Mother Goose for Grown Folks
Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney
language
(, May 18, 2014)
omewhere in that uncertain "long ago,"Whose dim and vague chronology is allThat elfin tales or nursery fables know,Rose a rare spirit,—keen, and quick, and quaint,—Whom by the title, whether fact or feint,Mythic or real, Mother Goose we call.Of Momus and Minerva sprang the birthThat gave the laughing oracle to earth:A brimming bowl she bears, that, frothinghighWith sparkling nonsense, seemeth non-sense all;Till, the bright, floating syllabub blown by,Lo, in its ruby splendor doth upshineThe crimson radiance of Olympian wineBy Pallas poured, in Jove's own banquet-hall.The world was but a baby when she came;So to her songs it listened, and her nameGrew to a word of power, her voice a spellWith charm to soothe its infant wearyingwell.But, in a later and maturer age,Developed to a dignity more sage,Having its Shakspeares and its Words-worths now,Its Southeys and its Tennysons, to wearA halo on the high and lordly brow,Or poet-laurels in the waving hair;Its Lowells, Whittiers, Longfellows, to singBallads of beauty, like the notes of spring,The wise and prudent ones to nursery useLeave the dear lyrics of old Mother Goose.