  Vainly, my Betsey, to the weeping day You sing the rhyme that drives the rain away; And from your window mourn the patient trees Buffeted by the peevish Hyades. Come, let us shut the lattice, do you slide From your old Ark the gaudy-painted side And let the enlargÈd captives walk about; For though a deluge be at work without, Secure within we’ve no concern for that, And all the nursery is Ararat. Not on the rug,—a space of oaken boards A firmer footing for the crew affords: Softly, my Betsey, lest your fervour harm The extreme frailness of a leg or arm— Poor limbs, so often and so rudely tossed And rattled down, no wonder some be lost Beyond the aid of glue! What skill did cram Into the hold vermilion-hatted Ham And Shem with the green top-knot and the slim Contours of Japheth, Noah (somewhat grim With buttons) and his consort after him! The wives are at the bottom, dear, but now Come the black pig and terra-cotta cow, Three foxes, this a purple collar round His rigid neck proclaims the faithful hound; The birds are not so nice, tradition fails To account for such a quantity of quails, But the old weary crow that flew and flew Away from Noah has come back for you. Where is the dove? For if my memory speak The truth there was a dove and in his beak The olive leaves he plucked upon the day When, as you know, the waters ebbed away; Who perched on Noah’s window with pink feet, And without whom no Ark is thought complete. Where is the missing dove? For now I see, Standing or prone the whole menagerie, And the rain’s stopped without and all above Beams the benignant sky; and still no dove, Of the same beautiful fact the feathered proof! Why here—upon the ripples of the roof— Here is your truant painted, to abide When Shem and Ham are scattered far and wide, And all the beasts are broke, to brood with furled Pacific wings over the new-washed world.
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