« 上一頁繼續 »
To see the weapons used in this amusing fight,
way, Think just as they think and wish, and all their
Such are the weapons used, most weighty are they
too, Though none can call them just, or just exactly new; They scent of “ Smithfield,” dungeons, prisons, or
the stake; Of holy, sainted “MATHER,” who made the Quakers
quake And tremble for their fate, as flying on their track, He used the cat-o’nine tail soundly on their back!
Thank Heaven! that day has passed, the lash can
Cut flesh of maiden down on Salisbury shore !
Or drive defenceless women from their homes away, Forsooth, because they would their Quaker homage
pay. But “ MATHER" now is dead, and
we evermore Have ministers, who will such arguments ignore.
The lyre must cease its strain, nor thus its theme
prolong, For prose is bad enough, much worse a prosy song; And lest your patience tire of theme or manner
terse, The Muse will no more sing in plain “ Iambic”
verse; Which though of graceful strength, of calm majestic
might, Is yet too ornate far for true poetic flight. Then cease this lyric strain in measure, flowing,
free, By stanza to the past, present, and futurity.
Then hail! to the shades of the Ages that hare
been, And the changes so vast which their passing hath They've witnessed the birth of magnificent spheres, Which now have been moving for endless years; They were present in the morn when creation
began; They have witnessed its progress through an end
They sang at the birth of the planets afar,
born; They witnessed the nuptials in Eden's blest morn; They have brought us in gladness, through changes,
unknown, But the death-god hath sealed them forever his
All hail to the present, our own golden age!
flies, The chained servant of man as it distance defies;
And man's subtle mind, spread out on the river, Makes it work like a giant, where ten thousand
wheels quiver, And thousands of spindles, thus constantly hum
ming, Sing their song to the Age, of a “Good time com
ing; When the light-flowing pen gives battle to wrong, Slaying ignorance like magic, in prose and in song. Then hail to the present! improve its glad day; For its moments are passing to oblivion for aye!
The dark vista of time, which now lies before us, How it brightens and glows in the light of the
past; Till we long to embrace the glad prospect before
us, And curse in our memory all thoughts of the past.
But let us remember that past progress was slow, That by dint of hard effort did its car only go; That ages were passed ere its spindles could hum, Or the mind's subtle thoughts through a printing.