« PredošláPokračovať »
Our would-be Keepers of the Sabbath-day
Are like the Keepers of the brutes ferociousAs soon the Tiger might expect to stalk
About the grounds from Saturday till Monday, As any harmless man to take a walk,
If Saints could clap him in a cage on Sunday, But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ?
In spite of all hypocrisy can spin,
As surely as I am a Christian scion, I cannot think it is a mortal sin
(Unless he's loose)—to look upon a lion. I really think that one may go, perchance,
To see a bear, as guiltless as on Monday(That is, provided that he did not dance)
Bruin's no worse than bakin' on a Sunday-
In spite of all the fanatic compiles,
I can not think the day a bit diviner, Because no children, with forestalling smiles,
Throng, happy, to the gates of Eden MinorIt is not plain, to my poor faith at least,
That what we christen “Natural” on Monday,
Can be unnatural because it's Sunday,
Whereon is sinful fantasy to work ?
The Dove, the winged Columbus of man's haven? The tender Love-Bird-or the filial Stork ?
The punctual Crane—the providential Raven? The Pelican whose bosom feeds her young?
Nay, must we cut from Saturday till Monday
Because she does not preach upon a Sunday--
The busy Beaver—that sagacious beast !
The Sheep that owned an Oriental ShepherdThat Desert-ship, the Camel of the East,
The horned Rhinoceros—the spotted Leopard
The Creatures of the Great Creator's hand
Are surely sights for better days than Monday-
Has he no sermon in his trunk for Sunday?-
What harm if men who burn the midnight-oil,
Weary of frame, and worn and wan of feature, Seek once a week their spirits to assoil,
And snatch a glimpse of “ Animated Nature ?" Better it were if, in his best of suits,
The artisan, who goes to work on Monday,
Than make a beast of his own self on Sunday-
Why, zounds! what raised so Protestant a fuss
(Omit the zounds ! for which I make apology) But that the Papists, like some Fellows, thus
Had somehow mixed up Dens with their Theology ? Is Brahma's Bull—a Hindoo god at home
A Papal Bull to be tied up till Monday ?-
That there is such a dread of them on Sunday-
Spirit of Kant! have we not had enough
To make Religion sad, and sour, and snubbish, But Saints Zoological must cant their stuff,
As vessels cant their ballast-rattling rubbish! Once let the sect, triumphant to their text,
Shut Nero up from Saturday till Monday,
To see the Dandelions on a Sunday-
ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQUIRE.*
THOMAS HOOD, "Close, close your eyes with holy dread,
And weave a circle round him thrice;
“It's very hard them kind of men
A WANDERER, Wilson, from my native land,
likeness you have darkly etched,
I guess the features:-in a line to paint
Ushers of Beelzebub's Black Rod,
Of such a character no single trace
'Who had, in one of his books, characterized some of Hood's verses as "profaneness and ribaldry."
A certain lifting of the nose's tip;
Well !-be the graceless lineaments confest!
And dote upon a jest
As any body's rotten borough.
What else? No part I take in party fray,
I've no ambition to enact the spy
'Tis said that people ought to guard their noses
I do not hash the Gospel in my books,
On Bible stilts I don't affect to stalk;
For man may pious texts repeat,
Mere verbiage—it is not worth a carrot !
A mere professor, spite of all his cant, is
Not a whit better than a MantisAn insect, of what clime I can't determine, That lists its paws most parson-like, and thence, By simple savages—through sheer pretenseIs reckoned quite a saint among the vermin. But where's the reverence, or where the nous, To ride on one's religion through the lobby,
Whether as stalking-horse or hobby, To show its pious paces to “ the house.”
I honestly confess that I would hinder
That spiritual Pindar,