Bunker Hill and Other Poems | Page 9

and goddess,?Each ready with the price to name?For robe or head-dress, scarf or bodice.
First Juno, out of temper, too,--?Her queenly forehead somewhat cloudy;?Then Pallas in her stockings blue,?Imposing, but a little dowdy.
The scowling queen of heaven unrolled?Before the Jew a threadbare turban?"Three shillings." "One. 'T will suit some old?Terrific feminine suburban."
But as for Pallas,--how to tell?In seemly phrase a fact so shocking??She pointed,--pray excuse me,--well,?She pointed to her azure stocking.
And if the honest truth were told,?Its heel confessed the need of darning;?"Gods!" low-bred Vulcan cried, "behold!?There! that's what comes of too much larning!"
Pale Proserpine came groping round,?Her pupils dreadfully dilated?With too much living underground,--?A residence quite overrated;
This kerchief's what you want, I know,--?Don't cheat poor Venus of her cestus,--?You'll find it handy when you go?To--you know where; it's pure asbestus.
Then Phoebus of the silverr bow,?And Hebe, dimpled as a baby,?And Dian with the breast of snow,?Chaser and chased--and caught, it may be:
One took the quiver from her back,?One held the cap he spent the night in,?And one a bit of bric-a-brac,?Such as the gods themselves delight in.
Then Mars, the foe of human kind,?Strode up and showed his suit of armor;?So none at last was left behind?Save Venus, the celestial charmer.
Poor Venus! What had she to sell??For all she looked so fresh and jaunty,?Her wardrobe, as I blush' to tell,?Already seemed but quite too scanty.
Her gems were sold, her sandals gone,--?She always would be rash and flighty,--?Her winter garments all in pawn,?Alas for charming Aphrodite
The lady of a thousand loves,?The darling of the old religion,?Had only left of all the doves?That drew her car one fan-tailed pigeon.
How oft upon her finger-tips?He perched, afraid of Cupid's arrow,?Or kissed her on the rosebud lips,?Like Roman Lesbia's loving sparrow!
"My bird, I want your train," she cried;?"Come, don't let's have a fuss about it;?I'll make it beauty's pet and pride,?And you'll be better off without it.
"So vulgar! Have you noticed, pray,?An earthly belle or dashing bride walk,?And how her flounces track her way,?Like slimy serpents on the sidewalk?
"A lover's heart it quickly cools;?In mine it kindles up enough rage?To wring their necks. How can such fools?Ask men to vote for woman suffrage?"
The goddess spoke, and gently stripped?Her bird of every caudal feather;?A strand of gold-bright hair she clipped,?And bound the glossy plumes together,
And lo, the Fan! for beauty's hand,?The lovely queen of beauty made it;?The price she named was hard to stand,?But Venus smiled: the Hebrew paid it.
Jove, Juno, Venus, where are you??Mars, Mercury, Phoebus, Neptune, Saturn??But o'er the world the Wandering Jew?Has borne the Fan's celestial pattern.
So everywhere we find the Fan,--?In lonely isles of the Pacific,?In farthest China and Japan,--?Wherever suns are sudorific.
Nay, even the oily Esquimaux?In summer court its cooling breezes,--?In fact, in every clime 't is so,?No matter if it fries or freezes.
And since from Aphrodite's dove?The pattern of the fan was given,?No wonder that it breathes of love?And wafts the perfumed gales of heaven!
Before this new Pandora's gift?In slavery woman's tyrant kept her,?But now he kneels her glove to lift,--?The fan is mightier than the sceptre.
The tap it gives how arch and sly!?The breath it wakes how fresh and grateful!?Behind its shield how soft the sigh!?The whispered tale of shame how fateful!
Its empire shadows every throne?And every shore that man is tost on;?It rules the lords of every zone,?Nay, even the bluest blood of Boston!
But every one that swings to-night,?Of fairest shape, from farthest region,?May trace its pedigree aright?To Aphrodite's fan-tailed pigeon.
TO R. B. H.
AT THE DINNER TO THE PRESIDENT,?BOSTON, JUNE 26, 1877
How to address him? awkward, it is true?Call him "Great Father," as the Red Men do??Borrow some title? this is not the place?That christens men Your Highness and Your Grace;?We tried such names as these awhile, you know,?But left them off a century ago.
His Majesty? We've had enough of that?Besides, that needs a crown; he wears a hat.?What if, to make the nicer ears content,?We say His Honesty, the President?
Sir, we believed you honest, truthful, brave,?When to your hands their precious trust we gave,?And we have found you better than we knew,?Braver, and not less honest, not less true!?So every heart has opened, every hand?Tingles with welcome, and through all the land?All voices greet you in one broad acclaim,?Healer of strife! Has earth a nobler name?
What phrases mean you do not need to learn;?We must be civil, and they serve our turn?"Your most obedient humble" means--means what??Something the well-bred signer just is not.
Yet there are tokens, sir, you must believe;?There is one language never can deceive?The lover knew it when the maiden smiled;?The mother knows it when she clasps her child;?Voices may falter, trembling lips turn pale,?Words grope and stumble; this will tell their tale?Shorn of all rhetoric, bare of all pretence,?But radiant, warm, with Nature's eloquence.?Look in our eyes! Your welcome waits you there,--?North, South, East, West,