'The times! the times!'—the burden of that sound
Falls ever on my ear, most dismally;
And as from rock to hill its echoes bound,
I ask my heart, 'And can it truly be,
That 'Providence, which oft afflicts the just,'
Has fore-ordain'd that all the banks should bu'st?'
'The times! the times!'—the cry of terror goes
From field to field, o'er mountain, vale, and glen,
And in a thousand anguish'd accents flows
From half the 'doubting, doting' sons of men;
While they are joined the cadence of the hymn in,
By half the girls, and all of the old women.
Though these be days of steam-revolving pistons,
And labor-saving tools, of every kind,
Yet do we moderns slay our own Philistines,
Much in the manner you may call to mind
Of him of yore, who, neither weak nor lazy,
Abstracted, one dark night, the gate of Gaza.
Yea, prophets prophecy, and dreamers dream,
While stupid men look on in wild derision,
Nor things of sober earnestness they deem
The workings of each cabalistic vision,
Which tells the causes of the things that ail 'em,
As clearly as the ass explained to Balaam.
''Tis for your sins!'—as Pollux link'd with Castor
Is ever seen, so guilt with punishment;
Each mortal sin provokes a fresh bank 'plaster,'
Precisely at the rate of cent per cent.
Oh! deeds of crime, at which the bosom sickens.
Ye've hatch'd indeed a pretty brood of chickens!
'Twas not for nought we made the Indians shank it,
Far to the westward of the Mountains Rocky;
While a tobacco-pipe, and three-point blanket
Was all the guerdon of each hapless jockey:
Fancy the march in dioramic views,
Ye who have seen the 'Exit of the Jews!'
The negroes! Hold we not this seed of Ham's
In durance, equally inhuman, fully,
To that which brought old Pharaoh to the clams?
And why? Because their occiputs are woolly;
Their lips are thick; their cheeks display no roses:
And then, to cap the climax, oh! what noses!
And meanwhile, drunkenness, on every hand,
Hath rear'd her gilded shrines, and never rested;
Till now, within the borders of the land,
The only draughts that don't come back 'protested,'
But currently are taken, till the stock fails,
Are alcoholic potions, christen'd 'cock-tails.'
And thus, while crime hath spread with stride portentous,
Pray is it strange that evil o'er us lingers?
That 'lots' of retribution have been sent us;
And blessing (in disguise!) slip through our fingers;
While ever and anon bursts some new bubble,
To throw us neck and heels again in trouble?
My country! thou art sick, and very bilious,
From feeding high, and working very little,
Whereby thou hast become quite supercilious,
And, through the passing richness of thy victual,
'Wax'd fat, like Jeshurun,' that noted kicker,
In token of his wholesome meat and liquor.