  WRITING A SONNET.Doris, the fair, a sonnet needs must have; I ne’er was so put to ’t before;—a Sonnet! Why fourteen verses must be spent upon it; ’Tis good howe’er to have conquered the first stave, Yet I shall ne’er find rhymes enough by half, Said I, and found myself i’ th’ midst o’ the second. If twice four verses were but fairly reckoned I should turn back on th’ hardest part and laugh, Thus far with good success I think I’ve scribbled, And of the twice seven lines have clean got o’er ten. Courage! another ’ll finish the first triplet, Thanks to thee, Muse, my work begins to shorten, There’s thirteen lines got through driblet by driblet: ’Tis done! count how you will I warrant there’s fourteen. IN A FASHIONABLE CHURCH.The air is faint, yet still the crowds press in; With stir of silks and under-flow of talk That falls from lips of ladies as they walk, Ere yet the dainty service doth begin: Ah me! the very organ’s glorious din And over all a sweet melodious grace Floats with the incense-stream good souls to win! O God, that spak’st of old from Sinai’s brow! And Thou that laid’st the tempest with a word! Is this Thy worship? Come amongst us now With all Thy thunders, if Thou wouldst be heard. So tyrannous is this weight of pageantry, Almost, we cry, “Give back Gethsemane!” THE PROXY SAINT.Each for himself must do his Master’s work, Or at his peril leave it all undone; Witness the fate of one who sought to shirk The Sanctuary service yet would shun The penalty. A man of earthly aims (So runs the apologue,) whose pious spouse Would oft remind him of the Church’s claims, Still answered thus, “Go, thou, and pay our vows For thee and me!” Now, when at Peter’s gate The twain together had arrived at last, He let the woman in; then to her mate, Shutting the door, “Thou hast already passed By proxy,” said the Saint—“just in the way That thou on earth was wont to fast and pray.” ABOUT A NOSE.’Tis very odd that poets should suppose There is no poetry about a nose, When plain as is the nose upon your face, A noseless face would lack poetic grace. Noses have sympathy: a lover knows Noses are always touched when lips are kissing: And who would care to kiss where nose was missing? Why, what would be the fragrance of a rose, And where would be our mortal means of telling Whether a vile or wholesome odour flows Around us, if we owned no sense of smelling? I know a nose, a nose no other knows, ’Neath starry eyes, o’er ruby lips it grows; Beauty is in its form and music in its blows. DYSPEPSIA.Ah, me! what mischiefs from the stomach rise! What fatal ills, beyond all doubt or question! Has been prevented by a bad digestion! I ween the savory crust of filthy pies Hath made full many a man to quake and tremble, Filling his stomach with dyspeptic sighs, Until a huge balloon it doth resemble. Thus do our lower parts impede the upper, And much the brain’s good works molest and hinder. We gorge our cerebellum with hot supper, And burn, with drams, our viscera to a cinder, Choosing our arrows from Disease’s quiver, Till man in misery lives to loathe his liver. HUMILITY.Fair, soft Humility, so seldom seen, So oft despised upon this little earth, Counted by men as dross of nothing worth, Though in the sight of Mightiness supreme ’Tis hailed and welcomed as a glorious birth, Offspring of greatness, beauty perfected, And yet of such fragility extreme, That if we call it ours, ’tis forfeited; Named, it escapes us, thus we need beware, When with the Publican we plead the prayer, “A sinner, Lord, be merciful to me!” Our hearts do not say softly, “I thank Thee, O Lord, for this sweet grace, Humility, Which I possess, unlike the Pharisee.” AVE MARIA.Ave Maria! ’tis the evening hymn Of many pilgrims on the land and sea. Soon as the day withdraws, and two or three Faint stars are burning, all whose eyes are dim With tears or watching, all of weary limb Or troubled spirit, yield the bended knee, And find, O Virgin! life’s repose in thee. I, too, at nightfall, when the new-born rim Of the young moon is first beheld above, Tune my fond thoughts to their devoutest key, And from all bondage—save remembrance—free Glad of my liberty as Noah’s dove, Seek the Madonna most adored by me, And say mine “Ave Marias” to my love.
|
|
