A mouse once from an owl's beak fell;
      I'd not have pick'd it up, I wis;
    A Brahmin did it: very well;
      Each country has its prejudice.
    The mouse, indeed, was sadly bruised.
    Although, as neighbours, we are used
  To be more kind to many others,
  The Brahmins treat the mice as brothers.
    The notion haunts their heads, that when
    The soul goes forth from dying men,
    It enters worm, or bird, or beast,
    As Providence or Fate is pleased;
    And on this mystery rests their law,
  Which from Pythagoras they're said to draw.
    And hence the Brahmin kindly pray'd
    To one who knew the wizard's trade,
      To give the creature, wounded sore,
      The form in which it lodged before.
  Forthwith the mouse became a maid,
        Of years about fifteen;
      A lovelier was never seen.
      She would have waked, I ween,
    In Priam's son, a fiercer flame
    Than did the beauteous Grecian dame.
      Surprised at such a novelty,
        The Brahmin to the damsel cried,
            'Your choice is free;
            For every he
          Will seek you for his bride.'
        Said she, 'Am I to have a voice?
        The strongest, then, shall be my choice.'
    'O sun!' the Brahmin cried, 'this maid is thine,
    And thou shalt be a son-in-law of mine.'
    'No,' said the sun, 'this murky cloud, it seems,
    In strength exceeds me, since he hides my beams;
        And him I counsel you to take.'
        Again the reverend Brahmin spake--
  'O cloud, on-flying with thy stores of water,
    Pray wast thou born to wed my daughter?'
      'Ah, no, alas! for, you may see,
      The wind is far too strong for me.
      My claims with Boreas' to compare,
      I must confess, I do not dare.'
      'O wind,' then cried the Brahmin, vex'd,
      And wondering what would hinder next,--
      'Approach, and, with thy sweetest air,
      Embrace--possess--the fairest fair.'
      The wind, enraptured, thither blew;--
      A mountain stopp'd him as he flew,
      To him now pass'd the tennis-ball,
      And from him to a creature small.
      Said he, 'I'd wed the maid, but that
      I've had a quarrel with the rat.
      A fool were I to take the bride
      From one so sure to pierce my side.'
      The rat! It thrill'd the damsel's ear;
      To name at once seem'd sweet and dear.
      The rat! 'Twas one of Cupid's blows;
      The like full many a maiden knows;
      But all of this beneath the rose.

      One smacketh ever of the place
      Where first he show'd the world his face.
      Thus far the fable's clear as light;
      But, if we take a nearer sight,
      There lurks within its drapery
      Somewhat of graceless sophistry;
    For who, that worships e'en the glorious sun,
    Would not prefer to wed some cooler one?
    And doth a flea's exceed a giant's might,
      Because the former can the latter bite?
      And, by the rule of strength, the rat
      Had sent his bride to wed the cat;
      From cat to dog, and onward still
      To wolf or tiger, if you will:
      Indeed, the fabulist might run
      A circle backward to the sun.--
      But to the change the tale supposes,--
      In learned phrase, metempsychosis.
      The very thing the wizard did
          Its falsity exposes--
      If that indeed were ever hid.
      According to the Brahmin's plan,
      The proud aspiring soul of man,
      And souls that dwell in humbler forms
      Of rats and mice, and even worms,
      All issue from a common source,
      And, hence, they are the same of course.--
      Unequal but by accident
      Of organ and of tenement,
      They use one pair of legs, or two,
      Or e'en with none contrive to do,
      As tyrant matter binds them to.
      Why, then, could not so fine a frame
        Constrain its heavenly guest
          To wed the solar flame?
        A rat her love possess'd.

    In all respects, compared and weigh'd,
      The souls of men and souls of mice
        Quite different are made,--
      Unlike in sort as well as size.
      Each fits and fills its destined part
        As Heaven doth well provide;
      Nor witch, nor fiend, nor magic art,
        Can set their laws aside.

  Of fools come never in the reach:
  No rule can I more wisely teach.
  Nor can there be a better one
  Than this,--distemper'd heads to shun.
  We often see them, high and low.
    They tickle e'en the royal ear,
    As, privileged and free from fear,
    They hurl about them joke and jeer,
  At pompous lord or silly beau.

  A fool, in town, did wisdom cry;
  The people, eager, flock'd to buy.
    Each for his money got,
    Paid promptly on the spot,
    Besides a box upon the head,
    Two fathoms' length of thread.
  The most were vex'd--but quite in vain
  The public only mock'd their pain.
  The wiser they who nothing said,
  But pocketed the box and thread.
  To search the meaning of the thing
  Would only laughs and hisses bring.
  Hath reason ever guaranteed
  The wit of fools in speech or deed?
  'Tis said of brainless heads in France,
  The cause of what they do is chance.
  One dupe, however, needs must know
  What meant the thread, and what the blow;
  So ask'd a sage, to make it sure.
  'They're both hieroglyphics pure,'
  The sage replied without delay;
  'All people well advised will stay
  From fools this fibre's length away,
  Or get--I hold it sure as fate--
  The other symbol on the pate.
  So far from cheating you of gold,
  The fool this wisdom fairly sold.'

      Two pilgrims on the sand espied
      An oyster thrown up by the tide.
      In hope, both swallow'd ocean's fruit;
      But ere the fact there came dispute.
      While one stoop'd down to take the prey,
      The other push'd him quite away.
        Said he, ''Twere rather meet
        To settle which shall eat.
      Why, he who first the oyster saw
      Should be its eater, by the law;
      The other should but see him do it.'
      Replied his mate, 'If thus you view it,
      Thank God the lucky eye is mine.'
      'But I've an eye not worse than thine,'
      The other cried, 'and will be cursed,
      If, too, I didn't see it first.'
      'You saw it, did you? Grant it true,
      I saw it then, and felt it too.'
          Amidst this sweet affair,
        Arrived a person very big,
        Ycleped Sir Nincom Periwig.[9]
  They made him judge,--to set the matter square.
      Sir Nincom, with a solemn face,
      Took up the oyster and the case:
      In opening both, the first he swallow'd,
      And, in due time, his judgment follow'd.
  'Attend: the court awards you each a shell
  Cost free; depart in peace, and use them well.'
      Foot up the cost of suits at law,
      The leavings reckon and awards,
      The cash you'll see Sir Nincom draw,
      And leave the parties--purse and cards.[10]

        A troutling, some time since,[12]
      Endeavour'd vainly to convince
        A hungry fisherman
    Of his unfitness for the frying-pan.
      That controversy made it plain
        That letting go a good secure,
          In hope of future gain,
        Is but imprudence pure.
      The fisherman had reason good--
      The troutling did the best he could--
        Both argued for their lives.
      Now, if my present purpose thrives,
    I'll prop my former proposition
    By building on a small addition.
      A certain wolf, in point of wit
      The prudent fisher's opposite,
      A dog once finding far astray,
      Prepared to take him as his prey.
        The dog his leanness pled;
        'Your lordship, sure,' he said,
        'Cannot be very eager
        To eat a dog so meagre.
      To wait a little do not grudge:
  The wedding of my master's only daughter
  Will cause of fatted calves and fowls a slaughter;
      And then, as you yourself can judge,
      I cannot help becoming fatter.'
      The wolf, believing, waived the matter,
      And so, some days therefrom,
        Return'd with sole design to see
        If fat enough his dog might be.
      The rogue was now at home:
      He saw the hunter through the fence.
        'My friend,' said he, 'please wait;
      I'll be with you a moment hence,
        And fetch our porter of the gate.'
      This porter was a dog immense,
      That left to wolves no future tense.
        Suspicion gave our wolf a jog,--
      It might not be so safely tamper'd.
        'My service to your porter dog,'
      Was his reply, as off he scamper'd.
      His legs proved better than his head,
      And saved him life to learn his trade.

  Look where we will throughout creation,
  We look in vain for moderation.
  There is a certain golden mean,
  Which Nature's sovereign Lord, I ween,
  Design'd the path of all forever.
    Doth one pursue it? Never.
  E'en things which by their nature bless,
  Are turn'd to curses by excess.

  The grain, best gift of Ceres fair,
  Green waving in the genial air,
  By overgrowth exhausts the soil;
    By superfluity of leaves
    Defrauds the treasure of its sheaves,
  And mocks the busy farmer's toil.
  Not less redundant is the tree,
  So sweet a thing is luxury.
  The grain within due bounds to keep,
  Their Maker licenses the sheep
  The leaves excessive to retrench.
    In troops they spread across the plain,
    And, nibbling down the hapless grain,
  Contrive to spoil it, root and branch.
    So, then, with, licence from on high,
  The wolves are sent on sheep to prey;
  The whole the greedy gluttons slay;
      Or, if they don't, they try.

  Next, men are sent on wolves to take
    The vengeance now condign:
  In turn the same abuse they make
    Of this behest divine.

  Of animals, the human kind
  Are to excess the most inclined.
  On low and high we make the charge,--
  Indeed, upon the race at large.
  There liveth not the soul select
  That sinneth not in this respect.
  Of "Nought too much," the fact is,
  All preach the truth,--none practise.

  From bowers of gods the bees came down to man.
      On Mount Hymettus,[15] first, they say,
      They made their home, and stored away
      The treasures which the zephyrs fan.
  When men had robb'd these daughters of the sky,
  And left their palaces of nectar dry,--
      Or, as in French the thing's explain'd
      When hives were of their honey drain'd--
    The spoilers 'gan the wax to handle,
    And fashion'd from it many a candle.
  Of these, one, seeing clay, made brick by fire,
  Remain uninjured by the teeth of time,
      Was kindled into great desire
        For immortality sublime.
      And so this new Empedocles[16]
      Upon the blazing pile one sees,
      Self-doom'd by purest folly
      To fate so melancholy.
      The candle lack'd philosophy:
      All things are made diverse to be.
      To wander from our destined tracks--
        There cannot be a vainer wish;
      But this Empedocles of wax,
        That melted in the chafing-dish,
      Was truly not a greater fool
      Than he of whom we read at school.

    How danger would the gods enrich,
    If we the vows remember'd which
    It drives us to! But, danger past,
    Kind Providence is paid the last.
    No earthly debt is treated so.
    'Now, Jove,' the wretch exclaims, 'will wait;
    He sends no sheriff to one's gate,
      Like creditors below;'
      But, let me ask the dolt,
      What means the thunderbolt?

    A passenger, endanger'd by the sea,
      Had vow'd a hundred oxen good
      To him who quell'd old Terra's brood.
    He had not one: as well might he
    Have vow'd a hundred elephants.
    Arrived on shore, his good intents
    Were dwindled to the smoke which rose
    An offering merely for the nose,
      From half a dozen beefless bones.
    'Great Jove,' said he, 'behold my vow!
    The fumes of beef thou breathest now
      Are all thy godship ever owns:
  From debt I therefore stand acquitted.'
  With seeming smile, the god submitted,
    But not long after caught him well,
    By sending him a dream, to tell
      Of treasure hid. Off ran the liar,
      As if to quench a house on fire,
    And on a band of robbers fell.
    As but a crown he had that day,
      He promised them of sterling gold
      A hundred talents truly told;
    Directing where conceal'd they lay,
    In such a village on their way.
  The rogues so much the tale suspected,
    Said one, 'If we should suffer you to,
  You'd cheaply get us all detected;
    Go, then, and bear your gold to Pluto.'

  The cat and fox, when saints were all the rage,
        Together went on pilgrimage.
      Arch hypocrites and swindlers, they,
        By sleight of face and sleight of paw,
        Regardless both of right and law,
      Contrived expenses to repay,
      By eating many a fowl and cheese,
      And other tricks as bad as these.
      Disputing served them to beguile
      The road of many a weary mile.
      Disputing! but for this resort,
      The world would go to sleep, in short.
      Our pilgrims, as a thing of course,
      Disputed till their throats were hoarse.
        Then, dropping to a lower tone,
      They talk'd of this, and talk'd of that,
      Till Renard whisper'd to the cat,
        'You think yourself a knowing one:
      How many cunning tricks have you?
      For I've a hundred, old and new,
      All ready in my haversack.'
      The cat replied, 'I do not lack,
        Though with but one provided;
      And, truth to honour, for that matter,
      I hold it than a thousand better.'
        In fresh dispute they sided;
      And loudly were they at it, when
      Approach'd a mob of dogs and men.
      'Now,' said the cat, 'your tricks ransack,
      And put your cunning brains to rack,
      One life to save; I'll show you mine--
      A trick, you see, for saving nine.'
      With that, she climb'd a lofty pine.
      The fox his hundred ruses tried,
        And yet no safety found.
      A hundred times he falsified
        The nose of every hound.--
      Was here, and there, and everywhere,
        Above, and under ground;
      But yet to stop he did not dare,
      Pent in a hole, it was no joke,
      To meet the terriers or the smoke.
      So, leaping into upper air,
      He met two dogs, that choked him there.

        Expedients may be too many,
      Consuming time to choose and try.
        On one, but that as good as any,
      'Tis best in danger to rely.

    A man that loved,--and loved his wife,--
    Still led an almost joyless life.
    No tender look, nor gracious word,
    Nor smile, that, coming from a bride,
    Its object would have deified,
      E'er told her doting lord
      The love with which he burn'd
      Was in its kind return'd.
    Still unrepining at his lot,
    This man, thus tied in Hymen's knot,
    Thank'd God for all the good he got.
  But why? If love doth fail to season
    Whatever pleasures Hymen gives,
  I'm sure I cannot see the reason
    Why one for him the happier lives.
      However, since his wife
    Had ne'er caress'd him in her life,
    He made complaint of it one night.
        The entrance of a thief
        Cut short his tale of grief,
    And gave the lady such a fright,
        She shrunk from dreaded harms
        Within her husband's arms.
        'Good thief,' cried he,
    'This joy so sweet, I owe to thee:
        Now take, as thy reward,
        Of all that owns me lord,
    Whatever suits thee save my spouse;
    Ay, if thou pleasest, take the house.'
      As thieves are not remarkably
        O'erstock'd with modesty,
        This fellow made quite free.

    From this account it doth appear,
    The passions all are ruled by fear.
    Aversion may be conquer'd by it,
    And even love may not defy it.
    But still some cases there have been
    Where love hath ruled the roast, I ween.
    That lover, witness, highly bred,
    Who burnt his house above his head,
    And all to clasp a certain dame,
    And bear her harmless through the flame.
        This transport through the fire,
        I own, I much admire;
  And for a Spanish soul, reputed coolish,
  I think it grander even than 'twas foolish.[19]

  A man whose credit fail'd, and what was worse,
      Who lodged the devil in his purse,--
      That is to say, lodged nothing there,--
      By self-suspension in the air
      Concluded his accounts to square,
      Since, should he not, he understood,
      From various tokens, famine would--
      A death for which no mortal wight
      Had ever any appetite.
      A ruin, crown'd with ivy green,
      Was of his tragedy the scene.
      His hangman's noose he duly tied,
      And then to drive a nail he tried;--
      But by his blows the wall gave way,
        Now tremulous and old,
      Disclosing to the light of day
        A sum of hidden gold.
      He clutch'd it up, and left Despair
      To struggle with his halter there.
      Nor did the much delighted man
      E'en stop to count it as he ran.
      But, while he went, the owner came,
      Who loved it with a secret flame,
      Too much indeed for kissing,--
      And found his money--missing!
      'O Heavens!' he cried, 'shall I
      Such riches lose, and still not die?
      Shall I not hang?--as I, in fact,
      Might justly do if cord I lack'd;
      But now, without expense, I can;
      This cord here only lacks a man.'
      The saving was no saving clause;
        It suffer'd not his heart to falter,
      Until it reach'd his final pause
        As full possessor of the halter,--
      'Tis thus the miser often grieves:
      Whoe'er the benefit receives
      Of what he owns, he never must--
        Mere treasurer for thieves,
        Or relatives, or dust.
      But what say we about the trade
      In this affair by Fortune made?
      Why, what but that it was just like her!
        In freaks like this delighteth she.
        The shorter any turn may be,
      The better it is sure to strike her.
      It fills that goddess full of glee
      A self-suspended man to see;
      And that it does especially,
      When made so unexpectedly.

  Sly Bertrand and Ratto in company sat,
  (The one was a monkey, the other a cat,)
      Co-servants and lodgers:
      More mischievous codgers
  Ne'er mess'd from a platter, since platters were flat.
  Was anything wrong in the house or about it,
  The neighbours were blameless,--no mortal could doubt it;
  For Bertrand was thievish, and Ratto so nice,
  More attentive to cheese than he was to the mice.
  One day the two plunderers sat by the fire,
  Where chestnuts were roasting, with looks of desire.
  To steal them would be a right noble affair.
  A double inducement our heroes drew there--
  'Twould benefit them, could they swallow their fill,
  And then 'twould occasion to somebody ill.
  Said Bertrand to Ratto, 'My brother, to-day
  Exhibit your powers in a masterly way,
      And take me these chestnuts, I pray.
      Which were I but otherwise fitted
      (As I am ingeniously witted)
      For pulling things out of the flame,
      Would stand but a pitiful game.'
  ''Tis done,' replied Ratto, all prompt to obey;
  And thrust out his paw in a delicate way.
      First giving the ashes a scratch,
      He open'd the coveted batch;
      Then lightly and quickly impinging,
      He drew out, in spite of the singeing,
  One after another, the chestnuts at last,--
  While Bertrand contrived to devour them as fast.
      A servant girl enters. Adieu to the fun.
      Our Ratto was hardly contented, says one.--

    No more are the princes, by flattery paid
    For furnishing help in a different trade,
      And burning their fingers to bring
      More power to some mightier king.[21]

  A noted thief, the kite,
  Had set a neighbourhood in fright,
  And raised the clamorous noise
  Of all the village boys,
  When, by misfortune,--sad to say,--
  A nightingale fell in his way.
  Spring's herald begg'd him not to eat
  A bird for music--not for meat.
  'O spare!' cried she, 'and I'll relate
  'The crime of Tereus and his fate.'--
  'What's Tereus?[23] Is it food for kites?'--
  'No, but a king, of female rights
  The villain spoiler, whom I taught
  A lesson with repentance fraught;
  And, should it please you not to kill,
    My song about his fall
  Your very heart shall thrill,
    As it, indeed, does all.'--
  Replied the kite, a 'pretty thing!
  When I am faint and famishing,
  To let you go, and hear you sing?'--
  'Ah, but I entertain the king!'--
  'Well, when he takes you, let him hear
    Your tale, full wonderful, no doubt;
    For me, a kite, I'll go without.'
  An empty stomach hath no ear.[24]

      'What! shall I lose them one by one,
          This stupid coward throng?
      And never shall the wolf have done?
        They were at least a thousand strong,
      But still they've let poor Robin[26] fall a prey!
                Ah, woe's the day!
        Poor Robin Wether lying dead!
        He follow'd for a bit of bread
      His master through the crowded city,
        And would have follow'd, had he led,
      Around the world. O! what a pity!
        My pipe, and even step, he knew;
        To meet me when I came, he flew;
      In hedge-row shade we napp'd together;
        Alas, alas, my Robin Wether!'
      When Willy thus had duly said
      His eulogy upon the dead
      And unto everlasting fame
      Consign'd poor Robin Wether's name,
      He then harangued the flock at large,
        From proud old chieftain rams
        Down to the smallest lambs,
      Addressing them this weighty charge,--
      Against the wolf, as one, to stand
      In firm, united, fearless band,
    By which they might expel him from their land.
      Upon their faith, they would not flinch,
      They promised him, a single inch.
    'We'll choke,' said they, 'the murderous glutton
    Who robbed of us of our Robin Mutton.'
      Their lives they pledged against the beast,
      And Willy gave them all a feast.
      But evil Fate, than Phoebus faster,
      Ere night had brought a new disaster:
      A wolf there came. By nature's law,
      The total flock were prompt to run;
    And yet 'twas not the wolf they saw,
  But shadow of him from the setting sun.

    Harangue a craven soldiery,
    What heroes they will seem to be!
    But let them snuff the smoke of battle,
    Or even hear the ramrods rattle,
    Adieu to all their spunk and mettle:
    Your own example will be vain,
    And exhortations, to retain
          The timid cattle.

  You, Iris, 'twere an easy task to praise;
    But you refuse the incense of my lays.
  In this you are unlike all other mortals,
  Who welcome all the praise that seeks their portals;
    Not one who is not soothed by sound so sweet.
    For me to blame this humour were not meet,
      By gods and mortals shared in common,
      And, in the main, by lovely woman.
    That drink, so vaunted by the rhyming trade,
  That cheers the god who deals the thunder-blow,
  And oft intoxicates the gods below,--
    The nectar, Iris, is of praises made.
      You taste it not. But, in its place,
      Wit, science, even trifles grace
  Your bill of fare; but, for that matter,
  The world will not believe the latter.
    Well, leave the world in unbelief.
  Still science, trifles, fancies light as air,
  I hold, should mingle in a bill of fare,
    Each giving each its due relief;
    As, where the gifts of Flora fall,
      On different flowers we see
        Alight the busy bee,
      Educing sweet from all.
  Thus much premised, don't think it strange,
  Or aught beyond my muse's range,
    If e'en my fables should infold,
      Among their nameless trumpery,
      The traits of a philosophy
    Far-famed as subtle, charming, bold.
    They call it new--the men of wit;
    Perhaps you have not heard of it?[2]
    My verse will tell you what it means:--
    They say that beasts are mere machines;[3]
    That, in their doings, everything
    Is done by virtue of a spring--
      No sense, no soul, nor notion;
  But matter merely,--set in motion,
      Just such the watch in kind,
    Which joggeth on, to purpose blind.
    Now ope, and read within its breast--
  The place of soul is by its wheels possess'd.
      One moves a second, that a third,
      Till finally its sound is heard.
        And now the beast, our sages say,
        Is moved precisely in this way
    An object strikes it in a certain place:
    The spot thus struck, without a moment's space,
      To neighbouring parts the news conveys;
      Thus sense receives it through the chain,
      And takes impression.--How? Explain.--
    Not I. They say, by sheer necessity,
      From will as well as passion free,
      The animal is found the thrall
      Of movements which the vulgar call
      Joy, sadness, pleasure, pain, and love--
      The cause extrinsic and above.--
      Believe it not. What's this I hold?
      Why, sooth, it is a watch of gold--
    Its life, the mere unbending of a spring.
      And we?--are quite a different thing.
  Hear how Descartes--Descartes, whom all applaud,
      Whom pagans would have made a god,
      Who holds, in fact, the middle place
      'Twixt ours and the celestial race,
      About as does the plodding ass
      From man to oyster as you pass--
      Hear how this author states the case
      'Of all the tribes to being brought
      By our Creator out of nought,
      I only have the gift of thought.'
        Now, Iris, you will recollect
      We were by older science taught
    That when brutes think, they don't reflect.
      Descartes proceeds beyond the wall,
      And says they do not think at all.
        This you believe with ease;
      And so could I, if I should please.
      Still, in the forest, when, from morn
      Till midday, sounds of dog and horn
      Have terrified the stag forlorn;
      When he has doubled forth and back,
      And labour'd to confound his track,
      Till tired and spent with efforts vain--
      An ancient stag, of antlers ten;--
      He puts a younger in his place,
      All fresh, to weary out the chase.--
    What thoughts for one that merely grazes!
    The doublings, turnings, windings, mazes,
      The substituting fresher bait,
      Were worthy of a man of state--
      And worthy of a better fate!
      To yield to rascal dogs his breath
      Is all the honour of his death.
      And when the partridge danger spies,
      Before her brood have strength to rise,
      She wisely counterfeits a wound,
      And drags her wing upon the ground--
    Thus, from her home, beside some ancient log,
    Safe drawing off the sportsman and his dog;
      And while the latter seems to seize her,
        The victim of an easy chase--
      'Your teeth are not for such as me, sir,'
                    She cries,
                    And flies,
      And laughs the former in his face.

      Far north, 'tis said, the people live
      In customs nearly primitive;
          That is to say, are bound
          In ignorance profound:--
        I mean the people human;
      For animals are dwelling there
      With skill such buildings to prepare
        As could on earth but few men.
      Firm laid across the torrent's course,
      Their work withstands its mighty force,
      So damming it from shore to shore,
        That, gliding smoothly o'er,
      In even sheets the waters pour.
  Their work, as it proceeds, they grade and bevel,
        Or bring it up to plumb or level;
    First lay their logs, and then with mortar smear,
    As if directed by an engineer.
      Each labours for the public good;
      The old command, the youthful brood
      Cut down, and shape, and place the wood.
    Compared with theirs, e'en Plato's model state
    Were but the work of some apprentice pate.
      Such are the beaver folks, who know
      Enough to house themselves from snow,
      And bridge, though they can swim, the pools.
      Meanwhile, our kinsmen are such fools,
        In spite of their example,
        They dwell in huts less ample,
        And cross the streams by swimming,
        However cold and brimming!
        Now that the skilful beaver,
      Is but a body void of spirit,
      From whomsoever I might hear it,
        I would believe it never.

      But I go farther in the case.
          Pray listen while I tell
          A thing which lately fell
      From one of truly royal race.[4]
      A prince beloved by Victory,
      The North's defender here shall be
      My voucher and your guaranty;
          Whose mighty name alone
          Commands the sultan's throne,
    The king whom Poland calls her own.
    This king declares (kings cannot lie, we hear)
          That, on his own frontier,
          Some animals there are;
          Engaged in ceaseless war;
      From age to age the quarrel runs,
      Transmitted down from sires to sons;
    (These beasts, he says, are to the fox akin;)
      And with more skill no war hath been,
        By highest military powers,
      Conducted in this age of ours
      Guards, piquets, scouts, and spies,
      And ambuscade that hidden lies,
      The foe to capture by surprise,
      And many a shrewd appliance
      Of that pernicious, cursed science,
      The daughter of the Stygian wave,
      And mother harsh of heroes brave,
      Those military creatures have.
      To chant their feats a bard we lack,
      Till Death shall give us Homer back.
        And should he such a wonder do,
      And, while his hand was in, release
        Old Epicurus' rival[5] too,
  What would the latter say to facts like these?
  Why, as I've said, that nature does such things
      In animals by means of springs;
      That Memory is but corporeal;
        And that to do the things array'd
      So proudly in my story all,
        The animal but needs her aid.
  At each return, the object, so to speak,
    Proceeds directly to her store
    With keenest optics--there to seek
      The image it had traced before,
    Which found, proceeds forthwith to act
    Just as at first it did, in fact,
    By neither thought nor reason back'd.
  Not so with us, beasts perpendicular;
  With us kind Heaven is more particular.
    Self-ruled by independent mind,
    We're not the sport of objects blind,
    Nor e'en to instinct are consign'd.
    I walk; I talk; I feel the sway
          Of power within
          This nice machine,
        It cannot but obey.
    This power, although with matter link'd,
    Is comprehended as distinct.
    Indeed 'tis comprehended better
    In truth and essence than is matter.
      O'er all our arts it is supreme.
        But how doth matter understand
        Or hear its sovereign lord's command?
      Here doth a difficulty seem:
        I see the tool obey the hand;
      But then the hand who guideth it;
      Who guides the stars in order fit?
        Perhaps each mighty world,
        Since from its Maker hurl'd,
    Some angel may have kept in custody.
        However that may be,
      A spirit dwells in such as we;
  It moves our limbs; we feel its mandates now;
  We see and know it rules, but know not how:
        Nor shall we know, indeed,
      Till in the breast of God we read.
      And, speaking in all verity,
    Descartes is just as ignorant as we;
      In things beyond a mortal's ken,
      He knows no more than other men.
      But, Iris, I confess to this,
        That in the beasts of which I speak
        Such spirit it were vain to seek,
      For man its only temple is.
        Yet beasts must have a place
        Beneath our godlike race,
        Which no mere plant requires
        Although the plant respires.

        But what shall one reply
      To what I next shall certify?
    Two rats in foraging fell on an egg,--
        For gentry such as they
      A genteel dinner every way;
    They needed not to find an ox's leg.
      Brimful of joy and appetite,
        They were about to sack the box,
        So tight without the aid of locks,
      When suddenly there came in sight
        A personage--Sir Pullet Fox.
      Sure, luck was never more untoward
      Since Fortune was a vixen froward!
    How should they save their egg--and bacon?
      Their plunder couldn't then be bagg'd;
    Should it in forward paws be taken,
      Or roll'd along, or dragg'd?
      Each method seem'd impossible,
      And each was then of danger full.
    Necessity, ingenious mother,
  Brought forth what help'd them from their pother.
  As still there was a chance to save their prey,--
  The spunger yet some hundred yards away,--
  One seized the egg, and turn'd upon his back,
  And then, in spite of many a thump and thwack,
  That would have torn, perhaps, a coat of mail,
      The other dragg'd him by the tail.
      Who dares the inference to blink,
      That beasts possess wherewith to think?

      Were I commission'd to bestow
      This power on creatures here below,
      The beasts should have as much of mind
      As infants of the human kind.
      Think not the latter, from their birth?
      It hence appears there are on earth
      That have the simple power of thought
      Where reason hath no knowledge wrought.
    And on this wise an equal power I'd yield
    To all the various tenants of the field;
    Not reason such as in ourselves we find,
  But something more than any mainspring blind.
    A speck of matter I would subtilise
    Almost beyond the reach of mental eyes;--
        An atom's essence, one might say,
        An extract of a solar ray,
    More quick and pungent than a flame of fire,--
      For if of flame the wood is sire,
      Cannot the flame, itself refined,
      Give some idea of the mind?
        Comes not the purest gold
        From lead, as we are told?
      To feel and choose, my work should soar--
      Unthinking judgment--nothing more.
    No monkey of my manufacture
    Should argue from his sense or fact, sure:
      But my allotment to mankind
      Should be of very different mind.
    We men should share in double measure,
    Or rather have a twofold treasure;
      The one the soul, the same in all
      That bear the name of animal--
      The sages, dunces, great and small,
      That tenant this our teeming ball;--
      The other still another soul,
    Which should to mortals here belong
    In common with the angel throng;
      Which, made an independent whole,
    Could pierce the skies to worlds of light,
    Within a point have room to be,--
    Its life a morn, sans noon or night.
    Exempt from all destructive change--
    A thing as real as it is strange.
    In infancy this child of day
    Should glimmer but a feeble ray.
    Its earthly organs stronger grown,
    The beam of reason, brightly thrown,
    Should pierce the darkness, thick and gross,
    That holds the other prison'd close.