« ПретходнаНастави »
“If scant his service at the kirk,
He paters heard and aves From choirs that lurk in hedge and birk,
From blackbird and from mavis;
In him found Mercy's angel;
To bim Love's fresh evangel!
“If not a sparrow fall, unless
The Father sees and knows it,
The soul his own deposit ?
That never trip nor wander,
song Thrills his blue arches yonder ?
XVI « Do souls alone clear-eyed, strong-kneed,
To Him true service render,
Find they his heart untender ? Through all your various ranks and fates
He opens doors to duty,
Was servant of his Beauty.
“Not he the threatening texts who deals
Is highest 'mong the preachers, But he who feels the woes and weals
Of all God's wandering creatures.
The spirit ’neath the letter;
Leaves wiser men and better.
“They make Religion be abhorred
Who round with darkness gulf her, And think no word can please the Lord
Unless it smell of sulphur. Dear Poet-heart, that childlike guessed
The Father's loving kindness,
* The Earth must richer sap secrete,
(Could ye in time but know it !)
Come now to rest ! Thou didst his
hest, If haply 't was in blindness ! ”
AT THE COMMENCEMENT
IN ACKNOWLEDGING A TOAST TO THE
Then leapt heaven's portals wide apart,
And at their golden thunder
Still throbbing-full of wonder. “ Father," I said, “ 't is known to Thee
How Thou thy Saints preparest; But this I see,
Saint Charity Is still the first and fairest !"
Dear Bard and Brother ! let who may
Against thy faults be railing, (Though far, I pray, from us be they
I That never had a failing!) One toast I 'll give, and that not long,
Which thou wouldst pledge if present, To him whose song, in nature strong,
Makes man of prince and peasant !
it's no go."
IN AN ALBUM
THE misspelt scrawl, upon the wall
I RISE, Mr. Chairman, as both of us know, With the impromptu I promised you three Dragged up to my doom by your might
and my mane, To do what I vowed I'd do never again; And I feel like your good honest dough
when possest By a stirring, impertinent devil of yeast. “ You must rise," says the leaven. “I
can't," says the dough; “ Just examine my bumps, and you “But you must,” the tormentor insists,
« 't is all right; You must rise when I bid you, and, what is
more, be light." 'T is a dreadful oppression, this making
men speak What they're sure to be sorry for all the
next week; Some poor stick requesting, like Aaron's,
to bud Into eloquence, pathos, or wit in cold blood, As if the dull brain that you vented your
spite on Could be got, like an ox, by mere poking,
to Brighton. They say it is wholesome to rise with the
sun, And I dare say it may be if not over
done; (I think it was Thomson who made the
remark 'T was an excellent thing in its way - for
a lark;) But to rise after dinner and look down the
meeting On a distant (as Gray calls it) prospect of
Eating, With a stomach half full and a cerebrum
hollow As the tortoise-shell ere it was strung for
Apollo, Under contract to raise anerithmon gelasma
With rhymes so hard hunted they gasp with That floats for an instant ’twixt goblet and the asthma,
brain; And jokes not much younger than Jethro's A breath-born perfection, half something, phylacteries,
half naught, Is something I leave you yourselves to And breaks if it strike the hard edge of a characterize.
Do you ask me to make such ? Ah no, I've a notion, I think, of a good dinner not so simple; speech,
Ask Apelles to paint you the ravishing Tripping light as a sandpiper over the dimple beach,
Whose shifting enchantment lights Venus's Swerving this way and that as the wave of cheek, the nioment
And the artist will tell you his skill is to Washes out its slight trace with a dash of seek; whim's foam on 't,
Once fix it, 't is naught, for the charm of And leaving on memory's rim just a sense
it rises Something graceful had gone by, a live From the sudden bopeeps of its smiling present tense;
surprises. Not poetry, - no, not quite that, but as good,
I've tried to define it, but what mother's A kind of winged prose that could fly if it would.
Could ever yet do what he knows should 'T is a time for gay fancies as fleeting and
be done? vain
My rocket has burst, and I watch in the air As the whisper of foam-beads on fresh- Its fast-fading heart's-blood drop back in poured champagne,
despair; Since dinners were not perhaps strictly Yet one chance is left me, and, if I am designed
quick, For manœuvring the heavy dragoons of the I can palm off, before you suspect me, the mind.
stick. When I hear your set speeches that start
Now since I've succeeded — I pray do not Then wander and maunder, too feeble to
To Ticknor's and Longfellow's classical With a vague apprehension from popular
And profess four strange languages, which, There used to be something by mortals
luckless elf, called humor,
I speak like a native (of Cambridge) myBeginning again when you thought they self, were done,
Let me beg, Mr. President, leave to propose Respectable, sensible, weighing a ton, A sentiment treading on nobody's toes, And as near to the present occasions of And give, in such ale as with pump-handles
we brew, As a Fast Day discourse of the year eighteen Their memory who saved us from all talkten,
ing Hebrew, I- well, I sit still, and my sentiments A toast that to deluge with water is good, smother,
For in Scripture they come in just after For am I not also a bore and a brother ?
I give you the men but for whom, as I And a toast, - what should that be? Light,
guess, sir, airy, and free,
Modern languages ne'er could have had a The foam-Aphrodite of Bacchus's sea,
professor, A fancy-tinged bubble, an orbed rainbow- The builders of Babel, to whose zeal the stain,
with a pop,