Lines Addressed to a Lady, As an Apology for not Accepting her Invitation to a Ball. Written many years ago. (Published 1844; Night Before Christmas published 1823)
Full well I know what direful wrath impends,
From Fashion’s gay and numerous host of friends,
O’er all who blindly list not in her cause,
Nor swear eternal fealty to her laws.
I know with what despotic sway she rules
O’er old and young, o’er wise as well as fools;
In what imperious tones she bids the throng
Obey her word, though Heav’n pronounce it wrong.
Yet, though my crimes against this power so high
Be numberless, and oft of deepest dye,
Leave I entreat to extenuate my blame:
A right which guiltiest criminals may claim;
E’en they who fly not at a Lady’s call,
And dare withstand the attraction of a ball.
Of magic zones and rings you oft have heard,
By fairies on their favorites conferred,
Which pinch’d the wearers sore, or made them bleed,
Whene’er they went astray in thought or deed.
Nor think these stories false because they’re old,
But true as this which soon I will unfold.
Sweet sleep had shed its mists around my eyes,
And fancy’s motley forms began to rise,
When, ‘mid these fleeting phantoms of the night,
A vision stood distinct before my sight.
Though far below the human size it seem’d
A dazzling brightness from its visage beam’d.
My airy dreams it seem’d to chase away,
And thus in sweetest accents deign’d to say:
“Hail, Youth! In me behold a friendly power,
Thy guard in every place, at every hour,
Who thus appear expos’d to mortal view,
Clearly to mark the course you should pursue.
To me ‘tis giv’n your virtue to secure
From custom’s force and pleasure’s dangerous lure.
I watch the motions of your youthful mind,
Rejoicing when to virtue ‘tis inclin’d;
But when a growing folly is descried,
To root it out, no art I leave untried.
Those drugs I mix in pleasure’s luscious bowl
Which pain the body to preserve the soul.
That listlessness, those qualms, those aches I send
Which dissipation’s giddy round attend.
Nor let these warnings, by your Guardian giv’n,
By winning pleasure from your thoughts be driv’n.
For if, regardless of my friendly voice,
In Fashion’s gaudy scenes your heart rejoice,
Dire punishments shall fall upon your head:
Disgust, and fretfulness, and secret dread.
Unmeaning forms shall swim before your eyes,
Wild as the clouds which float in vernal skies.
But if true wisdom all your thoughts employ,
I promise lasting peace and health and joy.
A mind untouch’d by malice or by spleen
Shall make your slumbers light, your thoughts serene;
And through the ills which mortals must betide
I still will be your counsellor and guide.”
So spoke the friendly power; then, waving light
His azure pinions, vanish’d from my sight.
Such is the guardian Genius, ever near,
Whose love I strive to gain, whose wrath I fear.
But, when his favoring smiles I would secure,
Complaining friendship’s frown I oft endure;
And now, for open breach of Fashion’s laws,
A criminal, am forc’d to plead my cause.
Such is my lot; and though I guilty prove,
Compassion sure my Judge’s breast will move.
Not pardon for my fault I hope to find;
But humbly pray, you’ll change to one more kind
The threaten’d sentence, cruel as ‘tis hard,
To lose forever your benign regard.
PING
Didn’t Art Carney write it?
if not, did he at least invent something when he rapped it in 1954?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=peNvesK0B4s
Just the right occasion to use the word “poetaster” in a sentence.
I was set to argue that Moore was supposed to be moralizing, since he was a minister. My response to Pope Francis’ “who am I to judge” is “THE POPE!!!” Ministers are to teach right from wrong, and it was extremely typical of ministers of his age to warn against the dangers of fashion.... hardly making him a prig. (Oh, if only more warned against fashion TODAY!)
But I’m forced to confess that Moore’s meter is terrible; he seems to believe the entirety of the challenge of meter consists of making each line contain the same number of syllables. A Visit from St Nicholas, on the other hand, just simply flows.
I’ll give him no credit for true rhymes over near rhymes. As you probably know, A rhyme provides an “a-ha” moment in your mind, like when music resolves from a IV7 to a I. Thus, a near rhyme can deliberately throw you slightly off, letting you know that a lyrical phrase isn’t quite resolved.
Curiously, the meter of the empty stocking poem is also vastly superior to that of “Invitation to a Ball.” And its rhymes are LESS precise.
I’ll admit, however, that as a native Long Islander, that the precision of rhymes is a sticky issue to me. The Long Island dialect has more vowel sounds than any other dialect on earth, meaning very few words truly rhyme, accumulating distinct pronunciations for just about any letter combination. Moore rhymes “gone” with “[a]lone,” which don’t rhyme at all to me.
On Long Island, “am” doesn’t rhyme with “bam.” (”Am” sounds closer to “em,” where as “bam” sounds like something between an “a” and a “ay.”) “Pa,” “par,” “paw” and “Pah” all sound the same to my New England cousins, but are absolutely distinct to Long Islanders. “Hour” and “our” rhyme far more with “power” and “par” than each other. “Mary” is closer to “airy” than “marry,” but “fairy” and “ferry” are almost homonyms, neither rhyming at all with “airy.” LIkewise, “dairy” comes closer to rhyming with “merry” than with “airy” or “Mary.”
I think the disparity in voice (timbre, mood, whatever) of the two pieces is at least as important as a numbers analysis.
NBC is celebratory, the other is not.