Читать книгу The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe - Various - Страница 19

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"Man may be happy, if he will:"

I've said it often, and I think so still;

Doctrine to make the million stare!

Know then, each mortal is an actual Jove;

Can brew what weather he shall most approve,

Or wind, or calm, or foul, or fair.

But here's the mischief—man's an ass, I say;

Too fond of thunder, lightning, storm, and rain;

He hides the charming, cheerful ray

That spreads a smile o'er hill and plain!

Dark, he must court the skull, and spade, and shroud—

The mistress of his soul must be a cloud!

Who told him that he must be cursed on earth?

The God of Nature?—No such thing;

Heaven whispered him, the moment of his birth,

"Don't cry, my lad, but dance and sing;

Don't be too wise, and be an ape:—

In colors let thy soul be dressed, not crape.

"Roses shall smooth life's journey, and adorn;

Yet mind me—if, through want of grace,

Thou mean'st to fling the blessing in my face,

Thou hast full leave to tread upon a thorn."

Yet some there are, of men, I think the worst,

Poor imps! unhappy, if they can't be cursed—

Forever brooding over Misery's eggs,

As though life's pleasure were a deadly sin;

Mousing forever for a gin

To catch their happiness by the legs.

Even at a dinner some will be unblessed,

However good the viands, and well dressed:

They always come to table with a scowl,

Squint with a face of verjuice o'er each dish,

Fault the poor flesh, and quarrel with the fish,

Curse cook and wife, and, loathing, eat and growl.

A cart-load, lo, their stomachs steal,

Yet swear they can not make a meal.

I like not the blue-devil-hunting crew!

I hate to drop the discontented jaw!

O let me Nature's simple smile pursue,

And pick even pleasure from a straw.