| |
| I SING 1 the oven—glowing, fruitful theme. | |
| Happy for me, that mad Achilles found, | |
| And weak Ulysses erst, a servile bard, | |
| That deign’d their puny feats, else lost, to sing. | |
| And happy that Æneas, feeble man! | 5 |
| Fell into hands of less emprise than mine; | |
| Too mean the subject for a bard so high. | |
| Not Dante, Ariosto, Tasso, dared | |
| Sport their gross minds in such grand element. | |
| Nor he, dame nature’s master-journeyman, | 10 |
| Who nimbly wrought a comic tragedy, | |
| As poet woos a muse, one Shakspeare called! | |
| Nor Milton, who embattled Devils sung; | |
| Nor bold Sir Blackmore, who an Epic built, | |
| Quick as can mason rear a chimney stack; | 15 |
| Nor later these, Klopstock and Wieland famed, | |
| Who sung, this King of Elves, that King of kings; | |
| Dared the prolific Oven blaze in song. | |
| Expect not now of Furnaces to hear, | |
| Where Æolus dilates the liquid glass; | 20 |
| Nor where the Hollanders, in nests of tow, | |
| With mimic nature, incubate their eggs; | |
| For the Domestic Oven claims my powers. | |
| Come then, from kilns of flame, and tropic suns, | |
| Each salamander Muse, and warm my brain. | 25 |
| Need I describe?—Who hath a kitchen seen | |
| And not an arched concavity call’d Oven? | |
| Grand farinaceous nourisher of life! | |
| See hungry gape its broad mouth for its food, | |
| And hear the faggots crackling in its jaws, | 30 |
| Its palate glowing red with burning breath. | |
| Do not approach too near; the ingulphing draught | |
| Will drink your respiration ere you list. | |
| Glance now the fire-jambs round, and there observe | |
| Utensils formed for culinary use. | 35 |
| Shovel and tongs, like ancient man and wife, | |
| He, with his arms akimbo, she in hoops, | |
| There, dangling sausages in chains hang down; | |
| As Sciences and Arts, distinct, allied; | |
| Or, as in Union bound our sister States. | 40 |
| Here, flayed eels, strung pendant by the waist; | |
| So swing aloof victims in heathen climes; | |
| O Algier hearts! to mock at writhing pain. | |
| And, high in smoke-wreaths, ponderous ham to cure; | |
| So may each traitor to his country hang! | 45 |
| And, thick on nails, the housewife’s herbs to dry; | |
| Coltsfoot for pipe, and spearmint for a tea. | |
| Upon the hearth, the shrill-lunged cricket chirps | |
| Her serenade, not waiting to be press’d. | |
| And Sue, poking the cinders, smiles to point, | 50 |
| As fond associations cross the mind, | |
| A gallant, ring, or ticket, fashion’d there. | |
| And purring puss, her pied-coat licked sleek, | |
| Sits mousing for the crumbs, beside black Jack. | |
| He, curious drone, with eyes and teeth of white, | 55 |
| And natural curl, who twenty falls hath seen, | |
| And cannot yet count four!—nor ever can, | |
| Though tasked to learn, until his nose be sharp. | |
| ’T is marvel, if he thinks, but when he speaks; | |
| Else, to himself, why mutter loud, and strange, | 60 |
| And scold, and laugh, as half a score were by? | |
| In shape and parts, a seed of Caliban! | |
| He now is roasting earth-nuts by the coals, | |
| And hissing clams, like martyrs mocking pain; | |
| And sizzing apples, air-lanced with a pin; | 65 |
| While in the embers hops the parching corn, | |
| Crack! crack! disploding with the heat, like bombs. | |
| Craunching, he squats, and grins, and gulps his mug, | |
| And shows his pompion-shell, with eyes and mouth, | |
| And candle fitted, for the tail of kite, | 70 |
| To scare the lasses in their evening walk— | |
| For, next day, and Thanksgiving-Eve will come. | |
| Now turn we to the teeming Oven; while, | |
| A skilful midwife, comes the aged dame; | |
| Her apron clean, and nice white cap of lawn. | 75 |
| With long lean arm, she lifts the griding slice. | |
| And inward slides it, drawing slowly out. | |
| In semi-globes, and frustums of the cone, | |
| Tann’d brown with heat, come, smoking, broad high loaves; | |
| And drop-cakes, ranged like cocks round stack of hay: | 80 |
| Circles and segments, pies and turn-overs, | |
| For children’s children, who stand teasing round, | |
| Scorching their mouths, and dance like juggler’s apes, | |
| Wishing the pie more cool, or they less keen. | |
| Next, brown and wrinkled, like the good dame’s brow, | 85 |
| Come russet-coated sweetings, pulp for milk; | |
| A luscious dish—would one were brought me now! | |
| And kisses, made by Sue for suitor’s pun. | |
| And when the morrow greets each smiling face, | |
| And from the church, where grateful hearts have pour’d, | 90 |
| Led by the Man of God, their thanks and prayers, | |
| To Him, who fills their granaries with good, | |
| They hurry home, snuffing the spicy steams; | |
| The pious matron, with full heart draws forth | |
| The spare-rib crisp—more savory from the spit! | 95 |
| Tall pots of peas and beans—vile, flatulent; | |
| And puddings, smoking to the rafter’d walls; | |
| And sweet-cup custards, part of the dessert. | |
| These all, concreted some, some subtilized, | |
| And by the generative heat matured, | 100 |
| A goodly birth, the welcome time brings forth. | |
| Illustrious Oven! warmest, heartiest friend! | |
| Destroy but thee, and where were festive smiles? | |
| We, cannibals, might torrify and seethe; | |
| Or dry blood-reeking flesh in the cold sun; | 105 |
| Or, like the Arab, on his racing horse, | |
| Beneath the saddle swelter it for food. | |
| And yet, ere thou give us, we must give thee. | |
| Thus many an Oven barren is for life. | |
| O poverty! how oft thy wishful eye | 110 |
| Rests on thine Oven, hungry as thyself! | |
| Would I might load each Oven of the poor, | |
| With what each palate craves—a fruitless wish! | |
| Yet seldom hear we Industry complain; | |
| And no one should complain, who hath two eyes, | 115 |
| Two hands, and mind and body, sound and free. | |
| And such, their powers to worthy ends applied, | |
| Be pleased, indulgent Patroness, to feed. | |
