Between two citizens
      A controversy grew.
  The one was poor, but much he knew:
  The other, rich, with little sense,
  Claim'd that, in point of excellence,
  The merely wise should bow the knee
  To all such money'd men as he.
  The merely fools, he should have said;
  For why should wealth hold up its head,
  When merit from its side hath fled?
    'My friend,' quoth Bloated-purse,
            To his reverse,
  'You think yourself considerable.
  Pray, tell me, do you keep a table?
  What comes of this incessant reading,
  In point of lodging, clothing, feeding?
  It gives one, true, the highest chamber,
  One coat for June and for December,
  His shadow for his sole attendant,
  And hunger always in th' ascendant.
    What profits he his country, too,
    Who scarcely ever spends a sou--
  Will, haply, be a public charge?
  Who profits more the state at large,
  Than he whose luxuries dispense
  Among the people wealth immense?
  We set the streams of life a-flowing;
  We set all sorts of trades a-going.
  The spinner, weaver, sewer, vender,
  And many a wearer, fair and tender,
  All live and flourish on the spender--
  As do, indeed, the reverend rooks
  Who waste their time in making books.'
    These words, so full of impudence,
    Received their proper recompense.
  The man of letters held his peace,
  Though much he might have said with ease.
  A war avenged him soon and well;
  In it their common city fell.
  Both fled abroad; the ignorant,
  By fortune thus brought down to want,
  Was treated everywhere with scorn,
  And roamed about, a wretch forlorn;
  Whereas the scholar, everywhere,
  Was nourish'd by the public care.

    Let fools the studious despise;
    There's nothing lost by being wise.

    Said Jupiter, one day,
    As on a cloud he lay,
    'Observing all our crimes,
    Come, let us change the times,
    By leasing out anew
    A world whose wicked crew
    Have wearied out our grace,
    And cursed us to our face.
    Hie hellward, Mercury;
    A Fury bring to me,
    The direst of the three.
    Race nursed too tenderly,
    This day your doom shall be!'
  E'en while he spoke their fate,
  His wrath began to moderate.

    O kings, with whom His will
    Hath lodged our good and ill,
    Your wrath and storm between
    One night should intervene!

      The god of rapid wing,
    And lip unfaltering,
    To sunless regions sped,
    And met the sisters dread.
    To grim Tisiphone,
    And pale Megaera, he
    Preferr'd, as murderess,
    Alecto, pitiless.
  This choice so roused the fiend,
    By Pluto's beard she swore
    The human race no more
  Should be by handfuls glean'd,
    But in one solid mass
  Th' infernal gates should pass.
  But Jove, displeased with both
  The Fury and her oath,
  Despatched her back to hell.
    And then a bolt he hurl'd,
    Down on a faithless world,
  Which in a desert fell.
    Aim'd by a father's arm,
    It caused more fear than harm.
    (All fathers strike aside.)
    What did from this betide?
    Our evil race grew bold,
      Resumed their wicked tricks,
    Increased them manifold,
    Till, all Olympus through,
    Indignant murmurs flew.
      When, swearing by the Styx,
    The sire that rules the air
    Storms promised to prepare
    More terrible and dark,
    Which should not miss their mark.
    'A father's wrath it is!'
    The other deities
    All in one voice exclaim'd;
    'And, might the thing be named,
    Some other god would make
    Bolts better for our sake.'
    This Vulcan undertook.
    His rumbling forges shook,
    And glow'd with fervent heat,
    While Cyclops blew and beat.
    Forth, from the plastic flame
    Two sorts of bolts there came.
    Of these, one misses not:
    'Tis by Olympus shot,--
    That is, the gods at large.
      The other, bearing wide,
      Hits mountain-top or side,
    Or makes a cloud its targe.
    And this it is alone
    Which leaves the father's throne.

  You often hear a sweet seductive call:
  If wise, you haste towards it not at all;--
      And, if you heed my apologue,
      You act like John de Nivelle's dog.[31]

      A capon, citizen of Mans,
      Was summon'd from a throng
      To answer to the village squire,
      Before tribunal call'd the fire.
        The matter to disguise
        The kitchen sheriff wise
      Cried, 'Biddy--Biddy--Biddy!--'
      But not a moment did he--
        This Norman and a half[32]--
          The smooth official trust.
          'Your bait,' said he, 'is dust,
        And I'm too old for chaff.'
      Meantime, a falcon, on his perch,
        Observed the flight and search.
      In man, by instinct or experience,
      The capons have so little confidence,
  That this was not without much trouble caught,
    Though for a splendid supper sought.
          To lie, the morrow night,
          In brilliant candle-light,
          Supinely on a dish
          'Midst viands, fowl, and fish,
    With all the ease that heart could wish--
      This honour, from his master kind,
      The fowl would gladly have declined.
          Outcried the bird of chase,
    As in the weeds he eyed the skulker's face,
      'Why, what a stupid, blockhead race!--
          Such witless, brainless fools
          Might well defy the schools.
          For me, I understand
            To chase at word
            The swiftest bird,
          Aloft, o'er sea or land;
            At slightest beck,
            Returning quick
      To perch upon my master's hand.
    There, at his window he appears--
    He waits thee--hasten--hast no ears?'
    'Ah! that I have,' the fowl replied;
    'But what from master might betide?
    Or cook, with cleaver at his side?
    Return you may for such a call,
    But let me fly their fatal hall;
    And spare your mirth at my expense:
    Whate'er I lack, 'tis not the sense
    To know that all this sweet-toned breath
    Is spent to lure me to my death.
    If you had seen upon the spit
        As many of the falcons roast
        As I have of the capon host,
    You would, not thus reproach my wit.'

      Four creatures, wont to prowl,--
        Sly Grab-and-Snatch, the cat,
      Grave Evil-bode, the owl,
        Thief Nibble-stitch, the rat,
    And Madam Weasel, prim and fine,--
    Inhabited a rotten pine.
    A man their home discover'd there,
    And set, one night, a cunning snare.
      The cat, a noted early-riser,
        Went forth, at break of day,
        To hunt her usual prey.
          Not much the wiser
        For morning's feeble ray,
      The noose did suddenly surprise her.
        Waked by her strangling cry,
        Grey Nibble-stitch drew nigh:
        As full of joy was he
        As of despair was she,
        For in the noose he saw
        His foe of mortal paw.
    'Dear friend,' said Mrs. Grab-and-Snatch,
    'Do, pray, this cursed cord detach.
      I've always known your skill,
      And often your good-will;
    Now help me from this worst of snares,
    In which I fell at unawares.
      'Tis by a sacred right,
        You, sole of all your race,
        By special love and grace,
      Have been my favourite--
        The darling of my eyes.
      'Twas order'd by celestial cares,
    No doubt; I thank the blessed skies,
      That, going out to say my prayers,
    As cats devout each morning do,
    This net has made me pray to you.
    Come, fall to work upon the cord.'
    Replied the rat, 'And what reward
      Shall pay me, if I dare?'
      'Why,' said the cat, 'I swear
      To be your firm ally:
      Henceforth, eternally,
      These powerful claws are yours,
      Which safe your life insures.
    I'll guard from quadruped and fowl;
    I'll eat the weasel and the owl.'
        'Ah,' cried the rat, 'you fool!
    I'm quite too wise to be your tool.'
    He said, and sought his snug retreat,
    Close at the rotten pine-tree's feet.
    Where plump he did the weasel meet;
    Whom shunning by a happy dodge,
    He climb'd the hollow trunk to lodge;
    And there the savage owl he saw.
    Necessity became his law,
    And down he went, the rope to gnaw.
    Strand after strand in two he bit,
    And freed, at last, the hypocrite.
    That moment came the man in sight;
    The new allies took hasty flight.

      A good while after that,
      Our liberated cat
      Espied her favourite rat,
    Quite out of reach, and on his guard.
  'My friend,' said she, 'I take your shyness hard;
    Your caution wrongs my gratitude;
      Approach, and greet your staunch ally.
      Do you suppose, dear rat, that I
    Forget the solemn oath I mew'd?'
    'Do I forget,' the rat replied,
    'To what your nature is allied?
      To thankfulness, or even pity,
      Can cats be ever bound by treaty?'

        Alliance from necessity
        Is safe just while it has to be.

      With mighty rush and roar,
        Adown a mountain steep
    A torrent tumbled,--swelling o'er
      Its rugged banks,--and bore
        Vast ruin in its sweep.
    The traveller were surely rash
    To brave its whirling, foaming dash,
    But one, by robbers sorely press'd,
    Its terrors haply put to test.
    They were but threats of foam and sound,
    The loudest where the least profound.
    With courage from his safe success,
    His foes continuing to press,
      He met a river in his course:
    On stole its waters, calm and deep,
    So silently they seem'd asleep,
    All sweetly cradled, as I ween,
    In sloping banks, and gravel clean,--
      They threaten'd neither man nor horse.
    Both ventured; but the noble steed,
    That saved from robbers by his speed,
    From that deep water could not save;
    Both went to drink the Stygian wave;
    Both went to cross, (but not to swim,)
    Where reigns a monarch stern and grim,
        Far other streams than ours.

  Still men are men of dangerous powers;
  Elsewhere, 'tis only ignorance that cowers.

  Lapluck and Caesar brothers were, descended
    From dogs by Fame the most commended,
      Who falling, in their puppyhood,
        To different masters anciently,
  One dwelt and hunted in the boundless wood;
    From thieves the other kept a kitchen free.
      At first, each had another name;
      But, by their bringing up, it came,
    While one improved upon his nature,
    The other grew a sordid creature,
      Till, by some scullion called Lapluck,
      The name ungracious ever stuck.
        To high exploits his brother grew,
      Put many a stag at bay, and tore
      Full many a trophy from the boar;
        In short, him first, of all his crew,
          The world as Caesar knew;
    And care was had, lest, by a baser mate,
    His noble blood should e'er degenerate.
    Not so with his neglected brother;
    He made whatever came a mother;
    And, by the laws of population,
    His race became a countless nation--
    The common turnspits throughout France--
    Where danger is, they don't advance--
    Precisely the antipodes
    Of what we call the Caesars, these!

  Oft falls the son below his sire's estate:
  Through want of care all things degenerate.
  For lack of nursing Nature and her gifts.
  What crowds from gods become mere kitchen-thrifts!

  The Virtues should be sisters, hand in hand,
  Since banded brothers all the Vices stand:
    When one of these our hearts attacks,
      All come in file; there only lacks,
    From out the cluster, here and there,
  A mate of some antagonizing pair,
  That can't agree the common roof to share.
  But all the Virtues, as a sisterhood,
  Have scarcely ever in one subject stood.
    We find one brave, but passionate;
    Another prudent, but ingrate.
    Of beasts, the dog may claim to be
    The pattern of fidelity;
      But, for our teaching little wiser,
      He's both a fool and gormandiser.
  For proof, I cite two mastiffs, that espied
  A dead ass floating on a water wide.
    The distance growing more and more,
    Because the wind the carcass bore,--
    'My friend,' said one, 'your eyes are best;
    Pray let them on the water rest:
    What thing is that I seem to see?
    An ox, or horse? what can it be?'
    'Hey!' cried his mate; 'what matter which,
    Provided we could get a flitch?
    It doubtless is our lawful prey:
    The puzzle is to find some way
    To get the prize; for wide the space
    To swim, with wind against your face.[36]
    Let's drink the flood; our thirsty throats
    Will gain the end as well as boats.
    The water swallow'd, by and bye
    We'll have the carcass, high and dry--
    Enough to last a week, at least.'
    Both drank as some do at a feast;
  Their breath was quench'd before their thirst,
    And presently the creatures burst!

    And such is man. Whatever he
    May set his soul to do or be,
    To him is possibility?
      How many vows he makes!
      How many steps he takes!
    How does he strive, and pant, and strain,
    Fortune's or Glory's prize to gain!
    If round my farm off well I must,
    Or fill my coffers with the dust,
    Or master Hebrew, science, history,--
    I make my task to drink the sea.
    One spirit's projects to fulfil,
    Four bodies would require; and still
      The work would stop half done;
    The lives of four Methuselahs,
    Placed end to end for use, alas!
      Would not suffice the wants of one.

  How do I hate the tide of vulgar thought!
  Profane, unjust, with childish folly fraught;
  It breaks and bends the rays of truth divine,
  And by its own conceptions measures mine.
    Famed Epicurus' master[37] tried
    The power of this unstable tide.
    His country said the sage was mad--
      The simpletons! But why?
    No prophet ever honour had
      Beneath his native sky.
    Democritus, in truth, was wise;
    The mass were mad, with faith in lies.
      So far this error went,
      That all Abdera sent
      To old Hippocrates
      To cure the sad disease.
    'Our townsman,' said the messengers,
    Appropriately shedding tears,
    'Hath lost his wits! Democritus,
    By study spoil'd, is lost to us.
    Were he but fill'd with ignorance,
    We should esteem him less a dunce.
    He saith that worlds like this exist,
    An absolutely endless list,--
    And peopled, even, it may be,
    With countless hosts as wise as we!
    But, not contented with such dreams,
    His brain with viewless "atoms" teems,
    Instinct with deathless life, it seems.
  And, never stirring from the sod below,
    He weighs and measures all the stars;
      And, while he knows the universe,
        Himself he doth not know.
      Though now his lips he strictly bars,
        He once delighted to converse.
    Come, godlike mortal, try thy art divine
    Where traits of worst insanity combine!'
      Small faith the great physician lent,
    But still, perhaps more readily, he went.
        And mark what meetings strange
      Chance causes in this world of change!
        Hippocrates arrived in season,
        Just as his patient (void of reason!)
      Was searching whether reason's home,
      In talking animals and dumb,
      Be in the head, or in the heart,
      Or in some other local part.
      All calmly seated in the shade,
      Where brooks their softest music made,
      He traced, with study most insane,
      The convolutions of a brain;
      And at his feet lay many a scroll--
      The works of sages on the soul.
      Indeed, so much absorb'd was he,
      His friend, at first, he did not see.
      A pair so admirably match'd,
      Their compliments erelong despatch'd.
      In time and talk, as well as dress,
      The wise are frugal, I confess.
      Dismissing trifles, they began
      At once with eagerness to scan
      The life, and soul, and laws of man;
  Nor stopp'd till they had travell'd o'er all
  The ground, from, physical to moral.
      My time and space would fail
      To give the full detail.

    But I have said enough to show
    How little 'tis the people know.
    How true, then, goes the saw abroad--
    Their voice is but the voice of God?

  Thou lust of gain,--foul fiend, whose evil eyes
  Regard as nought the blessings of the skies,
  Must I for ever battle thee in vain?
    How long demandest thou to gain
    The meaning of my lessons plain?
    Will constant getting never cloy?
    Will man ne'er slacken to enjoy?
    Haste, friend; thou hast not long to live:
      Let me the precious word repeat,
      And listen to it, I entreat;
      A richer lesson none can give--
  The sovereign antidote for sorrow--
  ENJOY!--'I will.'--But when?--'To-morrow.--'
      Ah! death may take you on the way,
      Why not enjoy, I ask, to-day?
      Lest envious fate your hopes ingulf,
    As once it served the hunter and the wolf.

      The former, with his fatal bow,
      A noble deer had laid full low:
      A fawn approach'd, and quickly lay
          Companion of the dead,
          For side by side they bled.
      Could one have wished a richer prey?
      Such luck had been enough to sate
      A hunter wise and moderate.
  Meantime a boar, as big as e'er was taken,
  Our archer tempted, proud, and fond of bacon.
    Another candidate for Styx,
    Struck by his arrow, foams and kicks.
    But strangely do the shears of Fate
    To cut his cable hesitate.
    Alive, yet dying, there he lies,
    A glorious and a dangerous prize.
    And was not this enough? Not quite,
    To fill a conqueror's appetite;
    For, ere the boar was dead, he spied
    A partridge by a furrow's side--
    A trifle to his other game.
      Once more his bow he drew;
    The desperate boar upon him came,
      And in his dying vengeance slew:
      The partridge thank'd him as she flew.

    Thus much is to the covetous address'd;
        The miserly shall have the rest.

  A wolf, in passing, saw that woeful sight.
  'O Fortune,' cried the savage, with delight,
    'A fane to thee I'll build outright!
    'Four carcasses! how rich! But spare--
    'I'll make them last--such luck is rare,'
    (The miser's everlasting plea.)
    'They'll last a month for--let me see--
  One, two, three, four--the weeks are four
  If I can count--and some days more.
            Well, two days hence
            And I'll commence.
    Meantime, the string upon this bow
      I'll stint myself to eat;
    For by its mutton-smell I know
      'Tis made of entrails sweet.'
    His entrails rued the fatal weapon,
    Which, while he heedlessly did step on,
    The arrow pierced his bowels deep,
    And laid him lifeless on the heap.

    Hark, stingy souls! insatiate leeches!
    Our text this solemn duty teaches,--
    Enjoy the present; do not wait
    To share the wolf's or hunter's fate.

    Thanks to Memory's daughters nine,
    Animals have graced my line:
      Higher heroes in my story
      Might have won me less of glory.
    Wolves, in language of the sky,
      Talk with dogs throughout my verse;
    Beasts with others shrewdly vie,
    Representing characters;
    Fools in furs not second-hand,
    Sages, hoof'd or feather'd, stand:
    Fewer truly are the latter,
    More the former--ay, and fatter.
      Flourish also in my scene
    Tyrants, villains, mountebanks,
    Beasts incapable of thanks,
    Beasts of rash and reckless pranks,
      Beasts of sly and flattering mien;
      Troops of liars, too, I ween.
    As to men, of every age,
    All are liars, saith the sage.
    Had he writ but of the low,
    One could hardly think it so;
    But that human mortals, all,
    Lie like serpents, great and small,
    Had another certified it,
    I, for one, should have denied it.
    He who lies in Aesop's way,
    Or like Homer, minstrel gray,
    Is no liar, sooth to say.
    Charms that bind us like a dream,
      Offspring of their happy art,
    Cloak'd in fiction, more than seem
      Truth to offer to the heart.
    Both have left us works which I
    Think unworthy e'er to die.
    Liar call not him who squares
    All his ends and aims with theirs;
      But from sacred truth to vary,
      Like the false depositary,
        Is to be, by every rule
        Both a liar and a fool.
    The story goes:

                      A man of trade,
    In Persia, with his neighbour made
    Deposit, as he left the state,
    Of iron, say a hundredweight.
    Return'd, said he, 'My iron, neighbour.'
    'Your iron! you have lost your labour;
    I grieve to say it,--'pon my soul,
    A rat has eaten up the whole.
    My men were sharply scolded at,
    But yet a hole, in spite of that,
      Was left, as one is wont to be
      In every barn or granary,
    By which crept in that cursed rat.'
    Admiring much the novel thief,
    The man affected full belief.
      Ere long, his faithless neighbour's child
    He stole away,--a heavy lad,--
    And then to supper bade the dad,
    Who thus plead off in accents sad:--
    'It was but yesterday I had
      A boy as fine as ever smiled,
    An only son, as dear as life,
    The darling of myself and wife.
    Alas! we have him now no more,
    And every joy with us is o'er.'
    Replied the merchant, 'Yesternight,
      By evening's faint and dusky ray,
    I saw a monstrous owl alight,
      And bear your darling son away
      To yonder tott'ring ruin gray.'
    'Can I believe you, when you say
    An owl bore off: so large a prey?
    How could it be?' the father cried;
      'The thing is surely quite absurd;
      My son with ease had kill'd the bird.'
    'The how of it,' the man replied,
    'Is not my province to decide;
    I know I saw your son arise,
    Borne through, the air before my eyes.
    Why should it seem a strange affair,
    Moreover, in a country where
    A single rat contrives to eat
    A hundred pounds of iron meat,
  That owls should be of strength to lift ye
  A booby boy that weighs but fifty?'
    The other plainly saw the trick,
    Restored the iron very quick.
    And got, with shame as well as joy,
    Possession of his kidnapp'd boy.

  The like occurr'd two travellers between.
        One was of those
      Who wear a microscope, I ween,
        Each side the nose.
    Would you believe their tales romantic,
      Our Europe, in its monsters, beats
      The lands that feel the tropic heats,
    Surcharged with all that is gigantic.
        This person, feeling free
      To use the trope hyperbole,
      Had seen a cabbage with his eyes
      Exceeding any house in size.
      'And I have seen,' the other cries,
    Resolved to leave his fellow in the lurch,
    'A pot that would have held a church.
  Why, friend, don't give that doubting look,--
  The pot was made your cabbages to cook.'
      This pot-discov'rer was a wit;
        The iron-monger, too, was wise.
      To such absurd and ultra lies
    Their answers were exactly fit.
    'Twere doing honour overmuch,
    To reason or dispute with such.
  To overbid them is the shortest path,
    And less provocative of wrath.

      Two doves once cherish'd for each other
      The love that brother hath for brother.
      But one, of scenes domestic tiring,
      To see the foreign world aspiring,
        Was fool enough to undertake
        A journey long, o'er land and lake.
        'What plan is this?' the other cried;
        'Wouldst quit so soon thy brother's side?
        This absence is the worst of ills;
        Thy heart may bear, but me it kills.
        Pray, let the dangers, toil, and care,
          Of which all travellers tell,
          Your courage somewhat quell.
        Still, if the season later were--
        O wait the zephyrs!--hasten not--
          Just now the raven, on his oak,
          In hoarser tones than usual spoke.
        My heart forebodes the saddest lot,--
        The falcons, nets--Alas, it rains!
          My brother, are thy wants supplied--
          Provisions, shelter, pocket-guide,
        And all that unto health pertains?'
        These words occasion'd some demur
        In our imprudent traveller.
        But restless curiosity
        Prevail'd at last; and so said he,--
        'The matter is not worth a sigh;
        Three days, at most, will satisfy,
        And then, returning, I shall tell
        You all the wonders that befell,--
        With scenes enchanting and sublime
        Shall sweeten all our coming time.
        Who seeth nought, hath nought to say.
        My travel's course, from day to day,
        Will be the source of great delight.
          A store of tales I shall relate,--
          Say there I lodged at such a date,
        And saw there such and such a sight.
        You'll think it all occurr'd to you.--'
        On this, both, weeping, bade adieu.
        Away the lonely wanderer flew.--
        A thunder-cloud began to lower;
        He sought, as shelter from the shower,
        The only tree that graced the plain,
        Whose leaves ill turn'd the pelting rain.
        The sky once more serene above,
        On flew our drench'd and dripping dove,
        And dried his plumage as he could.
        Next, on the borders of a wood,
        He spied some scatter'd grains of wheat,
        Which one, he thought, might safely eat;
        For there another dove he saw.--
        He felt the snare around him draw!
        This wheat was but a treacherous bait
        To lure poor pigeons to their fate.
        The snare had been so long in use,
        With beak and wings he struggled loose:
        Some feathers perish'd while it stuck;
        But, what was worst in point of luck,
        A hawk, the cruellest of foes,
        Perceived him clearly as he rose,
        Off dragging, like a runaway,
        A piece of string. The bird of prey
        Had bound him, in a moment more,
        Much faster than he was before,
        But from the clouds an eagle came,
        And made the hawk himself his game.
        By war of robbers profiting,
        The dove for safety plied the wing,
        And, lighting on a ruin'd wall,
        Believed his dangers ended all.
        A roguish boy had there a sling,
              (Age pitiless!
              We must confess,)
        And, by a most unlucky fling,
        Half kill'd our hapless dove;
        Who now, no more in love
          With foreign travelling,
          And lame in leg and wing,
      Straight homeward urged his crippled flight,
      Fatigued, but glad, arrived at night,
      In truly sad and piteous plight.
    The doves rejoin'd, I leave you all to say,
      What pleasure might their pains repay.
      Ah, happy lovers, would you roam?--
      Pray, let it not be far from home.
      To each the other ought to be
        A world of beauty ever new;
      In each the other ought to see
        The whole of what is good and true.

      Myself have loved; nor would I then,
      For all the wealth of crownèd men,
      Or arch celestial, paved with gold,
      The presence of those woods have sold,
      And fields, and banks, and hillocks, which
      Were by the joyful steps made rich,
      And smiled beneath the charming eyes
      Of her who made my heart a prize--
      To whom I pledged it, nothing loath,
      And seal'd the pledge with virgin oath.
  Ah, when will time such moments bring again?
  To me are sweet and charming objects vain--
  My soul forsaking to its restless mood?
      O, did my wither'd heart but dare
        To kindle for the bright and good,
      Should not I find the charm still there?
      Is love, to me, with things that were?

    A monkey and a leopard were
    The rivals at a country fair.
    Each advertised his own attractions.
      Said one, 'Good sirs, the highest place
      My merit knows; for, of his grace,
      The king hath seen me face to face;
    And, judging by his looks and actions,
    I gave the best of satisfactions.
    When I am dead, 'tis plain enough,
    My skin will make his royal muff.
    So richly is it streak'd and spotted,
    So delicately waved and dotted,
    Its various beauty cannot fail to please.'
    And, thus invited, everybody sees;
    But soon they see, and soon depart.
    The monkey's show-bill to the mart
    His merits thus sets forth the while,
    All in his own peculiar style:--
    'Come, gentlemen, I pray you, come;
    In magic arts I am at home.
    The whole variety in which
    My neighbour boasts himself so rich,
    Is to his simple skin confined,
    While mine is living in the mind.
    Your humble servant, Monsieur Gille,
    The son-in-law to Tickleville,
    Pope's monkey, and of great renown,
    Is now just freshly come to town,
    Arrived in three bateaux, express,
      Your worships to address;
    For he can speak, you understand;
    Can dance, and practise sleight-of-hand;
  Can jump through hoops, and balance sticks;
  In short, can do a thousand tricks;
      And all for blancos six--[4]
      Not, messieurs, for a sou.
    And, if you think the price won't do,
    When you have seen, then he'll restore
    Each man his money at the door.'

    The ape was not to reason blind;
    For who in wealth of dress can find
    Such charms as dwell in wealth of mind?
    One meets our ever-new desires,
    The other in a moment tires.

    Alas! how many lords there are,
      Of mighty sway and lofty mien,
    Who, like this leopard at the fair,
      Show all their talents on the skin!

    God's works are good. This truth to prove
    Around the world I need not move;
      I do it by the nearest pumpkin.
    'This fruit so large, on vine so small,'
      Surveying once, exclaim'd a bumpkin--
    'What could He mean who made us all?
    He's left this pumpkin out of place.
    If I had order'd in the case,
    Upon that oak it should have hung--
    A noble fruit as ever swung
    To grace a tree so firm and strong.
    Indeed, it was a great mistake,
        As this discovery teaches,
    That I myself did not partake
    His counsels whom my curate preaches.
    All things had then in order come;
      This acorn, for example,
        Not bigger than my thumb,
    Had not disgraced a tree so ample.
    The more I think, the more I wonder
    To see outraged proportion's laws,
    And that without the slightest cause;
  God surely made an awkward blunder.'
    With such reflections proudly fraught,
    Our sage grew tired of mighty thought,
    And threw himself on Nature's lap,
    Beneath an oak,--to take his nap.
    Plump on his nose, by lucky hap,
    An acorn fell: he waked, and in
    The matted beard that graced his chin,
    He found the cause of such a bruise
    As made him different language use.
    'O! O!' he cried; 'I bleed! I bleed!
    And this is what has done the deed!
    But, truly, what had been my fate,
    Had this had half a pumpkin's weight!
    I see that God had reasons good,
    And all his works well understood.'
    Thus home he went in humbler mood.[5]

      A boy who savour'd of his school,--
      A double rogue and double fool,--
        By youth and by the privilege
      Which pedants have, by ancient right,
        To alter reason, and abridge,--
      A neighbour robb'd, with fingers light,
      Of flowers and fruit. This neighbour had,
      Of fruits that make the autumn glad,
      The very best--and none but he.
      Each season brought, from plant and tree,
      To him its tribute; for, in spring,
      His was the brightest blossoming.
      One day, he saw our hopeful lad
      Perch'd on the finest tree he had,
      Not only stuffing down the fruit,
      But spoiling, like a Vandal brute,
      The buds that play advance-courier
      Of plenty in the coming year.
      The branches, too, he rudely tore,
        And carried things to such a pass,
      The owner sent his servant o'er
        To tell the master of his class.
      The latter came, and came attended
        By all the urchins of his school,
    And thus one plunderer's mischief mended
        By pouring in an orchard-full.
        It seems the pedant was intent
        On making public punishment,
        To teach his boys the force of law,
        And strike their roguish hearts with awe.
        The use of which he first must show
        From Virgil and from Cicero,
      And many other ancients noted,
  From whom, in their own tongues, he quoted.
      So long, indeed, his lecture lasted,
      While not a single urchin fasted,
        That, ere its close, their thievish crimes
        Were multiplied a hundred times.

      I hate all eloquence and reason
      Expended plainly out of season.
    Of all the beasts that earth have cursed
            While they have fed on't,
    The school-boy strikes me as the worst--
            Except the pedant.
      The better of these neighbours two
      For me, I'm sure, would never do.

  A block of marble was so fine,
    To buy it did a sculptor hasten.
  'What shall my chisel, now 'tis mine--
    A god, a table, or a basin?'

  'A god,' said he, 'the thing shall be;
    I'll arm it, too, with thunder.
  Let people quake, and bow the knee
    With reverential wonder.'

  So well the cunning artist wrought
    All things within a mortal's reach,
  That soon the marble wanted nought
    Of being Jupiter, but speech.

  Indeed, the man whose skill did make
    Had scarcely laid his chisel down,
  Before himself began to quake,
    And fear his manufacture's frown.

  And even this excess of faith
    The poet once scarce fell behind,
  The hatred fearing, and the wrath,
    Of gods the product of his mind.

  This trait we see in infancy
    Between the baby and its doll,
  Of wax or china, it may be--
    A pocket stuff'd, or folded shawl.

  Imagination rules the heart:
    And here we find the fountain head
  From whence the pagan errors start,
    That o'er the teeming nations spread.

  With violent and flaming zeal,
    Each takes his own chimera's part;
  Pygmalion[6] doth a passion feel
    For Venus chisel'd by his art.

  All men, as far as in them lies,
    Create realities of dreams.
  To truth our nature proves but ice;
    To falsehood, fire it seems.