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I'll want not then the yellow haze
Thou shed'st so faint by day
And shame thy feeble ray-
And lift my soul froni earth,
Could give such splendor birth.
To watch thee quivering, die,
'Tis better you than I-
Receive my parting ghost.
Burns in thy brazen hearse
And let me see my purse-
Pshaw !-go then with a pun,
But Liberty's bright Sun.
THE SPRING S.
You've read dear B- the Cantos of Don Juan I'll take their stanza for what's in my head,
And sketch a picture which shall be a true one;
l'm filled with Sulphur, white, blue, grey and red,
To drink such oceans, surely must undo oneIf, therefore, I should seem a spiteful devil Excuse me-brimstone makes me thus uncivil. I'm at the Springs, beyond the Alleghany,
The burning sun is scorching us like stubble, The dust declares the weather is not rainy
And decent people have a world of trouble; I'm sick of Springs all save old Hippocrene,
That had no sulphur, but with rhymes did bubble,
From bay of Mexico to Pass’maquoddy,
By julep sometimes and sometimes by toddy.
A monstrous cheat imposed on every bodyBut for the fashion, we should shun these waters Ye fathers, mothers, brothers, sons and daughters ! Great men are plenty here, as well as little,
The high and low, plebeians and patricians, Small fry and great! "of fish a pretty kettle”
Here mingle Congressmen, grand politicians ! With men whose only business is to whittle
Here's one, long deemed the greatest of magicians, And people whisper, that sulphureous station Is just the place for dev'lish incantation. "Tis time such calumnies should have an end
It's like his sable majesty rebuking sin; Or devil, undertaking broken legs to mend
The game is bat the game of out and in, To this pole-star alone, all needles tend,
For this, all panic cries and clamorous din, And things have lately had an end so tragical That "non-committal" should expire with “magical.”
How like a polypus, Springs multiply !
Sweet, Salt and White! the Blue, the Red, the Grey! Like the weird Sisters in Macbeth, they cry
And bid us, “mingle, mingle while me may”
To curse our folly at no distant day,
But then we have such charming promenades!
A gulf-stream, vast, in which are floating seen
And withered beldames of a stately mien.
Which look like barbers' blocks alive, between-
I am so wrinkled and so old myself,
Just lay yourself aside upon the shelf,
Your head, and do not for all Rothschild's pelf
What means the term ?-my head is very thick,
In other words, he has a bishoprick.
And wherefore stick them where we see them stick,
Held men were monkies once, both male and female, That they continued by decree of God, so,
Till civ’lization “dock'd th' estate in tail."
The women doubtless will exclaim, oh lud no !
But once their gowns were made with monstrous trail, And now they show, by these enormous tumors, That having tails is one of their fond humors.
Ah! ha! I've stumbled on the secret hidden
In bishops, perched upon each lady's back,
The seat of honor too is a woolsack
And thus you see I've got upon the track:
Do ladies think to laugh so much is pretty ? .
Their faces gleam with everlasting lightThe beaux must now be either vastly witty,
Or else their stock of brains must be so slight That blunders half convulse each screaming Kitty
And she is forced to show her ivory white, And throw her body into such contortions From witnessing dull Witling's sad abortions. Since I have mention'd women here so freely
I'll handle now the EpigastricWhy on such subjects should our mouths be mealy
Why dont some “Pulpit drum ecclesiastic” Send forth anathema of thund'ring peal, eh!
Against that fashion, cruel and fantastic, Of tightly squeezing up the poor abdomen, Till busts are like inverted cones, in women.
A truce with gibes against the charming fair
For, after all, they're ev'ry way, delightfulNow for those mouths all covered up with hair
Can any thing on earth be half so frightful ? Were I a despot they should dangle in mid air
The running noose I would, with all my might, pull, Or banish them to herd with bearded goats Which wear such dirty patches on their throats.
But that which beats bobtail and makes one stare.
That which all other fooleries doth bang,
Till youth looks grimmer than Ourang Outang-
And to their “hurdies" next a tail will hang, And if tis true, old maids lead apes about in hell "Twill be but what is done, in this world, by a belle.
Nevertheless, there's something quite amusing
About these Sulphur Springs, in what one sees Eight hundred people constantly abusing
The waters—table-servants—flies and flees; And yet the whole affair's of their own choosing
All swarming here, as swarms a swarm of beesAnd never was there such a set of gluttons Devouring every year three thousand muttons. A fellow has dyspepsia-fui quorum,
(I choose to have the Latin changed to please me,) Chotanker like, I take my morning jorum,
And then expect, vain hope! the spring to ease me; Next down my throat the buckwheat cakes I pour’em
And then, of course, tremendous colics seize me, The Doctor's called-one of Jack Hornbook's scholars-I swallow pills—he swallows twenty dollars.
A man whose face is yellow as a pumpkin,
For calomel has gone off with his liver,
than would make a river, And feeds as freely as a Tony Lumpkin,
Then straightway has an Indian sweat or shiver,
A friend complained about his nervous system
That Cassius like he “could not sleep o'nights”. He hoped that Sulphur water would assist him
And set his weak and shattered nerves to rights