The Long-Nosed Fair

ONCE on a time I fair Dorinda kiss'd,

Whose nose was too distinguish'd to be miss'd;

My dear, says I, I fain would kiss you closer,

But tho' your lips say aye--your nose says, no, Sir.--

The maid was equally to fun inclin'd,

And plac'd her lovely lily-hand behind;

Here, swain, she cry'd, may'st thou securely kiss,

Where there's no nose to interrupt thy bliss.

Christopher Smart

On a Lady Throwing Snow-Balls at her Lover

From the Latin of Petronious Ascanius

WHEN, wanton fair, the snowy orb you throw,

I feel a fire before unknown in snow.

E'en coldest snow I find has pow'r to warm

My breast, when flung by Julia's lovely arm.

T'elude love's pow'rful arts I strive in vain,

If ice and snow can latent fires contain.

These frolics leave: the force of beauty prove,

With equal passion cool my ardent love.

Christopher Smart

The Sweets of Evening

THE sweets of evening charm the mind,

Sick of the sultry day;

The body then no more confin'd,

But exercise with freedom join'd,

When Phoebus sheathes his ray.

While all-serene the summer moon

Sends glances thro' the trees,

And Philomel begins her tune,.

And Asteria too shall help her soon

With voice of skillful ease.

A nosegay, every thing that grows,

And music, every sound

To lull the sun to his repose;

The skies are colour'd like the rose

With lively streaks around.

Of all the changes rung by time

None half so sweet appear,

As those when thoughts themselves sublime,

And with superior natures chime

In fancy's highest sphere.

Christopher Smart

On My Wife's Birth-Day

A Ballad

'TIS Nancy's birth-day--raise your strains,

Ye nymphs of the Parnassian plains,

And sing with more than usual glee

To Nancy, who was born for me.

Tell the blythe Graces as they bound,

Luxuriant in the buxom round;

They're not more elegantly free,

Than Nancy, who was born for me.

Tell royal Venus, tho' she rove,

The queen of the immortal grove,

That she must share her golden fee

With Nancy, who was born for me.

Tell Pallas, tho' th'Athenian school,

And ev'ry trite pedantic fool,

On her to place the palm agree,

'Tis Nancy's, who was born for me.

Tell spotless Dian, tho' she range,

The regent of the up-land grange,

In chastity she yields to thee,

O Nancy, who was born for me.

Tell Cupid, Hymen, and tell Jove,

With all the pow'rs of life and love,

That I'd disdain to breathe or be,

If Nancy was not born for me.

Christopher Smart

Epistle to Mrs. Tyler

IT ever was allow'd, dear Madam,

Ev'n from the days of father Adam,

Of all perfection flesh is heir to,

Fair patience is the gentlest virtue;

This is a truth our grandames teach,

Our poets sing, and parsons preach;

Yet after all, dear Moll, the fact is

We seldom put it into practice;

I'll warrant (if one knew the truth)

You've call'd me many an idle youth,

And styl'd me rude ungrateful bear,

Enough to make a parson swear.

I shall not make a long oration

in order for my vindication,

For what the plague can I say more

Than lazy dogs have done before;

Such stuff is naught but mere tautology,

And so take that for my apology.

First then for custards, my dear Mary,

The produce of your dainty dairy,

For stew'd, for bak'd, for boil'd, for roast,

And all the teas and all the toast;

With thankful tongue and bowing attitude,

I here present you with my gratitude:

Next for you apples, pears, and plums

Acknowledgment in order comes;

For wine, for ale, for fowl, for fish--for

Ev'n all one's appetite can wish for:

But O ye pens and O ye pencils,

And all ye scribbling utensils,

Say in what words and in what meter,

Shall unfeign'd admiration greet her,

For that rich banquet so refin'd

Her conversation gave the mind;

The solid meal of sense and worth,

Set off by the desert of mirth;

Wit's fruit and pleasure's genial bowl,

And all the joyous flow of soul;

For these, and every kind ingredient

That form'd your love--your most obedient.

Christopher Smart

Where's the Poker?

A Fable

[Ed. Note: "vails" in line 19 means gratuities given to servants usually by guests on their departure. --Nelson]

THE poker lost, poor Susan storm'd,

And all the rites of rage perform'd;

As scolding, crying, swearing, sweating,

Abusing, fidgetting, and fretting.

"Nothing but villany, and thieving;

Good heavens! what a world we live in!

If I don't find it in the morning,

I'll surely give my master warning.

He'd better far shut up his doors,

Than keep such good for nothing whores;

For wheresoe'er their trade they drive,

We vartuous bodies cannot thrive."

Well may poor Susan grunt and groan;

Misfortunes never come alone,

But tread each other's heels in throngs,

For the next day she lost the tongs;

The salt box, colander, and pot

Soon shar'd the same untimely lot.

In vain she vails and wages spent

On new ones--for the new ones went.

There'd been (she swore) some dev'l or witch in,

To rob or plunder all the kitchen.

One night she to her chamber crept

(Where for a month she had not slept;

Her master being, to her seeming,

A better play fellow than dreaming).

Curse on the author of these wrongs,

In her own bed she found the tongs,

(Hang Thomas for an idle joker!)

In her own bed she found the poker,

With the salt box, pepper box, and kettle,

With all the culinary metal.--

Be warn'd, ye fair, by Susans crosses:

Keep chaste and guard yourselves from losses;

For if young girls delight in kissing,

No wonder that the poker's missing.

Christopher Smart

The Pig

A Fable

[Ed. Note: For a similar satire of critics, see "The Owl Critic"

by James T. Field.]

IN ev'ry age, and each profession,

Men err the most by prepossession;

But when the thing is clearly shown,

And fairly stated, fully known,

We soon applaud what we deride,

And penitence succeeds to pride.--

A certain Baron on a day

Having a mind to show away,

Invited all the wits and wags,

Foot, Massey, Shuter, Yates, and Skeggs,

And built a large commodious stage,

For the Choice Spirits of the age;

But above all, among the rest,

There came a Genius who profess'd

To have a curious trick in store,

Which never was perform'd before.

Thro' all the town this soon got air,

And the whole house was like a fair;

But soon his entry as he made,

Without a prompter, or parade,

'Twas all expectance, all suspense,

And silence gagg'd the audience.

He hid his head behind his wig,

With with such truth took off* a Pig,             [imitated]

All swore 'twas serious, and no joke,

For doubtless underneath his cloak,

He had conceal'd some grunting elf,

Or was a real hog himself.

A search was made, no pig was found--

With thund'ring claps the seats resound,

And pit and box and galleries roar,

With--"O rare! bravo!" and "Encore!"

Old Roger Grouse, a country clown,

Who yet knew something of the town,

Beheld the mimic and his whim,

And on the morrow challeng'd him.

Declaring to each beau and bunter

That he'd out-grunt th'egregious grunter.

The morrow came--the crowd was greater--

But prejudice and rank ill-nature

Usurp'd the minds of men and wenches,

Who came to hiss, and break the benches.

The mimic took his usual station,

And squeak'd with general approbation.

"Again, encore! encore!" they cry--

'Twas quite the thing--'twas very high;

Old Grouse conceal'd, amidst the racket,

A real Pig berneath his jacket--

Then forth he came--and with his nail

He pinch'd the urchin by the tail.

The tortur'd Pig from out his throat,

Produc'd the genuine nat'ral note.

All bellow'd out--"'Twas very sad!

Sure never stuff was half so bad!

That like a Pig!"--each cry'd in scoff,

"Pshaw! Nonsense! Blockhead! Off! Off! Off!"

The mimic was extoll'd, and Grouse

Was hiss'd and catcall'd from the house.--

"Soft ye, a word before I go,"

Quoth honest Hodge--and stooping low

Produc'd the Pig, and thus aloud

Bespoke the stupid, partial crowd:

"Behold, and learn from this poor creature,

How much you Critics know of Nature."

Christopher Smart

Psalm XXIII

THE shepherd Christ from heav'n arriv'd,

My flesh and spirit feeds;

I shall not therefore be depriv'd

Of all my nature needs.

As slop'd against the glist'ning beam

The velvet verdure swells,

He keeps, and leads me by the stream

Where consolation dwells.

My soul He shall from sin restore,

And her free pow'rs awake,

In paths of heav'nly truth to soar,

For love and mercy's sake.

Yea, tho' I walk death's gloomy vale,

The dread I shall disdain;

For Thou art with me, lest I fail,

To check me and sustain.

Thou shalt my plenteous board appoint

Before the braving foe;

Thine oil and wine my head anoint,

And make my goblet flow.

But great still Thy love and grace

Shall all my life attend;

And in Thine hallow'd dwelling place

My knees shall ever bend.

Christopher Smart