A PINDARIC ODE
|
| 1 |
| Gooseberry-Pie is best. |
| Full of the theme, O Muse, begin the
song! |
| What though the sunbeams of the West |
| Mature within the Turtle’s breast |
| Blood glutinous and fat of verdant hue? |
| What though the Deer bound sportively
along |
| O’er springey turf, the Park’s elastic
vest? |
| Give them their honours due, . . |
But Gooseberry-Pie is best.
|
| 2 |
| Behind his oxen slow |
| The patient Ploughman plods, |
| And as the Sower followed by the clods |
| Earth’s genial womb received the living
seed. |
| The rains descend, the grains they
grow; |
| Saw ye the vegetable ocean |
| Roll its green ripple to the April
gale? |
| The golden waves with multitudinous
motion |
Swell o’er the summer vale?
|
|
3 |
| It flows through Alder banks along |
| Beneath the copse that hides the hill; |
| The gentle stream you cannot see, |
| You only hear its melody, |
| The stream that turns the Mill. |
| Pass on a little way, pass on, |
| And you shall catch its gleam anon; |
| And hark! the loud and agonizing groan
|
| That makes its anguish known, |
| Where tortured by the Tyrant Lord of
Meal |
The Brook is broken on the Wheel!
|
|
4 |
| Blow fair, blow fair, thou orient gale! |
| On the white bosom of the sail |
| Ye Winds enamour’d lingering lie! |
| Ye Waves of ocean spare the bark, |
| Ye Tempests of the sky! |
| From distant realms she comes to bring |
| The sugar for my Pie. |
| For this on Gambia’s arid side |
| The Vulture’s feet are scaled with
blood, |
| And Beelzebub beholds with pride, |
His darling planter brood.
|
| 5 |
| First in the spring thy leaves were
seen, |
| Thou beauteous bush, so early green! |
| Soon ceased thy blossoms’ little life
of love. |
| O safer than the gold-fruit-bearing
tree |
| The glory of that old Hesperian grove,
. . |
| No Dragon does there need for thee |
| With quintessential sting to work
alarms, |
| Prepotent guardian of thy fruitage
fine, |
| Thou vegetable Porcupine! . . . |
| And didst thou scratch thy tender arms, |
O Jane! That I should dine!
|
| 6 |
| The flour, the sugar, and the fruit, |
| Commingled well, how well they suit, |
| And they were well bestow’d. |
| O Jane, with truth I praise your Pie |
| And will not you in just reply |
| Praise my Pindaric Ode? |
Exeter, 1799.
|
| Robert
Southey |
Classic Poems |
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[ The Battle of Bleinheim ] [ Gooseberry-Pie ] [ The Old Man's Comforts ] [ The Ebb Tide ] [ The Inchcape Rock ] |
