|
John Godfrey Saxe. 1816–1887
|
|
114. Early Rising
|
|
"GOD bless the man who first
invented sleep!"
|
|
|
So
Sancho Panza said, and so say I:
|
|
|
And
bless him, also, that he did n't keep
|
|
|
His
great discovery to himself; nor try
|
|
|
To make it—as
the lucky fellow might—
|
|
|
A close
monopoly by patent-right!
|
|
|
|
|
|
Yes;
bless the man who first invented sleep
|
|
|
(I
really can't avoid the iteration),
|
|
|
But
blast the man, with curses loud and deep,
|
|
|
Whate'er
the rascal's name, or age, or station,
|
|
|
Who
first invented, and went round advising,
|
|
|
That
artificial cut-off, Early Rising!
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Rise
with the lark, and with the lark to bed,"
|
|
|
Observes
some solemn, sentimental owl;
|
|
|
Maxims
like these are very cheaply said;
|
|
|
But,
ere you make yourself a fool or fowl,
|
|
|
Pray
just inquire about his rise and fall,
|
|
|
And
whether larks have any beds at all!
|
|
|
|
|
|
The time
for honest folks to be a-bed
|
|
|
Is
in the morning, if I reason right;
|
|
|
And he
who cannot keep his precious head
|
|
|
Upon
his pillow till it 's fairly light,
|
|
|
And so
enjoy his forty morning winks,
|
|
|
Is up to
knavery; or else—he drinks!
|
|
|
|
|
|
Thomson,
who sung about the "Seasons," said
|
|
|
It
was a glorious thing to rise in season;
|
|
|
But then
he said it—lying—in his bed,
|
|
|
At
ten o'clock A.M.,—the very reason
|
|
|
He wrote
so charmingly. The simple fact is,
|
|
|
His
preaching was n't sanctioned by his practice.
|
|
|
|
|
|
'T is,
doubtless, well to be sometimes awake,—
|
|
|
Awake
to duty, and awake to truth,—
|
|
|
But
when, alas! a nice review we take
|
|
|
Of
our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth,
|
|
|
The
hours that leave the slightest cause to weep
|
|
|
Are
those we passed in childhood or asleep!
|
|
|
|
|
|
'T is
beautiful to leave the world awhile
|
|
|
For
the soft visions of the gentle night;
|
|
|
And
free, at last, from mortal care or guile,
|
|
|
To
live as only in the angels' sight,
|
|
|
In
sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in,
|
|
|
Where,
at the worst, we only dream of sin!
|
|
|
|
|
|
So let
us sleep, and give the Maker praise.
|
|
|
I
like the lad who, when his father thought
|
|
|
To clip
his morning nap by hackneyed phrase
|
|
|
Of
vagrant worm by early songster caught,
|
|
|
Cried,
"Served him right!—it 's not at all surprising;
|
|
|
The worm
was punished, sir, for early rising!"
|
No comments:
Post a Comment
Leave a Comment