Nux Postcoenatica
I was sitting with my microscope, upon my parlor rug,
With a very heavy quarto and a very lively bug;
The true bug had been organized with only two antennae,
But the humbug in the copperplate would have them twice as many.
And I thought, like Dr. Faustus, of the emptiness of art,
How we take a fragment for the whole, and call the whole a part,
When I heard a heavy footstep that was loud enough for two,
And a man of forty entered, exclaiming, '€œHow d’€™ ye do?'€
He was not a ghost, my visitor, but solid flesh and bone;
He wore a Palo Alto hat, his weight was twenty stone;
(It’€™s odd how hats expand their brims as riper years invade,
As if when life had reached its noon it wanted them for shade!)
I lost my focus,'€”Âdropped my book,'€”Âthe bug, who was a flea,
At once exploded, and commenced experiments on me.
They have a certain heartiness that frequently appalls,'€”Â
Those mediaeval gentlemen in semilunar smalls!
'€œMy boy,'€ he said, (colloquial ways,'€”Âthe vast, broad-hatted man,)
'€œCome dine with us on Thursday next,'€”Âyou must, you know you can;
We’€™re going to have a roaring time, with lots of fun and noise,
Distinguished guests, et cetera, the judge, and all the boys.'€
Not so,'€”ÂI said,'€”Âmy temporal bones are showing pretty clear.
It '€™s time to stop,'€”Âjust look and see that hair above this ear;
My golden days are more than spent,'€”Âand, what is very strange,
If these are real silver hairs, I’€™m getting lots of change.
Besides’€”Âmy prospects’€”Âdon’€™t you know that people won’€™t employ
A man that wrongs his manliness by laughing like a boy?
And suspect the azure blossom that unfolds upon a shoot,
As if wisdom’€™s old potato could not flourish at its root?
It’€™s a very fine reflection, when you '€™re etching out a smile
On a copperplate of faces that would stretch at least a mile,
That, what with sneers from enemies and cheapening shrugs of friends,
It will cost you all the earnings that a month of labor lends!
It’€™s a vastly pleasing prospect, when you’€™re screwing out a laugh,
That your very next year’€™s income is diminished by a half,
And a little boy trips barefoot that Pegasus may go,
And the baby’€™s milk is watered that your Helicon may flow!
No;'€”Âthe joke has been a good one,'€”Âbut I’€™m getting fond of quiet,
And I don’€™t like deviations from my customary diet;
So I think I will not go with you to hear the toasts and speeches,
But stick to old Montgomery Place, and have some pig and peaches.
The fat man answered: Shut your mouth, and hear the genuine creed;
The true essentials of a feast are only fun and feed;
The force that wheels the planets round delights in spinning tops,
And that young earthquake t’€™ other day was great at shaking props.
I tell you what, philosopher, if all the longest heads
That ever knocked their sinciputs in stretching on their beds
Were round one great mahogany, I’€™d beat those fine old folks
With twenty dishes, twenty fools, and twenty clever jokes!
Why, if Columbus should be there, the company would beg
He’€™d show that little trick of his of balancing the egg!
Milton to Stilton would give in, and Solomon to Salmon,
And Roger Bacon be a bore, and Francis Bacon gammon!
And as for all the '€œpatronage’€ of all the clowns and boors
That squint their little narrow eyes at any freak of yours,
Do leave them to your prosier friends,'€”Âsuch fellows ought to die
When rhubarb is so very scarce and ipecac so high!
And so I come,'€”Âlike Lochinvar, to tread a single measure,'€”Â
To purchase with a loaf of bread a sugar-plum of pleasure,
To enter for the cup of glass that’€™s run for after dinner,
Which yields a single sparkling draught, then breaks and cuts the winner.
Ah, that’€™s the way delusion comes,'€”Âa glass of old Madeira,
A pair of visual diaphragms revolved by Jane or Sarah,
And down go vows and promises without the slightest question
If eating words won’€™t compromise the organs of digestion!
And yet, among my native shades, beside my nursing mother,
Where every stranger seems a friend, and every friend a brother,
I feel the old convivial glow (unaided) o’€™er me stealing,'€”Â
The warm, champagny, the old-particular brandy-punchy feeling.
We’€™re all alike;'€”ÂVesuvius flings the scoriae from his fountain,
But down they come in volleying rain back to the burning mountain;
We leave, like those volcanic stones, our precious Alma Mater,
But will keep dropping in again to see the dear old crater.
