Слике страница
PDF
ePub

EXERCISE CLXII.

THE HASTY PUDDING -Joel Barlow.

Despise it not, ye bards, to terror steeled,
Who hurl your thunders round the epic field;
Nor ye who strain your midnight throats to sing
Joys that the vineyard and the stillhouse bring;
Or on some dainty fare your notes employ,
And speak of luxuries you ne'er enjoy.

I sing the sweets I know, the charms I feel,
My morning incense, and my evening meal,-
The sweets of Hasty Pudding. Come, dear bowl,
Glide o'er my palate, and inspire my soul!

But man, more fickle, the bold license claims,
In different realms to give thee different names.
Thee the soft nations round the warm Levant.
Polanta call; the French, of course, Polante.
E'en in thy native regions, how I blush
To hear the Pennsylvanians call thee Mush;
On Hudson's banks, while men of Belgic spawn
Insult and eat thee by the name Suppawn;
All spurious appellations, void of truth!
I've better known thee from my earliest youth,
Thy name is Hasty Pudding! thus our sires
Were wont to greet thee fuming from their fires:
And while they argued in thy just defence,
With logic clear, they thus explained the sense:
'In haste the boiling caldron, o'er the blaze,
Receives and cooks the ready powdered maize;
In haste 't is served, and then in equal haste,
With cooling milk, we make the sweet repast.
No carving to be done, no knife to grate
The tender ear, and wound the stony plate;
But the smooth spoon, just fitted to the lip,
And taught with art the yielding mass to dip,
By frequent journeys to the bowl well stored,
Performs the hasty honors of the board.'
Such is thy name, significant and clear,
A name, a sound to every Yankee dear,
But most to me, whose heart and palate chaste
Preserve my pure hereditary taste.

[graphic]
« ПретходнаНастави »