To other hands their sceptres go;
On other brows their diadems glow.
So e'en the dandy's dynasty
Must yield at last to fate's decree.
A darkling change comes on; for, lo!
The latest fashion's on Jim Crow;
And every Sambo in the street
On Sunday has it quite complete!
There's no mistake; 'tis Stultz's last
And best; his air, and cut, and cast;
His collar, cuff, and—gods, turn pale!·
That last, best tailor's gift—his tail!
Though all is lost, still hope survives,
And on defeat fond fancy thrives.
Genius of apes! come, aid thy friends,
And make thy worshippers amends!
Descend, and say what can be done
To give the flats another run;
And help poor, witless, worthless elves
T'excite the envy of themselves,
And make the gaping throng of fools -
Their cheated followers and tools-
Unconscious that the good and wise
Such monkey mockery despise.
Kind goddess! hear the fond request,
And let thy worshippers be blest!
Such is the prayer; and not in vain
"Tis wafted over hill and plain,
By angel apes, on wings unseen,
To the fair goddess, Folly's queen.
Soft is her heart, and, soon as known,
The wish is granted: from her throne
The mandate goes: thus doth it run-
"The dynasty of Stultz is done;
The age of air is now begun.”
O happy thought! 'twill do, 'twill do!
Grow hairy as a Turk or Jew!
Delightful task, with watchful toil,
To bathe thy budding hopes in oil;
With fresh Macassar, thrice a day,
Like Esquimaux, to steep thy clay;
And when, at last, thou seem'st a beast, —
Some rank, two-legged goat, at least, —
To make the badger and the bear
Thy prototype, and dote on hair!
Heed not, if squeamish wights shall feel
A sickness o'er their bosoms steal
At sight of thee — half man, half beast
A Centaur, with his whiskers greased-
A thing in which the immortal mind
Sprouts into bristles unconfined!
Heed not, but cultivate thy hair;
Thy starveling soul's not worth thy care.
Its littleness thou best canst hide
With soap-locks, flowing loose and wide.
So, having nothing else to show,
Let thy rank beard and whisker grow;
Conceal the human face divine,
And let thy model be - a swine;
Put on the animal, display the brute,
And be a thing of hair from head to foot!
Nor heed, if thus the world shall know,
As thy exuberant ringlets flow,
Thy beard or whiskers goat-like swell,
Goat-like thou lackest brains! Farewell.
But mark, at parting, Sambo's woolly fleece
Puts thine to shame, with all its glorious grease;
More full his locks, his moustache still more dark,
His whiskers quite as swinish, rough, and stark!
THERE are who scorn the Muses' voice, Who deem the lyre but weak and vain; Who care not for the minstrel's choice, His words of fire, and deathless reign.
If o er the desert waste of life
There bloomed apart a lowly flower, And round the haunts of sin and strife Its perfume lent a soothing power,
Say, would you trample down the bud,
And tear its crimson leaves awayRevile the spot whereon it stood,
And laugh to see the rose decay?
And will ye spurn the humble lyre, That seeks to calm the spirit's woe,
Exult to bid its notes expire,
And lay its gentle music low?
No! let its strings unharmed remain: The world hath but few sunny days; And it hath eased the mourner's pain, And filled his soul with cheerful lays.
Yes, when the furrowed brow of man
Is worn with chilling blasts of fate,
Ay, when his cup has just o'erran,
And all below looks desolate, —
That seraph bright, in mercy then,
Will wake her sweetest notes of power,
And take the prisoned soul again
Within her own Elysian bower!
|