Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE HOUSEWIFE; ADDRESSED TO LYSANDER, by ELIZABETH MOODY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE HOUSEWIFE; ADDRESSED TO LYSANDER, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: O thou that with deciding voice oft sways
Last Line: When woman's knowledge own'd its boundary here!
Alternate Author Name(s): Greenly, Elizabeth
Subject(s): Housewives; Mythology; Women


O thou that with deciding voice oft sways
The doubtful wand'rings of th' advent'rous Muse!
And oft directs her wav'ring feet, where best
To tread! Whether to climb the steep Parnassian
Mount,—that slippery path where NUMBERS slide
And fall,—or tread with firmer step Prosaic
Ground—Accept this verse! And should the Muse
All insufficient to so new a theme
Fail in her song—If not thy smile, at least
Thy patience give! And with unruffled face,
Stern critic furrows banish'd from thy brow,
Attend her flight through regions sacred
To domestic use; where she, guided by truth,
In search of that fair Nymph Economy,
Must now explore.—And quit for these, the more
Inviting paths of fiction—Her once lov'd
Haunts, where she was wont to cull poetic
Sweets, and lure thy fancy to more pleasing dreams.

Now when the Sun in Sagitarius rides,
And Morn, her dusky brow in misty vapours
Clad, with ling'ring beams unfolds reluctant
Day.—E'en though the aweful monitor of time
Proclaims the seventh hour; yet sleep his drowzy
Poppies waves o'er all the house, and wraps
The snoring Maids in gossip dreams, of sweet
Hearts, shows, and fairs!—All but the wakeful Housewife!
She late and early plys her busy cares,
And preparation makes for Christmas cheer.

Before the dawn emits one ray of light,
Forth from her couch she springs; her pregnant mind
Alert:—for she has things of great concern
In view.—Sleep on ye idle fair! ye time
Destroyers! who live to dress, and flaunt,
And flirt, and waste your silly lives 'mid scenes
Of dissipation!—This useful maid to deeds
Of more importance gives her day, and scorns
The dainty modes of polish'd indolence.

In garb of russet brown and round-ear'd cap,
With bib and apron of an azure hue,
And bunch of pendent keys that grac'd her side;
Which she by thrifty rules of Prudence warn'd
Ne'er from her sight would trust, for she was vers'd
In tricks of vassal-kind, and knew full well
That those whom we mistaking, honest call,
Are oft disloyal to the faith they owe,
And swerve from their allegiance!—tempted
By paltry gain of little price. Thus with
Her economic ensigns deck'd—Say, Muse!
If thou wilt deign to aid so mean a song?
And thou hast not disdain'd to sing, in days
Of yore, of Culinary Arts.—Both when
The beauteous Mother of mankind regal'd
Her Angel guest, and from sweet kernels press'd
The dulcet creams—And when the Grecian chiefs
Reserv'd a portion of the victim slain,
And AGAMEMNON help'd to roast the Beef.
Say then! Where first the HOUSEWIFE bends her steps!
Whether to that sequester'd Pile, where the cool
Dairy, guarded from Summer's noon-tide beams
Stands in a grove retired? Or to the bright
Illumin'd Kitchen? whose chimney issuing
Furious smoke, denotes th' approaching feast,
And fills the passing traveller, I ween,
With many a hungry thought. These, and
Departments many more than these, each in their
Turn, will her attendance claim—for method
And due order rul'd her ways; but pris'ners
Kept for Luxury's repast, require their food
As soon as morning breaks—and haply if not
Fed—would pine and die, which she, I trust,
A sore mischance would deem. Her visitation
First to these she pays, and to the Poultry
Court with speed repairs. There, nourish'd by
Violence and cruel art, a group of feather'd
Monsters round her stand, mis-shapen fowls,
With maws protuberant! There the cram'd Turkey
Groans beneath her care, and loaths the hand that
Ministers to life. She calm Spectat'ress
Of the woes she makes, repeats her barb'rous
Task; down each reluctant throat the food
She thrusts, then with discerning and unpitying
Eye inspects their bulk,—blows the light feathers
From their snowy breasts—proclaims their fitness
For the circling spit, and signs the warrant
That shall end their pains. The Dairy next demands
Her frugal care. There from the surface of the
Richest milk, the cream she skims; this with due
Labour and unweary'd toil she churns, till
To a firm consistence it is wrought, and bears
The name of Butter. Then with some light
Fantastic mould the tiny pats she prints,
And in a china vase, fill'd with clear water
From pellucid spring, her workmanship deposits.

Now with the nimble step of busy haste
She to the store-room turns her active feet.
To the known manuscripts of ancient fame,
Where from a copious line of eating ancestors
Are cull'd a hoard of choice receipts; and where,
In Grandam spelling of no modern date
Recorded stands full many a dainty
Culinary Art, she turns the time-worn page
To find that celebrated Pie, which from the
Season takes its honour'd name. Then on the board,
With noisy din, the sav'ry meat she chops,
And in some vessel fit, blends th' ingredients.
Spice odoriferous, and luscious plums,
With moist'ning juice of apple, extracted
From the golden rinds of fairest fruit, then
With that potent spirit, sought on Gallia's
Shore, whose power medic'nal from indigestion
Guards rebellious food—the dang'rous mass
She tempers, and in the patty pans and
Pliant paste, in circling folds envelops.
Cakes too she fashion'd of fantastic forms,
Oblong, round and square; some in the diamond's
Shape compress'd—some in the heart's; some from the
Corriander seed their flavour take—some from
The Plum—Cakes of all names! Pound, saffron, lemon,
Orange—And those far fam'd for sweet delicious
Taste, that from the fair SALOPIA take their
Name. High above the rest majestic stood,
In size pre-eminent, with sugar'd top,
Graced by a royal Pair, and studded o'er
With choice confection of the Citron's fruit,
That mirth-inspiring cake all children hail,—
When on Twelfth-tide they meet, with festive glee,
And dance and song, and sportive tricks, to close
The gambols—Time-honour'd gambols! of the Christmas scene.

What more this busy active dame perform'd,
In the next Canto shall the Muse rehearse.
The HOUSEWIFE'S toils an ample theme supply;
Returning toils that rise with ev'ry Sun.
O days of ALBION! happier far I ween,
When WOMAN'S knowledge own'd its boundary here!





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