THE HASTY-PUDDING: A POEM.

THE HASTY-PUDDING : A POEM .

CANTO I. YE Alps audacious , thro' the Heav'ns 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 chuse , 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 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 mingled , 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 thy genial juices o'er my tongue , Could those mild morsels in my numbers chime , And , as they roll in substance , roll in rhyme , No more thy aukward unpoetic name Should shun the Muse , or prejudice thy fame ; But rising grateful to th' accustom'd ear , All Bards should catch it , and all realms revere ! Assist me first with pious toil to trace Thro' wrecks of time thy lineage and thy race ; Declare what lovely squaw , in days of yore , ( Ere great Columbus sought thy native shore ) First gave thee to the world ; her works of fame Have liv'd indeed , but liv'd without a name . Some tawny Ceres , goddess of her days , First learn'd with stones to crack the well-dry'd maize , Thro' the rough seive to shake the golden show'r , In boiling water stir the yellow flour : The yellow flour , bestrew'd and stir'd with haste , Swells in the flood and thickens to a paste , Then puffs and wallops , rises to the brim , Drinks the dry knobs that on the surface swim ; The knobs at last the busy ladle breaks , And the whole mass its true consistence takes . Could but her sacred name , unknown so long , Rise like her labors , to the son of song , To her , to them , I'd consecrate my lays , And blow her pudding with the breath of praise . If 'twas Oella , whom I sang before , I here ascribe her one great virtue more . Not thro' the rich Peruvian realms alone The fame of Sol's sweet daughter should be known , But o'er the world's wide climes should live secure , Far as his rays extend , as long as they endure . Dear Hasty-Pudding , what unpromis'd joy Expands my heart , to meet thee in Savoy ! Doom'd o'er the world thro' devious paths to roam , Each clime my country , and each house my home , My soul is sooth'd , my cares have found an end , I greet my long-lost , unforgotten friend . For thee thro' Paris , that corrupted town , How long in vain I wandered up and down , Where shameless Bacchus , with his drenching hoard , Cold from his cave usurps the morning board . London is lost in smoke and steep'd in tea ; No Yankey there can lisp the name of thee ; The uncouth word , a libel on the town , Would call a proclamation from the crown . A certain king , at the time when this was written , was publishing proclamations to prevent American principles from being propagated in his country . For climes oblique , that fear the sun's full rays , Chill'd in their fogs , exclude the generous maize ; A grain whose rich luxuriant growth requires Short gentle showers , and bright etherial fires . But here , tho' distant from our native shore , With mutual glee we meet and laugh once more . The same ! I know thee by that yellow face , That strong complexion of true Indian race , Which time can never change , nor soil impair , Nor Alpine snows , nor Turkey's morbid air ; For endless years , thro' every mild domain , Where grows the maize , there thou art sure to reign . But man , more fickle , the bold licence claims , In different realms to give thee different names . Thee the soft nations round the warm Levant Polanta call , the French of course Polante ; Ev'n in thy native regions , how I blush To hear the Pennsylvanians call thee Mush ! On Hudson's banks , while men of Belgic spawn Insult and eat thee by the name Suppawn . All spurious appellations , void of truth ; I've better known thee from my earliest youth , Thy name is Hasty-Pudding ! thus our sires Were wont to greet thee fuming from their fires ; And while they argu'd in thy just defence With logic clear , they thus explain'd the sense : — " In haste the boiling cauldron , o'er the blaze , " Receives and cooks the ready-powder'd maize ; " In haste 'tis serv'd , and then in equal haste , " With cooling milk , we make the sweet repast . " No carving to be done , no knife to grate " The tender ear , and wound the stony plate ; " But the smooth spoon , just fitted to the lip , " And taught with art the yielding mass to dip , " By frequent journeys to the bowl well stor'd , " Performs the hasty honors of the board . " Such is thy name , significant and clear , A name , a sound to every Yankey dear , But most to me , whose heart and palate chaste Preserve my pure hereditary taste . There are who strive to stamp with disrepute The luscious food , because it feeds the brute ; In tropes of high-strain'd wit , while gaudy prigs Compare thy nursling man to pamper'd pigs ; With sovereign scorn I treat the vulgar jest , Nor fear to share thy bounties with the beast . What though the generous cow gives me to quaff The milk nutritious ; am I then a calf ? Or can the genius of the noisy swine , Tho' nurs'd on pudding , thence lay claim to mine ? Sure the sweet song , I fashion to thy praise , Runs more melodious than the notes they raise . My song resounding in its grateful glee , No merit claims ; I praise myself in thee . My father lov'd thee thro' his length of days ; For thee his fields were shaded o'er with maize ; From thee what health , what vigor he possest , Ten sturdy freemen sprung from him attest ; Thy constellation rul'd my natal morn , And all my bones were made of Indian corn . Delicious grain ! whatever form it take , To roast or boil , to smother or to bake , In every dish 'tis welcome still to me , But most , my Hasty-Pudding , most in thee , Let the green Succatash with thee contend , Let beans and corn their sweetest juices blend , Let butter drench them in its yellow tide , And a long slice of bacon grace their side ; Not all the plate , how fam'd soe'er it be , Can please my palate like a bowl of thee . Some talk of Hoe-cake , fair Virginia's pride , Rich Johnny-cake this mouth has often tri'd ; Both please me well , their virtues much the same ; Alike their fabric , as allied their fame , Except in dear New-England , where the last Receives a dash of pumpkin in the paste , To give it sweetness and improve the taste . But place them all before me , smoaking hot , The big round dumplin rolling from the pot ; The pudding of the bag , whose quivering breast , With suet lin'd leads on the Yankey feast ; The Charlotte brown , within whose crusty sides A belly soft the pulpy apple hides ; The yellow bread , whose face like amber glows ; And all of Indian that the bake-pan knows — You tempt me not — my fav'rite greets my eyes , To that lov'd bowl my spoon by instinct flies .

CANTO II . TO mix the food by vicious rules of art , To kill the stomach and to sink the heart , To make mankind , to social virtue sour , Cram o'er each dish , and be what they devour ; For this the kitchen Muse first fram'd her book , Commanding sweats to stream from every cook ; Children no more their antic gambols tri'd , And friends to physic wonder'd why they died . Not so the Yankey — his abundant feast , With simples furnish'd , and with plainness drest , A numerous offspring gathers round the board , And cheers alike the servant and the lord ; Whose well-bought hunger prompts the joyous taste , And health attends them from the short repast . While the full pail rewards the milk-maid's toil , The mother sees the morning cauldron boil ; To stir the pudding next demands their care , To spread the table and the bowls prepare ; To feed the children , as their portions cool , And comb their heads , and send them off to school . Yet may the simplest dish some rules impart , For nature scorns not all the aids of art . Ev'n Hasty-Pudding , purest of all food , May still be bad , indifferent , or good , As sage experience the short process guides , Or want of skill , or want of care presides . Whoe'er would form it on the surest plan , To rear the child and long sustain the man ; To shield the morals while it mends the size , And all the powers of every food supplies , Attend the lessons that the Muse shall bring , Suspend your spoons , and listen while I sing . But since , O man ! thy life and health demand Not food alone , but labour from thy hand , First in the field , beneath the sun's strong rays , Ask of thy mother earth the needful maize ; She loves the race that courts her yielding soil , And gives her bounties to the sons of toil . When now the ox , obedient to thy call , Repays the loan that fill'd the winter stall , Pursue his traces o'er the furrow'd plain , And plant in measur'd hills the golden grain . But when the tender germe begins to shoot , And the green spire declares the sprouting root , Then guard your nursling from each greedy foe , Th' insidious worm , the all-devouring crow . A little ashes , sprinkled round the spire , Soon steep'd in rain , will bid the worm retire ; The feather'd robber with his hungry maw Swift flies the field before your man of straw , A frightful image , such as school-boys bring When met to burn the Pope , or hang the King . Thrice in the season , through each verdant row Wield the strong plow-share and the faithful hoe ; The faithful hoe , a double task that takes , To till the summer corn , and roast the winter cakes . Slow springs the blade , while check'd by chilling rains , Ere yet the sun the seat of Cancer gains ; But when his fiercest fires emblaze the land , Then start the juices , then the roots expand ; Then , like a column of Corinthian mould , The stalk struts upward , and the leaves unfold ; The bushy branches all the ridges fill , Entwine their arms , and kiss from hill to hill . Here cease to vex them , all your cares are done ; Leave the last labors to the parent sun ; Beneath his genial smiles the well-drest field , When autumn calls , a plenteous crop shall yield . Now the strong foliage bears the standards high , And shoots the tall top-gallants to the sky ; The suckling ears their silky fringes bend , And pregnant grown , their swelling coats distend ; The loaded stalk , while still the burthen grows , O'erhangs the space that runs between the rows ; High as a hop-field waves the silent grove , A safe retreat for little thefts of love , When the pledg'd roasting-ears invite the maid , To meet her swain beneath the new-form'd shade ; His generous hand unloads the cumbrous hill , And the green spoils her ready basket fill ; Small compensation for the two-fold bliss , The promis'd wedding and the present kiss . Slight depredations these ; but now the moon Calls from his hollow tree the sly raccoon ; And while by night he bears his prize away , The bolder squirrel labors thro' the day . Both thieves alike , but provident of time , A virtue rare , that almost hides their crime . Then let them steal the little stores they can , And fill their grain'ries from the toils of man ; We've one advantage where they take no part , — With all their wiles they ne'er have found the art To boil the Hasty-Pudding ; here we shine Superior far to tenants of the pine ; This envy'd boon to man shall still belong , Unshar'd by them in substance or in song . At last the closing season browns the plain , And ripe October gathers in the grain ; Deep loaded carts the spacious corn-house fill , The sack distended marches to the mill ; The lab'ring mill beneath the burthen groans , And show'rs the future pudding from the stones ; Till the glad house-wife greets the powder'd gold , And the new crop exterminates the old .

CANTO III . THE days grow short ; but tho' the falling fun To the glad swain proclaims his day's work done , Night's pleasing shades his various task prolong , And yield new subjects to my various song . For now , the corn-house fill'd , the harvest home , Th' invited neighbours to the Husking come ; A frolic scene , where work , and mirth , and play , Unite their charms , to chace the hours away . Where the huge heap lies center'd in the hall , The lamp suspended from the cheerful wall , Brown corn-fed nymphs , and strong hard-handed beaux , Alternate rang'd , extend in circling rows , Assume their seats , the solid mass attack ; The dry husks rustle , and the corn-cobs crack ; The song , the laugh , alternate notes resound , And the sweet cider trips in silence round . The laws of Husking ev'ry wight can tell ; And sure no laws he ever keeps so well : For each red ear a general kiss he gains , With each smut ear she smuts the luckless swains ; But when to some sweet maid a prize is cast , Red as her lips , and taper as her waist , She walks the round , and culls one favor'd beau , Who leaps , the luscious tribute to bestow . Various the sport , as are the wits and brains Of well pleas'd lasses and contending swains ; Till the vast mound of corn is swept away , And he that gets the last ear , wins the day . Meanwhile the house-wife urges all her care , The well-earn'd feast to hasten and prepare . The sifted meal already waits her hand , The milk is strain'd , the bowls in order stand , The fire flames high ; and , as a pool ( that takes The headlong stream that o'er the mill-dam breaks ) Foams , roars and rages with incessant toils , So the vext cauldren rages , roars and boils . First with clean salt she seasons well the food , Then strews the flour , and thickens all the flood . Long o'er the simmering fire she lets it stand : To stir it well demands a stronger hand ; The husband takes his turn ; and round and round The ladle flies ; at last the toil is crown'd ; When to the board the thronging huskers pour , And take their seats as at the corn before . I leave them to their feast . There still belong More copious matters to my faithful song . For rules there are , tho' ne'er unfolded yet , Nice rules and wise , how pudding should be ate . Some with molasses line the luscious treat , And mix , like Bards , the useful with the sweet . A wholesome dish , and well deserving praise , A great resource in those bleak wintry days , When the chill'd earth lies buried deep in snow , And raging Boreas drives the shivering cow . Blest cow ! thy praise shall still my notes employ , Great source of health , the only source of joy ; How oft thy teats these pious hands have prest ! How oft thy bounties prove my only feast ! How oft I've fed thee with my fav'rite grain ! And roar'd , like thee , to find thy children slain ! Ye swains who know her various worth to prize , Ah ! house her well from Winter's angry skies . Potatoes , pumpkins , should her sadness cheer , Corn from your crib , and mashes from your beer ; When Spring returns she'll well acquit the loan , And nurse at once your infants and her own . Milk then with pudding I should always chuse ; To this in future I confine my Muse , Till she in haste some farther hints unfold , Well for the young , nor useless to the old . First in your bowl the milk abundant take , Then drop with care along the silver lake Your flakes of pudding ; these at first will hide Their little bulk beneath the swelling tide ; But when their growing mass no more can sink , When the soft island looms above the brink , Then check your hand ; you've got the portion's due , So taught our sires , and what they taught is true . There is a choice in spoons . Tho' small appear The nice distinction , yet to me 'tis clear . The deep bowl'd Gallic spoon , contriv'd to scoop In ample draughts the thin diluted soup , Performs not well in those substantial things , Whose mass adhesive to the metal clings ; Where the strong labial muscles must embrace , The gentle curve , and sweep the hollow space . With ease to enter and discharge the freight , A bowl less concave but still more dilate , Becomes the pudding best . The shape , the size , A secret rests unknown to vulgar eyes . Experienc'd feeders can alone impart A rule so much above the lore of art . These tuneful lips , that thousand spoons have tried , With just precision could the point decide , Tho' not in song ; the muse but poorly shines In cones , and cubes , and geometric lines . Yet the true form , as near as she can tell , Is that small section of a goose-egg-shell , Which in two equal portions shall divide The distance from the centre to the side . Fear not to slaver ; 'tis no deadly sin . Like the free Frenchman , from your joyous chin Suspend the ready napkin ; or , like me , Poise with one hand your bowl upon your knee ; Just in the zeneth your wise head project , Your full spoon , rising in a line direct , Bold as a bucket , heeds no drops that fall , The wide mouth'd bowl will surely catch them all .