Spars were splintered; decks were broken; Every mother's son,
THE LAST VERSES OF CHAUCER. WRITTEN ON HIS DEATH-BED.
LY from the press and dwell with soth
Suffice unto thy good, though it be small; For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness, Press hath envy, and weal is blent o'er all; Savor no more than thee behoven shall; Rede well thyself, that otherfolk canst rede, And truth thee shall deliver 'tis no drede.
Down they dropped-no word was spoken-Pain thee not each crooked to redress
On the decks, as they were lying,
Were their faces grim;
In their blood, as they lay dying,
Did they smile on him.
Those in whom he had reliance
For his noble name With one smile of still defiance
Sold him unto shame.
Shame and wrath his heart confounded;
Pale he turned, and red,
Till himself was deadly wounded,
Falling on the dead.
In trust of her that turneth as a ball; Great rest standeth in little business;
Beware also to spurn against a nalle; Strive not as doth a crocké with a wall; Deemeth thyself that deemest other's deed, And truth thee shall deliver 'tis no drede.
That thee is sent receive in buxomness;
The wrestling of this world asketh a fall; Here is no home, here is but wilderness : Forth, pilgrim, forth! O beast, out of thy stall!
Look up on high, and thank thy God of all; Waiveth thy lust and let thy ghost thee lead, And truth thee shall deliver 'tis no drede. GEOFFREY CHAUCER (Dan Chaucer).
HOUGH Nature weigh our
talents and dispense
To every man his modicum
of sense,
Asseveration blustering in your face
Makes contradiction such an hopeless case;
In every tale they tell, or false or true,
Well known or such as no man ever knew,
And conversation, in its bet- They fix attention, heedless of your pain,
With oaths like rivets forced into the brain;
May be esteemed a gift, and And even when sober truth prevails through
Yet much depends, as in the They swear it till affirmance breeds a doubt.
tiller's toil,
A Persian, humble servant of the sun,
On culture and the sowing of Who, though devout, yet bigotry had none,
Hearing a lawyer grave in his address
With adjurations every word impress,
Supposed the man a bishop, or, at least,
God's name so much upon his lips, a priest,
Bowed at the close with all his graceful airs,
And begged an interest in his frequent
the soil.
Words learned by rote a parrot may rehearse,
But talking is not always to converse.
There is a prurience in the speech of some:
Wrath stays him, or else God would strike
His wise forbearance has their end in view;
They fill their measure and receive their due.
The heathen lawgivers of ancient days—
Names almost worthy of a Christian praise
Would drive them forth from the resort of
And shut up every satyr in his den.
Oh, come not ye near innocence and truth,
Ye worms that eat into the bud of youth!
Infectious as impure, your blighting power
Taints in its rudiments the promised flower.
Oaths terminate, as Paul observes, all strife;
Some men have surely, then, a peaceful life.
Whatever subject occupy discourse—
The feats of Vestris or the naval force-
Ye powers who rule the tongue, if such
there are,
Preserve me from the thing I dread and
And make colloquial happiness your care,
A duel in the form of a debate;
The clash of arguments and jar of words,
Worse than the mortal brunt of rival swords.
Decide no question with their tedious length,
For opposition gives opinion strength,
Divert the champions prodigal of breath,
And put the peaceably disposed to death.
Oh, thwart me not, Sir Soph, at every turn,
Nor
carp at every flaw you may discern;
Though syllogisms hang not on my tongue,
I am not surely always in the wrong;
'Tis hard if all is false that I advance:
A fool must now and then be right by chance.
Not that all freedom of dissent I blame;
No; there I grant the privilege I claim.
A disputable point is no man's ground;
Knows what he knows as if he knew it not,
What he remembers seems to have forgot,
His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall,
Centring at last in having none at all.
Rove where you please: 'tis common all Where men of judgment creep and feel their
Discourse may want an animated "No!"
To brush the surface and to make it flow;
But still remember, if you mean to please,
To press your point with modesty and ease.
The mark at which my juster aim I take
Is contradiction for its own dear sake:
Set your opinion at whatever pitch,
Knots and impediments make something
hitch;
Adopt his own, 'tis equally in vain :
Your thread of argument is snapt again; The wrangler, rather than accord with you, Will judge himself deceived, and prove it too. Vociferated logic kills me quite:
A noisy man is always in the right;
I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair,
Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare,
And when I hope his blunders are all out
Reply discreetly, "To be sure. No doubt."
Dubius is such a scrupulous good man!
Yes, you may catch him tripping if you can.
He would not with a peremptory tone
Assert the nose upon his face his own;
With hesitation admirably slow
He humbly hopes, presumes, it may be
His evidence, if he were called by law
To swear to some enormity he saw,
For want of prominence and just relief,
Would hang an honest man and save a thief.
Through constant dread of giving truth of
fence,
He ties all his hearers in suspense,
The positive pronounce without dismay,
Their want of light and intellect supplied
By sparks absurdity strikes out of pride;
Without the means of knowing right from
They always are decisive, clear and strong;
Where others toil with philosophic force
Their nimble nonsense takes a shorter course,
Flings at your head conviction in the lump,
And gains remote conclusions at a jump;
Their own defect, invisible to them,
Seen in another, they at once condemn,
And, though self-idolized in every case,
Hate their own likeness in a brother's face.
The cause is plain and not to be denied:
The proud are always most provoked by
pride;
Few competitions but engender spite,
And those the most where neither has a right.
The point of honor has been deemed of use
To teach good manners and to curb abuse;
Admit it true, the consequence is clear:
Our polished manners are a mask we wear,
And at the bottom barbarous still and
rude;
We are restrained, indeed, but not subdued.
The very remedy, however sure,
Springs from the mischief it intends to cure,
And savage in its principle appears,
Tried, as it should be, by the fruit it bears.
'Tis hard, indeed, if nothing will defend
Mankind from quarrels but their fatal end,
That now and then a hero must decease
That the surviving world may live in peace.
Perhaps at last close scrutiny may show
The practice dastardly and mean and low-
That men engage in it compelled by force,
And fear, not courage, is its proper source,
The fear of tyrant custom, and the fear
Lest fops should censure us and fools should
At least to trample on our Maker's laws
And hazard life for any or no cause,
To rush into a fixed eternal state
Out of the very flames of rage and hate,
Or send another shivering to the bar
With all the guilt of such unnatural war,
Whatever use may urge or honor plead,
On reason's verdict is a madman's deed.
Am I to set my life upon a throw
Because a bear is rude and surly? No!
A moral, sensible and well-bred man
Will not affront me, and no other can.
A story in which native humor reigns
Is often useful, always entertains;
A graver fact enlisted on your side
May furnish illustration, well applied;
But sedentary weavers of long tales
Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails.
'Tis the most asinine employ on earth
To hear them tell of parentage and birth,
And echo conversations dull and dry,
Embellished with "He said" and "So said
I."
At every interview their route the same,
The repetition makes attention lame;
up with unsuccessful speed,
And in the saddest part cry, "Droll in- The emphatic speaker dearly loves to oppose,
The path of narrative with care pursue, Still making probability your clue,
In contact inconvenient, nose to nose,
As if the gnomon on his neighbor's phiz,
Touched with a magnet, had attracted his.
His whispered theme, dilated and at large,
Proves, after all, a wind-gun's airy charge,
An extract of his diary-no more;
A tasteless journal of the day before.
He walked abroad, o'ertaken in the rain,
Called on a friend, drank tea, stepped home
again;
Resumed his purpose, had a world of talk
With one he stumbled on, and lost his walk.
I interrupt him with a sudden bow:
"Adieu, dear sir, lest you should lose it now."
I cannot talk with civet in the room,
A fine puss-gentleman that's all perfume;
The sight's enough; no need to smell a beau:
Who trusts his nose into a raree-show?
His odoriferous attempts to please
Perhaps might prosper with a swarm of
bees,
But we that make no honey, though we sting,
Poets, are sometimes apt to maul the thing.
"Tis wrong to bring into a mixed resort
'Tis heavy, bulky and bids fair to prove An absent friend's fidelity and love; But when unpacked, your disappointment
To find it stuffed with brickbats, earth and
Some men employ their health—an ugly trick
In making known how oft they have been sick,
And give us in recitals of disease
A doctor's trouble, but without the fees;
Relate how many weeks they kept their bed,
How an emetic or cathartic sped;
Nothing is slightly touched, much less forgot;
Nose, ears and eyes seem present on the
spot.
Now the distemper, spite of draught or pill, Victorious seemed, and now the doctor's skill;
And now-alas for unforeseen mishaps !—
What makes some sick and others à la They put on a damp nightcap and relapse;
An argument of cogence, we may say,
Why such a one should keep himself away.
A graver coxcomb we may sometimes see,
Quite as absurd, though not so light, as he-
A shallow brain behind a serious mask,
An oracle within an empty cask,
The solemn fop, significant and budge ;
A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge;
He says but little, and that little said
Owes all its weight, like loaded dice, to lead.
His wit invites you by his looks to come;
But when you knock, it never is at home:
'Tis like a parcel sent you by the stage-
Some handsome present, as your hopes pre-
They thought they must have died, they
Their peevish hearers almost wish they had.
Some fretful tempers wince at every touch:
You always do too little or too much;
You speak with life, in hopes to entertain:
Your elevated voice goes through the brain
You fall at once into a lower key:
That's worse the dronepipe of a humble-
bee.
The southern sash admits too strong a light;
You rise and drop the curtain: now 'tis
He shakes with cold; you stir the fire and
To make a blaze: that's roasting him alive.
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