Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ODE TO N. A. VIGORS, ESQ., by THOMAS HOOD


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ODE TO N. A. VIGORS, ESQ., by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: So mr. V., - no vigors - I beg pardon
Last Line: Go on as swimmingly as old noah's ark!
Subject(s): Zoos


ON THE PUBLICATION OF "THE GARDEN AND MENAGERIE OF THE ZOOLOGICAL SOCIETY."

SO Mr. V., -- no Vigors -- I beg pardon --
You've published your Zoological Garden!
A book of which I've heard a deal of talk,
And your Menagerie -- indeed, 'tis too bad o' me,
But I have never seen your Beast Academy!
Or set my feet
In Brute-on Street,
Or ever wandered in your "Bird-cage Walk."

Yet, I believe that you were truly born
To be a kind of brutal overseer,
And, like the royal quarterings, appear
Between a lion and a unicorn:
There is a sort of reason about rhyme
That I have pondered many, many a time;
Where words, like birds of feather,
Likely to come together,
Are quite prophetically made to chime;
So your own office is forestalled, O Vigors!
Your proper Surname having but one single
Appropriate jingle,
------------- Tigers!

Where is your gardening volume? like old Mawe's!
Containing rules for cultivating brutes,
Like fruits.
Through April, May, or June,
As thus -- now rake your Lion's manes, and prune
Your Tigers' claws;
About the middle of the month, if fair,
Give your Chameleons air;
Choose shady walls for Owls,
Water your Fowls,
And plant your Leopards in the sunniest spots;
Earth up your Beavers; train your Bears to climb;
Thin out your Elephants about this time;
And set some early Kangaroos in pots.
In some warm sheltered place,
Prepare a hot-bed for the Boa race,
Leaving them room to swell;
Prick out your Porcupines; and blanch your Ermine;
Stick up Opossums; trim your Monkeys well;
And "destroy all vermin."

Oh, tell me, Mr. Vigors! for the fleas
Of curiosity begin to tease --
If they bite rudely I must crave your pardon,
But if a man may ask,
What is the task
You have to do in this exotic garden?
If from your title one may guess your ends,
You are a sort of Secretary Bird
To write home word
From ignorant brute beasts to absent friends.
Does ever the poor little Coati Mundi
Beg you to write to ma'
To ask papa
To send him a new suit to wear on Sunday?
Does Mrs. L. request you'll be so good
-- Acting a sort of Urban to Sylvanus --
As write to her "two children in the wood,"
Addressed -- post-paid -- to Leo Africanus?
Does ever the great Sea-Bear Londinensis
Make you amanuensis
To send out news to some old Arctic stager --
"Pray write that Brother Bruin, on the whole,
Has got a head on this day's pole,
And say my Ursa has been made a Major?"
Do you not write dejected letters -- very --
Describing England for poor "Happy Jerry,"
Unlike those emigrants who take in flats,
Throwing out New South Wales for catching sprats?
Of course your penmanship you ne'er refuse
For "begging letters" from poor Kangaroos;
Of course you manage bills and their acquittance,
And sometimes pen for Pelican a double
Letter to Mrs. P., and brood in trouble.
Enclosing a small dab, as a remittance;
Or send from Mrs. B. to her old cadger,
Her full-length, done by Harvey, that rare draughtsman
And skilful craftsman,
A game one too, for he can draw a Badger.

Does Doctor Bennett never come and trouble you
To break the death of Wolf to Mrs. W.?
To say poor Buffalo his last has puffed,
And died quite suddenly, without a will,
Soothing the widow with a tender quill,
And gently hinting -- "would she like him stuffed?"
Does no old sentimental Monkey weary
Your hand at times to vent his scribbling itch?
And then your pen must answer to the query
Of Dame Giraffe, who has been told her deary
Died on the spot -- and wishes to know which?
New candidates meanwhile your help are waiting --
To fill up cards of thanks, with due refinement,
For Missis 'Possum, after her confinement;
To pen a note of pretty Poll's dictating --
Or write how Charles the Tenth's departed reign
Disquiets the crowned Crane,
And all the royal Tigers;
To send a bulletin to brother Asses
Of Zebra's health, what sort of night he passes; --
Is this your duty, Secretary Vigors?

Or are your brutes but Garden-brutes indeed,
Of the old shrubby breed,
Dragons of holly -- Peacocks cut in yew?
But no -- I've seen your book,
And all the creatures look
Like real creatures, natural and true!
Ready to prowl, to growl, to prey, to fight,
Thanks be to Harvey who their portraits drew,
And to the cutters praise is justly due,
To Branston always, and to always Wright.
Go on then, publishing your monthly parts,
And let the wealthy crowd,
The noble and the proud,
Learn of brute beasts to patronise the Arts.
So may your Household flourish in the Park,
And no long Boa go to his long home,
No Antelope give up the vital spark,
But all with this your scientific tome,
Go on as swimmingly as old Noah's Ark!





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