THE ARK
Vainly, my Betsey, to the weeping dayYou sing the rhyme that drives the rain away;And from your window mourn the patient treesBuffeted by the peevish Hyades.Come, let us shut the lattice, do you slideFrom your old Ark the gaudy-painted sideAnd let the enlargèd captives walk about;For though a deluge be at work without,Secure within we’ve no concern for that,And all the nursery is Ararat.Not on the rug,—a space of oaken boardsA firmer footing for the crew affords:Softly, my Betsey, lest your fervour harmThe extreme frailness of a leg or arm—Poor limbs, so often and so rudely tossedAnd rattled down, no wonder some be lostBeyond the aid of glue! What skill did cramInto the hold vermilion-hatted HamAnd Shem with the green top-knot and the slimContours of Japheth, Noah (somewhat grimWith buttons) and his consort after him!The wives are at the bottom, dear, but nowCome the black pig and terra-cotta cow,Three foxes, this a purple collar roundHis rigid neck proclaims the faithful hound;The birds are not so nice, tradition failsTo account for such a quantity of quails,But the old weary crow that flew and flewAway from Noah has come back for you.Where is the dove? For if my memory speakThe truth therewasa dove and in his beakThe olive leaves he plucked upon the dayWhen, as you know, the waters ebbed away;Who perched on Noah’s window with pink feet,And without whom no Ark is thought complete.Where is the missing dove? For now I see,Standing or prone the whole menagerie,And the rain’s stopped without and all aboveBeams the benignant sky; and still no dove,Of the same beautiful fact the feathered proof!Why here—upon the ripples of the roof—Here is your truant painted, to abideWhen Shem and Ham are scattered far and wide,And all the beasts are broke, to brood with furledPacific wings over the new-washed world.
Vainly, my Betsey, to the weeping dayYou sing the rhyme that drives the rain away;And from your window mourn the patient treesBuffeted by the peevish Hyades.Come, let us shut the lattice, do you slideFrom your old Ark the gaudy-painted sideAnd let the enlargèd captives walk about;For though a deluge be at work without,Secure within we’ve no concern for that,And all the nursery is Ararat.Not on the rug,—a space of oaken boardsA firmer footing for the crew affords:Softly, my Betsey, lest your fervour harmThe extreme frailness of a leg or arm—Poor limbs, so often and so rudely tossedAnd rattled down, no wonder some be lostBeyond the aid of glue! What skill did cramInto the hold vermilion-hatted HamAnd Shem with the green top-knot and the slimContours of Japheth, Noah (somewhat grimWith buttons) and his consort after him!The wives are at the bottom, dear, but nowCome the black pig and terra-cotta cow,Three foxes, this a purple collar roundHis rigid neck proclaims the faithful hound;The birds are not so nice, tradition failsTo account for such a quantity of quails,But the old weary crow that flew and flewAway from Noah has come back for you.Where is the dove? For if my memory speakThe truth therewasa dove and in his beakThe olive leaves he plucked upon the dayWhen, as you know, the waters ebbed away;Who perched on Noah’s window with pink feet,And without whom no Ark is thought complete.Where is the missing dove? For now I see,Standing or prone the whole menagerie,And the rain’s stopped without and all aboveBeams the benignant sky; and still no dove,Of the same beautiful fact the feathered proof!Why here—upon the ripples of the roof—Here is your truant painted, to abideWhen Shem and Ham are scattered far and wide,And all the beasts are broke, to brood with furledPacific wings over the new-washed world.
Vainly, my Betsey, to the weeping dayYou sing the rhyme that drives the rain away;And from your window mourn the patient treesBuffeted by the peevish Hyades.Come, let us shut the lattice, do you slideFrom your old Ark the gaudy-painted sideAnd let the enlargèd captives walk about;For though a deluge be at work without,Secure within we’ve no concern for that,And all the nursery is Ararat.Not on the rug,—a space of oaken boardsA firmer footing for the crew affords:Softly, my Betsey, lest your fervour harmThe extreme frailness of a leg or arm—Poor limbs, so often and so rudely tossedAnd rattled down, no wonder some be lostBeyond the aid of glue! What skill did cramInto the hold vermilion-hatted HamAnd Shem with the green top-knot and the slimContours of Japheth, Noah (somewhat grimWith buttons) and his consort after him!The wives are at the bottom, dear, but nowCome the black pig and terra-cotta cow,Three foxes, this a purple collar roundHis rigid neck proclaims the faithful hound;The birds are not so nice, tradition failsTo account for such a quantity of quails,But the old weary crow that flew and flewAway from Noah has come back for you.Where is the dove? For if my memory speakThe truth therewasa dove and in his beakThe olive leaves he plucked upon the dayWhen, as you know, the waters ebbed away;Who perched on Noah’s window with pink feet,And without whom no Ark is thought complete.Where is the missing dove? For now I see,Standing or prone the whole menagerie,And the rain’s stopped without and all aboveBeams the benignant sky; and still no dove,Of the same beautiful fact the feathered proof!Why here—upon the ripples of the roof—Here is your truant painted, to abideWhen Shem and Ham are scattered far and wide,And all the beasts are broke, to brood with furledPacific wings over the new-washed world.