The American Union Speaker

by John D. Philbrick

And when the thing is made, whether it be
To move on earth, in air, or on the sea;
Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide,
Or, upon land to roll, revolve, or slide;
Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring,
Whether it be a piston or a spring,
Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass,
The thing designed shall surely come to pass;
For, when his hand 's upon it, you may know
That there's go in it, and he'll make it go.
J. Pierpont.

CCCLXVIII.

HOTSPUR'S ACCOUNT OF A FOP.

My liege, I did deny no prisoners.
But, I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reaped,
Showed like a stubble land at harvest-home.
He was perfumed like a milliner;
And. 'twixt his finger and his thumb, he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon,
He gave his nose, and took 't away again;—
And still he smiled and talked;
And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He called them—untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms
He questioned me; among the rest, demanded
My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.
I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold,
To be so pestered with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience,
Answered neglectingly, I know not what;
He should, or he should not;—for he made me mad.
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds; (God save the mark!)
And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth
Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;
And that it was a great pity, so it was,
This villainous saltpetre should be digged
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed
So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.
This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord,
I answered indirectly, as I said;
And, I beseech you, let not this report
Come current for an accusation
Betwixt my love and your high majesty.
Shakespeare.

CCCLXIX.

HOW TO HAVE WHAT WE LIKE.

Hard by a poet's attic lived a chemist,
Or alchemist, who had a mighty
Faith in the elixir vitæ;
And, though unflattered by the dimmest
Glimpse of success, kept credulously groping
And grubbing in his dark vocation;
Stupidly hoping
To onto the art of changing metals,
And so coin guineas, from his pots and kettles,
By mystery of transmutation.

Our starving poet took occasion
To seek this conjurer's abode;
Not with encomiastic ode,
Of laudatory dedication,
But with an offer to impart,
For twenty pounds, the secret art
Which should procure, without the pain
Of metals, chemistry, and fire,
What he so long had sought in vain,
And gratify his heart's desire.

The money paid, our bard was hurried
To the philosopher's sanctorum,
Who, as it were sublimed and flurried
Out of his chemical decorum,
Crowed, capered, giggled, seemed to spurn his
Crucibles, retort, and furnace,
And cried, as he secured the door,
And carefully put to the shutter,
"Now, now, the secret, I implore!
For heaven's sake, speak, discover, utter!"

With grave and solemn air the poet
Cried: "List! O, list, for thus I show it:
Let this plain truth those ingrates strike,
Who still, though blessed, new blessings crave;
THAT WE MAY ALL HAVE WHAT WE LIKE,
SIMPLY BY LIKING WHAT WE HAVE!"
Horace Smith.