The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 44

As for the rest,--intolerant to none, Whatever shape the pious rite may bear, Even the poor Pagan's homage to the sun I would not harshly scorn, lest even there I spurned some elements of Christian prayer-- An aim, though erring, at a "world ayont"-- Acknowledgment of good--of man's futility, A sense of need, and weakness, and indeed That very thing so many Christians want-- Humilty.

Such, unto Papists, Jews or Turbaned Turks, Such is my spirit--(I don't mean my wraith!) Such, may it please you, is my humble faith; I know, full well, you do not like my WORKS!

I have not sought, 'tis true, the Holy Land, As full of texts as Cuddie Headrigg's mother, The Bible in one hand, And my own common-place-book in the other-- But you have been to Palestine--alas Some minds improve by travel--others, rather, Resemble copper wire or bra.s.s, Which gets the narrower by going further!

Worthless are all such pilgrimages--very!

If Palmers at the Holy Tomb contrive The humans heats and rancor to revive That at the Sepulcher they ought to bury.

A sorry sight it is to rest the eye on, To see a Christian creature graze at Sion, Then homeward, of the saintly pasture full, Rush bellowing, and breathing fire and smoke, At crippled Papistry to b.u.t.t and poke, Exactly as a skittish Scottish bull Haunts an old woman in a scarlet cloak.

Why leave a serious, moral, pious home, Scotland, renewned for sanct.i.ty of old, Far distant Catholics to rate and scold For--doing as the Romans do at Rome?

With such a bristling spirit wherefore quit The Land of Cakes for any land of wafers, About the graceless images to flit, And buzz and chafe importunate as chafers, Longing to carve the carvers to Scotch collops?-- People who hold such absolute opinions Should stay at home in Protestant dominions, Not travel like male Mrs. Trollopes.

Gifted with n.o.ble tendency to climb, Yet weak at the same time, Faith is a kind of parasitic plant, That grasps the nearest stem with tendril rings; And as the climate and the soil may grant, So is the sort of tree to which it clings.

Consider, then, before, like Hurlothrumbo, You aim your club at any creed on earth, That, by the simple accident of birth, YOU might have been High Priest to Mungo Jumbo.

For me--through heathen ignorance perchance, Not having knelt in Palestine,--I feel None of that griffinish excess of zeal, Some travelers would blaze with here in France.

Dolls I can see in Virgin-like array, Nor for a scuffle with the idols hanker Like crazy Quixotte at the puppet's play, If their "offense be rank," should mine be RANCOR?

Mild light, and by degrees, should be the plan To cure the dark and erring mind; But who would rush at a benighted man, And give him, two black eyes for being blind?

Suppose the tender but luxuriant hop Around a cankered stem should twine, What Kentish boor would tear away the prop So roughly as to wound, nay, kill the bine?

The images, 'tis true, are strangely dressed, With gauds and toys extremely out of season; The carving nothing of the very best, The whole repugnant to the eye of Reason, Shocking to Taste, and to Fine Arts a treason-- Yet ne'er o'erlook in bigotry of sect One truly CATHOLIC, one common form, At which unchecked All Christian hearts may kindle or keep warm.

Say, was it to my spirit's gain or loss One bright and balmy morning, as I went From Liege's lovely environs to Ghent, If hard by the wayside I found a cross, That made me breathe a prayer upon the spot-- While Nature of herself, as if to trace The emblem's use, had trailed around its base The blue significant Forget-Me-Not?

Methought, the claims of Charity to urge More forcibly along with Faith and Hope, The pious choice had pitched upon the verge Of a delicious slope, Giving the eye much variegated scope!-- "Look round," it whispered, "on that prospect rare, Those vales so verdant, and those hills so blue; Enjoy the sunny world, so fresh, and fair, But"--(how the simple legend pierced me through!) "PRIEZ POUR LES MALHEUREUX."

With sweet kind natures, as in honeyed cells, Religion lives and feels herself at home; But only on a formal visit dwells Where wasps instead of bees have formed the comb.

Shun pride, O Rae!--whatever sort beside You take in lieu, shun spiritual pride!

A pride there is of rank--a pride of birth, A pride of learning, and a pride of purse, A London pride--in short, there be on earth A host of prides, some better and some worse; But of all prides, since Lucifer's attaint, The proudest swells a self-elected Saint.

To picture that cold pride so harsh and hard, Fancy a peac.o.c.k in a poultry-yard.

Behold him in conceited circles sail, Strutting and dancing, and now planted stiff, In all his pomp of pageantry, as if He felt "the eyes of Europe" on his tail!

As for the humble breed retained by man, He scorns the whole domestic clan-- He bows, he bridles, He wheels, he sidles, As last, with stately dodgings in a corner, He pens a simple russet hen, to scorn her Full in the blaze of his resplendent fan!

"Look here," he cries (to give him words), "Thou feathered clay--thou sc.u.m of birds!"

Flirting the rustling plumage in her eyes-- "Look here, thou vile predestined sinner, Doomed to be roasted for a dinner, Behold these lovely variegated dyes!

These are the rainbow colors of the skies, That heaven has shed upon me con amore-- A Bird of Paradise?--a pretty story!

_I_ am that Saintly Fowl, thou paltry chick!

Look at my crown of glory!

Thou dingy, dirty, dabbled, draggled jill!"

And off goes Partlett, wriggling from a kick, With bleeding scalp laid open by his bill!

That little simile exactly paints How sinners are despised by saints.

By saints!--the Hypocrites that ope heaven's door Obsequious to the sinful man of riches-- But put the wicked, naked, bare-legged poor, In parish stocks, instead of breeches.

The Saints?--the Bigots that in public spout, Spread phosphorus of zeal on sc.r.a.ps of fustian, And go like walking "Lucifers" about-- Mere living bundles of combustion.

The Saints!--the aping Fanatics that talk All cant and rant and rhapsodies high flown-- That bid you balk A Sunday walk, And shun G.o.d's work as you should shun your own.

The Saints!--the Formalists, the extra pious, Who think the mortal husk can save the soul, By trundling, with a mere mechanic bias, To church, just like a lignum-vitae bowl!

The Saints!--the Pharisees, whose beadle stands Beside a stern coercive kirk, A piece of human mason-work, Calling all sermons contrabands, In that great Temple that's not made with hands!

Thrice blessed, rather, is the man with whom The gracious prodigality of nature, The balm, the bliss, the beauty, and the bloom, The bounteous providence in every feature, Recall the good Creator to his creature, Making all earth a fane, all heaven its dome!

To HIS tuned spirit the wild heather-bells Ring Sabbath knells; The jubilate of the soaring lark Is chant of clerk; For Choir, the thrush and the gregarious linnet; The sod's a cus.h.i.+on for his pious want; And, consecrated by the heaven within it, The sky-blue pool, a font.

Each cloud-capped mountain is a holy altar; An organ breathes in every grove; And the fall heart's a Psalter, Rich in deep hymns of grat.i.tude and love!

Sufficiently by stern necessitarians Poor Nature, with her face begrimmed by dust, Is stoked, c.o.ked, smoked, and almost choked: but must Religion have its own Utilitarians, Labeled with evangelical phylacteries, To make the road to heaven a railway trust, And churches--that's the naked fact--mere factories?

O! simply open wide the temple door, And let the solemn, swelling organ greet, With VOLUNTARIES meet, The WILLING advent of the rich and poor!

And while to G.o.d the loud Hosannas soar, With rich vibiations from the vocal throng-- From quiet shades that to the woods belong, And brooks with music of their own, Voices may come to swell the choral song With notes of praise they learned in musings lone.

How strange it is, while on all vital questions, That occupy the House and public mind, We always meet with some humane suggestions Of gentle measures of a healing kind, Instead of harsh severity and vigor, The saint alone his preference retains For bills of penalties and pains, And marks his narrow code with legal rigor!

Why shun, as worthless of affiliation, What men of all political persuasion Extol--and even use upon occasion-- That Christian principle, conciliation?

But possibly the men who make such fuss With Sunday pippins and old Trots infirm, Attach some other meaning to the term, As thus:

One market morning, in my usual rambles, Pa.s.sing along Whitechapel's ancient shambles, Where meat was hung in many a joint and quarter, I had to halt a while, like other folks, To let a killing butcher coax A score of lambs and fatted sheep to slaughter.

A st.u.r.dy man he looked to fell an ox, Bull-fronted, ruddy, with a formal streak Of well-greased hair down either cheek, As if he dee-dashed-dee'd some other flocks Besides those woolly-headed stubborn blocks That stood before him, in vexatious huddle-- Poor little lambs, with bleating wethers grouped, While, now and then, a thirsty creature stooped And meekly snuffed, but did not taste the puddle.

Fierce barked the dog, and many a blow was dealt, That loin, and chump, and scrag and saddle felt, Yet still, that fatal step they all declined it-- And shunned the tainted door as if they smelt Onions, mint-sauce, and lemon-juice behind it.

At last there came a pause of brutal force; The cur was silent, for his jaws were full Of tangled locks of tarry wool; The man had whooped and bellowed till dead hoa.r.s.e, The time was ripe for mild expostulation, And thus it stammered ftom a stander-by-- "Zounds!--my good fellow--it quite makes me--why It really--my dear fellow--do just try Conciliation!"

Stringing his nerves like flint, The st.u.r.dy butcher seized upon the hint-- At least he seized upon the foremost wether-- And hugged and lugged and tugged him neck and crop Just nolens volens through the open shop-- If tails come off he didn't care a feather-- Then walking to the door, and smiling grim, He rubbed his forehead and his sleeve together-- "There!--I've CONciliated him!"

Again--good-humoredly to end our quarrel-- (Good humor should prevail!) I'll fit you with a tale Whereto is tied a moral.

Once on a time a certain English la.s.s Was seized with symptoms of such deep decline, Cough, hectic flushes, every evil sign, That, as their wont is at such desperate pa.s.s, The doctors gave her over--to an a.s.s.

Accordingly, the grisly Shade to bilk, Each morn the patient quaffed a frothy bowl Of a.s.sinine new milk, Robbing a s.h.a.ggy suckling of a foal Which got proportionably spare and skinny-- Meanwhile the neighbors cried "Poor Mary Ann!

She can't get over it! she never can!"

When lo! to prove each prophet was a ninny, The one that died was the poor wet-nurse Jenny.

To aggravate the case, There were but two grown donkeys in the place; And, most unluckily for Eve's sick daughter, The other long-eared creature was a male, Who never in his life had given a pail Of milk, or even chalk and water.

No matter: at the usual hour of eight Down trots a donkey to the wicket-gate, With Mister Simon Gubbins on his back-- "Your sarvant, Miss--a werry spring-like day-- Bad time for ha.s.ses, though! good lack! good lack!

Jenny be dead, Miss--but I'ze brought ye Jack-- He doesn't give no milk--but he can bray."

So runs the story, And, in vain self-glory, Some Saints would sneer at Gubbins for his blindness; But what the better are their pious saws To ailing souls, than dry hee-haws, Without the milk of human kindness?

DEATH'S RAMBLE.

THOMAS HOOD.

One day the dreary old King of Death Inclined for some sport with the carnal, So he tied a pack of darts on his back, And quietly stole from his charnel.

His head was bald of flesh and of hair, His body was lean and lank; His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank.