« VorigeDoorgaan »
ODE TO A PIG.
(WHILE HIS NOSE WAS BEING BORED
HARK! hark! that pig! the hideous note,
More loud and 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 foolish fears! Why, pig, there's not a lady in the land
Who has not also bored and ringed 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
Society finds needful to impose.
Go to the forest, piggy, and deplore
Behold their hourly danger, when who will
May hunt, or snare, or seize them for his food! O happy pig! whom none presume to kills '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,
To think that for your master's good you die?
S. T. COLERIDGE.
Underneath a huge oak tree
There was, of swine, a huge company,
That grunted as they crunched the mast;
Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet.
Over hill, over dale, did the black Raven go.
Many autumns, many springs,
At length he came back, and with him a she,
And their mother did die of a broken heart.
The boughs from the trunk the woodman did sever
He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls-
Right glad was the Raven, and off he went fleet,
THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S DAUGHTER.
[Miss Bessie Rayner Parkes, one of the most gifted of the fair sisterhood of song, was born 1829, and is the daughter of the late Joseph Parkes, Esq., of the Court of Chancery. Her poems indicate a close study of the imaginative school of Shelley (to whose
memory one of her volumes is dedicated), and abound in fine thoughts and well-turned metaphors. Her works are "Poems" (1855), "Gabriel" (1856), "Essays on Woman's Work," and a prose story, full of fine fancies and quiet humour, “The History of our Cat, Aspasia" (1856), &c.]
[How the king's daughter, having married me, a peasant, for love, heareth of the death of her only brother, and taketh her little son to the king.]
SHE twisted up her royal lengths
Of fallen hair with a silver pin,
Which stirred to flame when I looked within:
Dressed in a gown of velvet black,
With a diamond clasp, and a silver band,
More like in his eyes to her than me:
Heavily over the far hill-tops
Booms the bell in the minster-tower, From city to city between the hills Echo the bells at the burial hour:
"Amen!" saith the bough in the ten-mile forest; "Amen!" saith the sea from its cavernous bed; "Amen!" saith the people, when bowed at the sorest: "Who is dead?" said the rooks, "who is dead? who is dead?"
The young man is dead, in his strength, in his beauty,
Low in the midst of the Church of the Merciful
"Babe, child, brave youth!" wept the Queen, in her closet;
"Heir of my name!" sighed the King on his throne; "Who leads us to battle?" cried they of the market; "My lover!" looked one face as cold as a stone.
Slow tolled the bells from the north to the southern sea,
The hand of eternity pressed on each eye.
The market-cross with its sculptured Christ,
'Mid the crush and the trample stood steady and strong;
The welded masses of voiceless folk
As a sea at midnight rolled along.
Booming bells, as they struck the ear,
And each gabled house was alive with eyes.
But lo! in the distance a shadowy file,
They move to the beat of a muffled drum; The waves recede as for Israel's march,
And the thick crowd mutters, "They come, they
Where the bier was borne by the central fount,
Saying, "O King, behold my boy:
His smile is the dead's, and his eye is your own." "From my broad domain in one true man's heart, From the home I chose of mine own free will, I give you my jewel to wear in your crown."
Then snatching him back for one last long fill
Of his rippling smiles, they heard her say,