Metrical Tales and Other Poems/The Pig
THE PIG.
A COLLOQUIAL POEM.
Jacob! I do not love to see thy noseTurned up in scornful curve at yonder Pig.It would be well, my friend, if we, like himWere perfect in our nature! why dislikeThe sow-born grunter? . . He is obstinate,Thou answerest; ugly, and the filthiest beastThat banquets upon offal. Now I pray youHear the Pig's Counsel.Is he obstinate?We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words,By sophist sounds. A democratic beastHe knows that his unmerciful drivers seekTheir profit and not his. He hath not learntThat Pigs were made for man, born to be brawn'dAnd baconized; that he must please to give Just what his gracious masters please to take;Perhaps his tusks, the weapons Nature gaveFor self-defence, the general privilege;Perhaps, hark Jacob! dost thou hear that horn?Woe to the young posterity of pork!Their enemy is at hand.Again. Thou say'stThe Pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him!Those eyes have taught the Lover flattery.His face, . . nay Jacob, Jacob! were it fairTo judge a Lady in her dishabille?Fancy it drest, and with salt-petre rouged.Behold his tail, my friend; with curls like thatThe wanton hop marries her stately spouse;So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hairRings round her lover's soul the chains of love.And what is beauty, but the aptitudeOf parts harmonious? give thy fancy scopeAnd thou wilt find that no imagined changeCan beautify this beast. Place at his endThe starry glories of the Peacock's pride;Give him the Swan's white breast; for his horn-hoofsShape such a foot and ankle as the wavesCrowded in eager rivalry to kiss,When Venus from the enamour'd sea arose; . . Jacob, thou can'st but make a monster of him,All alteration man could think, would marHis Pig-perfection.The last charge, . . he livesA dirty life. Here I could shelter himWith noble and right-reverend precedents,And show by sanction of authorityThat 'tis a very honourable thingTo thrive by dirty ways. But let me restOn better ground the unanswerable defence.The Pig is a philosopher, who knowsNo prejudice. Dirt? Jacob, what is dirt?If matter, why the delicate dish that temptsAn o'ergorged Epicure to the last morselThat stuffs him to the throat-gates is no more.If matter be not, but as Sages say,Spirit is all, and all things visibleAre one, the infinitely modified,Think, Jacob, what that Pig is, and the mireWherein he stands knee-deep?And there! that breezePleads with me, and has won thee to the smileThat speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom'd fieldOf beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.