just so immortal Maro held his head ":
And when I die, be sure you let me know
Great Homer died three thousand years ago.
Why did I write? what sin to me unknown
Dipped me in ink, my parents', or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came.
I left no calling for this idle trade,
No duty broke, no father disobeyed.
The muse but served to ease some friend, not wife,
To help me through this long disease, my life.

ALEXANDER POPE.

QUACK MEDICINES.

FROM "THE BOROUGH."

The nostrum takes no trifling part away;

See! those square patent bottles from the shop
Now decoration to the cupboard's top;

BUT now our Quacks are gamesters, and they And there a favorite hoard you'll find within,

play
With craft and skill to ruin and betray;

With monstrous promise they delude the mind,
And thrive on all that tortures human-kind.
Void of all honor, avaricious, rash,
The daring tribe compound their boasted trash, -
Tincture or syrup, lotion, drop or pill ;
All tempt the sick to trust the lying bill;
And twenty names of cobblers turned to squires
Aid the bold language of these blushless liars.
There are among them those who cannot read,
And yet they'll buy a patent, and succeed;
Will dare to promise dying sufferers aid,
For who, when dead, can threaten or upbraid?
With cruel avarice still they recommend
More draughts, more syrup, to the journey's end.
"I feel it not." "Then take it every hour."
"It makes me worse.' "Why, then it shows

its power."

[ocr errors]

"I fear to die." "Let not your spirits sink, You're always safe while you believe and drink."

How strange to add, in this nefarious trade, That men of parts are dupes by dunces made: That creatures nature meant should clean our streets

Companions meet! the julep and the gin.

Suppose the case surpasses human skill, There comes a quack to flatter weakness still; What greater evil can a flatterer do,

Than from himself to take the sufferer's view? To turn from sacred thoughts his reasoning powers,

And rob a sinner of his dying hours?
Yet this they dare, and, craving to the last,
In hope's strong bondage hold their victim fast :
For soul or body no concern have they,
All their inquiry, "Can the patient pay?
And will he swallow draughts until his dying
day?"

Observe what ills to nervous females flow,
When the heart flutters and the pulse is low;
If once induced these cordial sips to try,
All feel the ease, and few the danger fly;
For, while obtained, of drams they 've all the
force,

And when denied, then drams are the resource.
Who would not lend a sympathizing sigh,
To hear you infant's pity-moving ery?

Have purchased lands and mansions, parks and Then the good nurse (who, had she borne a brain,

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors]

And then in many a paper through the year,
Must cures and cases, oaths and proofs, appear;
Men snatched from graves as they were dropping in,
Their lungs coughed up, their bones pierced,
through their skin;

Their liver all one scirrhus, and the frame
Poisoned with evils which they dare not name;
Men who spent all upon physicians' fees,
Who never slept, nor had a moment's ease,
Are now as roaches sound, and all as brisk as bees.

Troubled with something in your bile or blood,
You think your doctor does you little good;
And, grown impatient, you require in haste
The nervous cordial, nor dislike the taste;
It comforts, heals, and strengthens; nay, you
think

It makes you better every time you drink;
Who tipples brandy will some comfort feel,
But will he to the medicine set his seal?

Had sought the cause that made her babe complain)

Has all her efforts, loving soul! applied
To set the cry, and not the cause, aside;
She gave her powerful sweet without remorse,
The sleeping cordial, she had tried its force,
Repeating oft; the infant, freed from pain,
Rejected food, but took the dose again,
Sinking to sleep, while she her joy expressed,
That her dear charge could sweetly take his rest.
Soon may she spare her cordial; not a doubt
Remains but quickly he will rest without.

What then our hopes?—perhaps there may by law

Be method found these pests to curb and awe;
Yet, in this land of freedom, law is slack
With any being to commence attack :
Then let us trust to science, there are those
Who can their falsehoods and their frauds disclose,
All their vile trash detect, and their low tricks

expose.

Perhaps their numbers may in time confound Their arts, -as scorpions give themselves the

wound;

For when these curers dwell in every place,
While of the cured we not a man can trace,
Strong truth may then the public mind persuade,

No class escapes them - from the poor man's And spoil the fruits of this nefarious trade.

pay

GEORGE CRABBE

SLEEPLESS DREAMS.

SILLY FAIR.

GIRT in dark growths, yet glimmering with one WHEN Lesbia first I saw so heavenly fair,

star,

O night desirous as the night of youth! Why should my heart within thy spell, forsooth, Now beat, as the bride's finger-pulses are Quickened within the girdling golden bar? What wings are these that fan my pillow smooth? And why does Sleep, waved back by Joy and Ruth,

Tread softly round and gaze at me from far?

Nay, night deep-leaved! And would Love feign

in thee

Some shadowy palpitating grove that bears
Rest for man's eyes and music for his ears?
O lonely night! art thou not known to me,
A thicket hung with masks of mockery

And watered with the wasteful warmth of tears?

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

ON AN INTAGLIO HEAD OF MINERVA.

THE cunning hand that carved this face, A little helmeted Minerva,

The hand, I say, ere Phidias wrought,

Had lost its subtile skill and fervor.

Who was he? Was he glad or sad,

Who knew to carve in such a fashion?

Perchance he shaped this dainty head

For some brown girl that scorned his passion.

But he is dust: we may not know

His happy or unhappy story: Nameless, and dead these thousand years, His work outlives him, there's his glory!

Both man and jewel lay in earth

Beneath a lava-buried city;
The thousand summers came and went,
With neither haste nor hate nor pity.

The years wiped out the man, but left
The jewel fresh as any blossom,
Till some Visconti dug it up,

To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom !

O Roman brother! see how Time
Your gracious handiwork has guarded,
See how your loving, patient art

Has come, at last, to be rewarded!

Who would not suffer slights of men,
And pangs of hopeless passion also,
To have his carven agate-stone

On such a bosom rise and fall so!
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

With eyes so bright, and with that awful air,
I thought my heart which durst so high aspire
As bold as his who snatched celestial fire.
But soon as e'er the beauteous idiot spoke
Forth from her coral lips such nonsense broke,
Like balm the trickling nonsense healed my
wound,

And what her eyes enthralled her tongue unbound.

WILLIAM CONGREVE

THE TOOTHACHE.

My curse upon thy venomed stang
That shoots my tortured gums alang;
An' through my lugs gies mony a twang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance!
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
Like racking engines.

When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes,
Our neighbor's sympathy may ease us,
Wi' pitying moan;

But thee,

thou hell o' a' diseases, Aye mocks our groan.

Adown my beard the slavers trickle;

I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,
As round the fire the giglets keckle
To see me loup;

While, raving mad, I wish a heckle
Were in their doup.

O' a' the numerous human dools,
Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy friends raked i' the mools,
(Sad sight to see!)
The tricks o' knaves or fash o' fools,
Thou bear'st the gree.

ROBERT BURNS.

TO THE UNCO GUID.

My son, these maxims make a rule
And lump them aye thegither:
The Rigid Righteous is a fool,

The Rigid Wise anither:
The cleanest corn that e'er was dight
May hac some pyles o' caff in;
Sae ne'er a fellow-creature slight
For random fits o' daffin

SOLOMON, Eccles. vii. 16

O YE wha are sae guid yoursel',
Sae pious and sae holy,

Ye 've nought to do but mark and tell
Your neebor's fauts and folly :-

« AnkstesnisTęsti »