WITH cheerful step the traveller Pursues his early way, When first the dimly-dawning east Reveals the rising day.
He bounds along his craggy road, He hastens up the height, And all he sees and all he hears, But only give delight.
And if the mist retiring slow, Roll round its wavy white, He thinks the morning vapours hide Some beauty from his sight.
But when behind the western clouds
Departs the fading day,
How wearily the traveller
Pursues his evening way!
Then sorely o'er the craggy road His painful footsteps creep, And slow with many a feeble pause, He labours up the steep.
And if the mists of night close round, They fill his soul with fear; He dreads some unseen precipice, Some hidden danger near.
So cheerfully does youth begin Life's pleasant morning stage; Alas! the evening traveller feels The fears of wary age!
SLOWLY thy flowing tide
Came in, old Avon! scarcely did mine eyes, As watchfully I roam'd thy green-wood side, Behold the gentle rise.
With many a stroke and strong The labouring boatmen upward plied their oars, And yet the eye beheld them labouring long Between thy winding shores.
Now down thine ebbing tide
The unlaboured boat falls rapidly along, The solitary helms-man sits to guide And sings an idle song.
Now o'er the rocks, that lay So silent late, the shallow current roars; Fast flow thy waters on their sea-ward way Through wider-spreading shores.
Avon! I gaze and know
The wisdom emblemed in thy varying way, It speaks of human joys that rise so slow, So rapidly decay.
Kingdoms that long have stood
And slow to strength and power attain'd at last, Thus from the summit of high fortune's flood Ebb to their ruin fast.
The course of time to manhood's envied stage, Alas! how hurryingly the ebbing years Then hasten to old age!
A COLLOQUIAL POEM.
JACOB! I do not love to see thy nose Turned up in scornful curve at yonder pig. It would be well, my friend, if thou and I Had, like that pig, attained the perfectness Made reachable by Nature! why dislike The sow-born grunter?-he is obstinate, Thou answerest, ugly, and the filthiest beast That banquets upon offal. Now I pray you Hear the pig's counsel.
Is he obstinate? We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words, By sophist sounds. A democratic beast, He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek Their profit, and not his. He hath not learnt That pigs were made for man, born to be brawn'd And baconiz'd; that he must please to give Just what his gracious masters please to take; Perhaps his tusks, the weapons Nature gave For self-defence, the general privilege;
Perhaps hark, Jacob! dost thou hear that horn? Woe to the young posterity of pork!
The pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him! Those eyes have taught the lover flattery. His face,-nay, Jacob, Jacob! were it fair To judge a lady in her dishabille?
Fancy it drest, and with saltpetre rouged. Behold his tail, my friend; with curls like that The wanton hop marries her stately spouse; So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair
Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love. And what is beauty but the aptitude Of parts harmonious? give thy fancy scope, And thou wilt find that no imagined change Can beautify this beast. Place at his end The starry glories of the peacock's pride; Give him the swan's white breast for his horn-hoofs; Shape such a foot and ankle as the waves
Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss,
When Venus from the enamour'd sea arose ;- Jacob, thou canst but make a monster of him; All alteration man could think, would mar His pig-perfection.
The last charge he lives A dirty life. Here I could shelter him With noble and right-reverend precedents, And show, by sanction of authority, That 'tis a very honourable thing
To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest On better ground the unanswerable defence: The pig is a philosopher, who knows No prejudice. Dirt? Jacob, what is dirt? If matter,--why the delicate dish that tempts An o'ergorged epicure to the last morsel That stuffs him to the throat-gates, is no more. If matter be not, but as sages say Spirit is all, and all things visible Are one, the infinitely modified, Think, Jacob, what that pig is, and the mire In which he stands knee-deep?
And there! that breeze Pleads with me, and has won thee to the smile That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom'd field Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.
WHILE HIS NOSE WAS BEING BORED.
HARK! hark! that pig-that pig! the hideous note, More loud, more dissonant, each moment grows- Would one not think the knife was in his throat? And yet they are only boring through his nose.
You foolish beast, so rudely to withstand Your master's will, to feel such idle fears! Why, pig, there's not a lady in the land
Who has not also bored and ring'd her ears.
Pig! 'tis your master's pleasure-then be still, And hold your nose to let the iron through! Dare you resist your lawful sovereign's will? Rebellious swine! you know not what you do!
To man o'er every beast the power was given, Pig, hear the truth, and never murmur more! Would you rebel against the will of Heaven? You impious beast, be still, and let them bore!
The social pig resigns his natural rights When first with man he covenants to live; He barters them for safer stye delights,
For grains and wash, which man alone can give.
Sure is provision on the social plan,
Secure the comforts that to each belong: Oh, happy swine! the impartial sway of man Alike protects the weak pig and the strong.
And you resist! you struggle now because Your master has thought fit to bore your nose! You grunt in flat rebellion to the laws Society finds needful to impose !
Go to the forest, piggy, and deplore The miserable lot of savage swine!
See how the young pigs fly from the great boar, And see how coarse and scantily they dine!
Behold their hourly danger, when who will May hunt, or snare, or seize them for his food! Oh, happy pig! whom none presumes to kill Till your protecting master thinks it good!
And when, at last, the closing hour of life Arrives (for pigs must die as well as man), When in your throat you feel the long sharp knife, And the blood trickles to the pudding pan;
And, when at last, the death wound yawning wide, Fainter and fainter grows the expiring cry, Is there no grateful joy, no loyal pride,
To think that for your master's good you die?
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