A Nonsense Anthology Part 9

The particular procedure leaves research In the lurch, But, apparently, this matter-moulded form Is a kind of outer plaster, Which a well-instructed Master Can remove without disaster When he's warm.

And to such as mourn an Indian Solar Clime At its prime 'Twere a thesis most immeasurably fit, So expansively elastic, And so plausibly fantastic, That one gets enthusiastic For a bit.

_From the Times of India_.

INDIFFERENCE

In loopy links the canker crawls, Tads twiddle in their 'polian glee, Yet sinks my heart as water falls.

The loon that laughs, the babe that bawls, The wedding wear, the funeral palls, Are neither here nor there to me.

Of life the mingled wine and brine I sit and sip pipslipsily.

_Anonymous_.

HEART-FOAM

Oh! to be wafted away From this black Aceldama of sorrow, Where the dust of an earthy to-day Makes the earth of a dusty to-morrow.

_W.S. Gilbert_.

COSSIMBAZAR

Come fleetly, come fleetly, my hookabadar, For the sound of the tam-tam is heard from afar.

"Banoolah! Banoolah!" The Brahmins are nigh, And the depths of the jungle re-echo their cry.

_Pestonjee Bomanjee_!

Smite the guitar; Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

Heed not the blast of the deadly monsoon, Nor the blue Brahmaputra that gleams in the moon.

Stick to thy music, and oh, let the sound Be heard with distinctness a mile or two round.

_Famsetjee, Feejeebhoy_!

Sweep the guitar.

Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

Art thou a Buddhist, or dost thou indeed Put faith in the monstrous Mohammedan creed?

Art thou a Ghebir--a blinded Pa.r.s.ee?

Not that it matters an atom to me.

_Cursetjee Bomanjee_!

Tw.a.n.g the guitar Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

_Henry S. Leigh_.

_THE PERSONIFIED SENTIMENTAL_

Affection's charm no longer gilds The idol of the shrine; But cold Oblivion seeks to fill Regret's ambrosial wine.

Though Friendship's offering buried lies 'Neath cold Aversion's snow, Regard and Faith will ever bloom Perpetually below.

I see thee whirl in marble halls, In Pleasure's giddy train, Remorse is never on that brow, Nor Sorrow's mark of pain.

Deceit has marked thee for her own; Inconstancy the same; And Ruin wildly sheds its gleam Athwart thy path of shame.

_Bret Harte_.

A CLa.s.sIC ODE

Oh, limpid stream of Tyrus, now I hear The pulsing wings of Armageddon's host, Clear as a colcothar and yet more clear-- (Twin orbs, like those of which the Pa.r.s.ees boast;)

Down in thy pebbled deeps in early spring The dimpled naiads sport, as in the time When Ocidelus with untiring wing Drave teams of prancing tigers, 'mid the chime

Of all the bells of Phicol. Scarcely one Peristome veils its beauties now, but then-- Like nascent diamonds, sparkling in the sun, Or sainfoin, circinate, or moss in marshy fen.

Loud as the blasts of Tubal, loud and strong, Sweet as the songs of Sappho, aye more sweet; Long as the spear of Arnon, twice as long, What time he hurled it at King Pharaoh's feet.

_Charles Battell Loomis_.

WHERE AVALANCHES WAIL

Where avalanches wail, and green Distress Sweeps o'er the pallid beak of loveliness: Where melancholy Sulphur holds her sway: And cliffs of conscience tremble and obey;

And where Tartarean rattle snakes expire; Twisting like tendrils of a hero's pyre?

No! dancing in the meteor's hall of power, See, Genius ponders o'er Affection's tower!

A form of thund'ring import soars on high, Hark! 'tis the gore of infant melody: No more shall verdant Innocence amuse The lips that death-fraught Indignation glues;-- Tempests shall teach the trackless tide of thought.

That undiminish'd senselessness is naught; Freedom shall glare; and oh! ye links divine, The Poet's heart shall quiver in the brine.

_Anonymous_

BLUE MOONSHINE

Mingled aye with fragrant yearnings, Throbbing in the mellow glow, Glint the silvery spirit-burnings, Pearly blandishments of woe.

Aye! forever and forever, Whilst the love-lorn censers sweep, Whilst the jasper winds dissever Amber-like the crystal deep,