THE
HASTY-PUDDING.
CANTO I.
Ye Alps audacious, thro’ the heavens that rise,
To cramp the day and hide me from the skies;
Ye Gallic flags that o’er their heights unfurl’d,
Bear death to kings, and freedom to the world,
I sing not you. A softer theme I choose,
A virgin theme, unconscious of the Muse,
But fruitful, rich, well suited to inspire
The purest frenzy of poetic fire.
Despise it not, ye bards to terror steel’d,
Who hurl’d your thunders round the epic field;
Nor ye who strain your midnight throats to sing
Joys that the vineyard and the still-house bring;
Or on some distant fair your notes employ,
And speak of raptures that you ne’er enjoy.
I sing the sweets I know, the charms I feel,
My morning incense, and my evening meal,
The sweets of Hasty-Pudding. Come, dear bowl,
Glide o’er my palate, and inspire my soul.
The milk beside thee, smoking from the kine,
Its substance mingl’d, married in with thine,
Shall cool and temper thy superior heat,
And save the pains of blowing while I eat.
Oh! could the smooth, the emblematic song
Flow like the genial juices o’er my tongue,
Could those mild morsels in numbers chime,
And as they roll in substance, roll in rhyme,
No more thy awkward unpoetic name,
Should shun the muse, or prejudice thy fame;
