Ralph Waldo Emerson.
All or Nothing.
Whoso answers my questions
Knoweth more than me;
Hunger is but knowledge
In a less degree:
Prophet, priest and poet
Oft prevaricate,
And the surest sentence
Hath the greatest weight.
When upon my gaiters
Drops the morning dew,
Somewhat of Life’s riddle
Soaks my spirit through.
I am buskined by the goddess
Of Monadnock’s crest,
And my wings extended
Touch the East and West.
Or ever coal was hardened
In the cells of earth,
Or flowed the founts of Bourbon,
Lo! I had my birth.
I am crowned coeval
With the Saurian eggs,
And my fancy firmly
Stands on its own legs.
Wouldst thou know the secret
Of the barberry-bush,
Catch the slippery whistle
Of the moulting thrush,
Dance upon the mushrooms,
Dive beneath the sea,
Or anything else remarkable,
Thou must follow me!
From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor.
This is a fair imitation of some of Emerson’s early poems. “Brahma” is, however, the most frequently parodied, although no parody approaches the mystery of the original.
BRAHMA.
If the red slayer thinks he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain.
They know well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.
Far or forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanquished gods to me appear;
And one to me are shame and fame.
They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.
The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
This first appeared in The Atlantic Monthly, (No. 1) November, 1857.
Damn, Ah!
An exclamation to the tortoise-shell cat which sings so diabolically under my window by night.
If the grey tom cat think he sing
Or if the song think it be sung,
They know not who would boot-jacks fling,—
How many bricks at him I’ve flung!
When comes the night, to me he’s near,
Rainy or shiny, all the same,
He on the roof will still appear
And caterwaul his tom-cat flame.
They reckon ill who bolt him out,
For like a bird with mighty wings
He’ll perch upon the water-spout,
And twice as loud the tom-cat sings.
His voice will oft attract a brood
Of female felines, six or seven,
To chaunt their hymns round my abode,
As though it were the tom-cat’s heaven.
Mutton.
If the fat butcher thinks he slays,
Or he—the mutton—thinks he’s slain,
Why, “troth is truth,” the eater says—
“I’ll come, and ‘cut and come again.’”
To hungry wolves that on him leer
Mutton is sheep, and sheep the same,
No famished god would at him sneer—
To famine, chops are more than fame.
Who hiss at him, him but assures
That they are geese, but wanting wings—
Your coat is his whose life is yours,
And baa! the hymn the mutton sings.
Ye curs, and gods of grander blood,
And you, ye Paddies fresh from Cork,
Come taste, ye lovers of the good—
Eat! Stuff! and turn your back on pork.
Anonymous.
