Contemporary with a sparrow tame
    There lived a cat; from tenderest age,
    Of both, the basket and the cage
        Had household gods the same.
  The bird's sharp beak full oft provoked the cat,
  Who play'd in turn, but with a gentle pat,
  His wee friend sparing with a merry laugh,
  Not punishing his faults by half.
    In short, he scrupled much the harm,
    Should he with points his ferule arm.
    The sparrow, less discreet than he,
    With dagger beak made very free.
    Sir Cat, a person wise and staid,
    Excused the warmth with which he play'd:
      For 'tis full half of friendship's art
      To take no joke in serious part.
      Familiar since they saw the light,
        Mere habit kept their friendship good;
      Fair play had never turn'd to fight,
        Till, of their neighbourhood,
      Another sparrow came to greet
      Old Ratto grave and saucy Pete.
      Between the birds a quarrel rose,
        And Ratto took his side.
      'A pretty stranger, with such blows
        To beat our friend!' he cried.
      'A neighbour's sparrow eating ours!
      Not so, by all the feline powers.'
      And quick the stranger he devours.
        'Now, truly,' saith Sir Cat,
      I know how sparrows taste by that.
      Exquisite, tender, delicate!'
      This thought soon seal'd the other's fate.--
      But hence what moral can I bring?
      For, lacking that important thing,
      A fable lacks its finishing:
      I seem to see of one some trace,
      But still its shadow mocks my chase.
      Yours, prince, it will not thus abuse:
      For you such sports, and not my muse.
      In wit, she and her sisters eight
      Would fail to match you with a mate.

    A man amass'd. The thing, we know,
    Doth often to a frenzy grow.
  No thought had he but of his minted gold--
  Stuff void of worth when unemploy'd, I hold.
  Now, that this treasure might the safer be,
      Our miser's dwelling had the sea
  As guard on every side from every thief.
  With pleasure, very small in my belief,
    But very great in his, he there
    Upon his hoard bestow'd his care.
      No respite came of everlasting
      Recounting, calculating, casting;
    For some mistake would always come
    To mar and spoil the total sum.
    A monkey there, of goodly size,--
    And than his lord, I think, more wise,--
    Some doubloons from the window threw,
    And render'd thus the count untrue.
      The padlock'd room permitted
      Its owner, when he quitted,
    To leave his money on the table.
      One day, bethought this monkey wise
      To make the whole a sacrifice
    To Neptune on his throne unstable.
      I could not well award the prize
  Between the monkey's and the miser's pleasure
    Derived from that devoted treasure.
  With some, Don Bertrand, would the honour gain,
  For reasons it were tedious to explain.
          One day, then, left alone,
        That animal, to mischief prone,
          Coin after coin detach'd,
          A gold jacobus snatch'd,
          Or Portuguese doubloon,
          Or silver ducatoon,
        Or noble, of the English rose,
        And flung with all his might
        Those discs, which oft excite
  The strongest wishes mortal ever knows.
          Had he not heard, at last,
        The turning of his master's key,
          The money all had pass'd
          The same short road to sea;
  And not a single coin but had been pitch'd
  Into the gulf by many a wreck enrich'd.

  Now, God preserve full many a financier
  Whose use of wealth may find its likeness here!

  Since goats have browsed, by freedom fired,
  To follow fortune they've aspired.
  To pasturage they're wont to roam
  Where men are least disposed to come.
  If any pathless place there be,
    Or cliff, or pendent precipice,
  'Tis there they cut their capers free:
  There's nought can stop these dames, I wis.
    Two goats, thus self-emancipated,--
  The white that on their feet they wore
  Look'd back to noble blood of yore,--
    Once quit the lowly meadows, sated,
  And sought the hills, as it would seem:
    In search of luck, by luck they met
  Each other at a mountain stream.
    As bridge a narrow plank was set,
  On which, if truth must be confest,
  Two weasels scarce could go abreast.
  And then the torrent, foaming white,
  As down it tumbled from the height,
  Might well those Amazons affright.
  But maugre such a fearful rapid,
  Both took the bridge, the goats intrepid!
    I seem to see our Louis Grand[7]
      And Philip IV. advance
      To the Isle of Conference,[8]
      That lies 'twixt Spain and France,
    Each sturdy for his glorious land.
    Thus each of our adventurers goes,
    Till foot to foot, and nose to nose,
    Somewhere about the midst they meet,
    And neither will an inch retreat.
  For why? they both enjoy'd the glory
  Of ancestors in ancient story.
    The one, a goat of peerless rank,
    Which, browsing on Sicilian bank,
    The Cyclop gave to Galataea;[9]
    The other famous Amalthaea,[10]
    The goat that suckled Jupiter,
    As some historians aver.
    For want of giving back, in troth,
    A common fall involved them both.--
    A common accident, no doubt,
    On Fortune's changeful route.[11]

  To please a youthful prince, whom Fame
    A temple in my writings vows,
  What fable answers to the name,
    "The Cat and Mouse?"
  Shall I in verse the fair present,
  With softest look but hard intent,
  Who serves the hearts her charms entice
  As does the cat its captive mice?
  Or make my subject Fortune's sport?
  She treats the friends that make her court,
  And follow closest her advice,
  As treats the cat the silly mice.

  Shall I for theme a king select
    Who sole, of all her favourites,
  Commands the goddess's respect?
    For whom she from her wheel alights.
      Who, never stay'd by foes a trice,
        Whene'er they block his way,
        Can with the strongest play
      As doth the cat with mice!
    Insensibly, while casting thus about,
      Quite anxious for my subject's sake,
      A theme I meet, and, if I don't mistake,
    Shall spoil it, too, by spinning out.
    The prince will treat my muse, for that,
  As mice are treated by the cat.

  A young and inexperienced mouse
    Had faith to try a veteran cat,[12]--
    Raminagrobis, death to rat,
  And scourge of vermin through the house,--
  Appealing to his clemency
    With reasons sound and fair.
  'Pray let me live; a mouse like me
    It were not much to spare.
  Am I, in such a family,
  A burden? Would my largest wish
  Our wealthy host impoverish?
  A grain of wheat will make my meal;
  A nut will fat me like a seal.
  I'm lean at present; please to wait,
  And for your heirs reserve my fate.'
    The captive mouse thus spake.
  Replied the captor, 'You mistake;
  To me shall such a thing be said?
  Address the deaf! address the dead!
  A cat to pardon!--old one too!
  Why, such a thing I never knew.
    Thou victim of my paw,
    By well-establish'd law,
    Die as a mousling should,
    And beg the sisterhood
    Who ply the thread and shears,
    To lend thy speech their ears.
    Some other like repast
    My heirs may find, or fast.'
  He ceased. The moral's plain.
  Youth always hopes its ends to gain,
  Believes all spirits like its own:
  Old age is not to mercy prone.

    A stag, where stags abounded,
    Fell sick, and was surrounded
    Forthwith by comrades kind,
      All pressing to assist,
      Or see, their friend, at least,
    And ease his anxious mind--
      An irksome multitude.
  'Ah, sirs!' the sick was fain to cry,
  'Pray leave me here to die,
      As others do, in solitude.
  Pray, let your kind attentions cease,
  Till death my spirit shall release.'
  But comforters are not so sent:
  On duty sad full long intent,
  When Heaven pleased, they went:
  But not without a friendly glass;
  That is to say, they cropp'd the grass
  And leaves which in that quarter grew,
  From which the sick his pittance drew.
  By kindness thus compell'd to fast,
  He died for want of food at last.
  The men take off no trifling dole
  Who heal the body, or the soul.
  Alas the times! do what we will,
  They have their payment, cure or kill.

  A bush, duck, and bat, having found that in trade,
  Confined to their country, small profits were made,
  Into partnership enter'd to traffic abroad,
  Their purse, held in common, well guarded from fraud.
  Their factors and agents, these trading allies
  Employ'd where they needed, as cautious as wise:
  Their journals and ledgers, exact and discreet,
  Recorded by items expense and receipt.
  All throve, till an argosy, on its way home,
  With a cargo worth more than their capital sum,
  In attempting to pass through a dangerous strait,
  Went down with its passengers, sailors, and freight,
  To enrich those enormous and miserly stores,
  From Tartarus distant but very few doors.
  Regret was a thing which the firm could but feel;
  Regret was the thing they were slow to reveal;
  For the least of a merchant well knows that the weal
  Of his credit requires him his loss to conceal.
  But that which our trio unluckily suffer'd
  Allow'd no repair, and of course was discover'd.
  No money nor credit, 'twas plain to be seen
  Their heads were now threaten'd with bonnets of green;[15]
  And, the facts of the case being everywhere known,
  No mortal would open his purse with a loan.
    Debts, bailiffs, and lawsuits, and creditors gruff,
          At the crack of day knocking,
          (Importunity shocking!)
        Our trio kept busy enough.
  The bush, ever ready and on the alert,
  Now caught all the people it could by the skirt:--
  'Pray, sir, be so good as to tell, if you please,
  If you know whereabout the old villanous seas
  Have hid all our goods which they stole t' other night.
  The diver, to seek them, went down out of sight.
  The bat didn't venture abroad in the day,
  And thus of the bailiffs kept out of the way.

  Full many insolvents, not bats, to hide so,
  Nor bushes, nor divers, I happen to know,
  But even grand seigniors, quite free from all cares,
  By virtue of brass, and of private backstairs.

      Enthroned by an eternal law,
  Hath Discord reign'd throughout the universe.
    In proof, I might from this our planet draw
        A thousand instances diverse.
        Within the circle of our view,
        This queen hath subjects not a few.
        Beginning with the elements,
          It is astonishing to see
        How they have stood, to all intents,
          As wrestlers from eternity.
        Besides these four great potentates,
          Old stubborn earth, fire, flood, and air,
        How many other smaller states
          Are waging everlasting war!
      In mansion deck'd with frieze and column,
        Dwelt dogs and cats in multitudes;
      Decrees, promulged in manner solemn,
        Had pacified their ancient feuds.
  Their lord had so arranged their meals and labours,
      And threaten'd quarrels with the whip,
      That, living in sweet cousinship,
    They edified their wondering neighbours.
      At last, some dainty plate to lick,
      Or profitable bone to pick,
      Bestow'd by some partiality,
      Broke up the smooth equality.
      The side neglected were indignant
      At such a slight malignant.
  Some writers make the whole dispute begin
  With favours to a bitch while lying in.
      Whate'er the cause, the altercation
      Soon grew a perfect conflagration.
    In hall and kitchen, dog and cat
      Took sides with zeal for this or that.
      New rules upon the cat side falling
      Produced tremendous caterwauling.
    Their advocate, against such rules as these,
    Advised recurrence to the old decrees.
  They search'd in vain, for, hidden in a nook,
  The thievish mice had eaten up the book.
      Another quarrel, in a trice,
      Made many sufferers with the mice;
      For many a veteran whisker'd-face,
    With craft and cunning richly stored,
      And grudges old against the race,
    Now watch'd to put them to the sword;
    Nor mourn'd for this that mansion's lord.

    Resuming our discourse, we see
    No creature from opponents free.
    'Tis nature's law for earth and sky;
    'Twere vain to ask the reason why;
  God's works are good,--I cannot doubt it,--
  And that is all I know about it.
      I know, however, that the cause
    Which hath our human quarrels brought,
      Three quarters of the time, is nought
      That will be, is, or ever was.
    Ye veterans, in state and church,
      At threescore years, indeed,
      It seems there still is need
    To give you lessons with the birch!

    Whence comes it that there liveth not
    A man contented with his lot?
    Here's one who would a soldier be,
    Whom soldiers all with envy see.

    A fox to be a wolf once sigh'd.
    With disappointments mortified,
    Who knows but that, his wolfship cheap,
    The wolf himself would be a sheep?

    I marvel that a prince[16] is able,
    At eight, to put the thing in fable;
    While I, beneath my seventy snows,
      Forge out, with toil and time,
      The same in labour'd rhyme,
      Less striking than his prose.

    The traits which in his work we meet,
      A poet, it must be confess'd,
      Could not have half so well express'd:
    He bears the palm as more complete.
    'Tis mine to sing it to the pipe;
      But I expect that when the sands
    Of Time have made my hero ripe,
      He'll put a trumpet in my hands.

    My mind but little doth aspire
      To prophecy; but yet it reads
      On high, that soon his glorious deeds
    Full many Homers will require--
    Of which this age produces few.
    But, bidding mysteries adieu,
    I try my powers upon this fable new.

    'Dear wolf,' complain'd a hungry fox,
    'A lean chick's meat, or veteran cock's,
    Is all I get by toil or trick:
    Of such a living I am sick.
    With far less risk, you've better cheer;
    A house you need not venture near,
    But I must do it, spite of fear.
    Pray, make me master of your trade.
    And let me by that means be made
    The first of all my race that took
    Fat mutton to his larder's hook:
    Your kindness shall not be repented.'
    The wolf quite readily consented.
    'I have a brother, lately dead:
    Go fit his skin to yours,' he said.
  'Twas done; and then the wolf proceeded:
    'Now mark you well what must be done,
    The dogs that guard the flock to shun.'
  The fox the lessons strictly heeded.
    At first he boggled in his dress;
    But awkwardness grew less and less,
    Till perseverance gave success.
    His education scarce complete,
    A flock, his scholarship to greet,
      Came rambling out that way.
    The new-made wolf his work began,
    Amidst the heedless nibblers ran,
      And spread a sore dismay.
    Such terror did Patroclus[17] spread,
      When on the Trojan camp and town,
    Clad in Achilles' armour dread,
      He valiantly came down.
    The matrons, maids, and aged men
    All hurried to the temples then.--
    The bleating host now surely thought
    That fifty wolves were on the spot:
      Dog, shepherd, sheep, all homeward fled,
    And left a single sheep in pawn,
    Which Renard seized when they were gone.
      But, ere upon his prize he fed,
    There crow'd a cock near by, and down
    The scholar threw his prey and gown,
  That he might run that way the faster--
  Forgetting lessons, prize and master.
    How useless is the art of seeming!
      Reality, in every station,
    Is through its cloak at all times gleaming,
      And bursting out on fit occasion.

    Young prince, to your unrivall'd wit
    My muse gives credit, as is fit,
    For what she here hath labour'd with--
    The subject, characters, and pith.

      The wise, sometimes, as lobsters do,
      To gain their ends back foremost go.
      It is the rower's art; and those
      Commanders who mislead their foes,
      Do often seem to aim their sight
      Just where they don't intend to smite.
      My theme, so low, may yet apply
      To one whose fame is very high,
        Who finds it not the hardest matter
        A hundred-headed league to scatter.
    What he will do, what leave undone,
        Are secrets with unbroken seals,
        Till victory the truth reveals.
      Whatever he would have unknown
      Is sought in vain. Decrees of Fate
    Forbid to check, at first, the course
    Which sweeps at last with torrent force.
      One Jove, as ancient fables state,
      Exceeds a hundred gods in weight.
      So Fate and Louis[19] would seem able
        The universe to draw,
        Bound captive to their law.--
      But come we to our fable.
    A mother lobster did her daughter chide:
  'For shame, my daughter! can't you go ahead?'
    'And how go you yourself?' the child replied;
  'Can I be but by your example led?
    Head foremost should I, singularly, wend,
    While all my race pursue the other end.'
  She spoke with sense: for better or for worse,
    Example has a universal force.
      To some it opens wisdom's door,
      But leads to folly many more.
      Yet, as for backing to one's aim,
        When properly pursued
        The art is doubtless good,
      At least in grim Bellona's game.

    The eagle, through the air a queen,
    And one far different, I ween,
    In temper, language, thought, and mien,--
    The magpie,--once a prairie cross'd.
      The by-path where they met was drear,
    And Madge gave up herself for lost;
      But having dined on ample cheer,
      The eagle bade her, 'Never fear;
    You're welcome to my company;
    For if the king of gods can be
      Full oft in need of recreation,--
    Who rules the world,--right well may I,
      Who serve him in that high relation:
    Amuse me, then, before you fly.'
    Our cackler, pleased, at quickest rate
    Of this and that began to prate.
    Not he of whom old Flaccus writes,
    The most impertinent of wights,
    Or any babbler, for that matter,
    Could more incontinently chatter.
  At last she offer'd to make known--
  A better spy had never flown--
  All things, whatever she might see,
  In travelling from tree to tree.
  But, with her offer little pleased--
  Nay, gathering wrath at being teased,--
  For such a purpose, never rove,--
  Replied th' impatient bird of Jove.
  'Adieu, my cackling friend, adieu;
  My court is not the place for you:
  Heaven keep it free from such a bore!'
  Madge flapp'd her wings, and said no more.

  'Tis far less easy than it seems
    An entrance to the great to gain.
  The honour oft hath cost extremes
        Of mortal pain.
  The craft of spies, the tattling art,
  And looks more gracious than the heart,
        Are odious there;
  But still, if one would meet success,
  Of different parishes the dress
    He, like the pie, must wear.

    The gods, for that themselves are good,
    The like in mortal monarchs would.
    The prime of royal rights is grace;
    To this e'en sweet revenge gives place.
    So thinks your highness,--while your wrath
    Its cradle for its coffin hath.
    Achilles no such conquest knew--
    In this a hero less than you.
    That name indeed belongs to none,
    Save those who have, beneath the sun,
    Their hundred generous actions done.
    The golden age produced such powers,
    But truly few this age of ours.
    The men who now the topmost sit,
    Are thank'd for crimes which they omit.
  For you, unharm'd by such examples,
  A thousand noble deeds are winning temples,
    Wherein Apollo, by the altar-fire,
    Shall strike your name upon his golden lyre.
    The gods await you in their azure dome;
    One age must serve for this your lower home.
    One age entire with you would Hymen dwell:[23]
        O that his sweetest spell
      For you a destiny may bind
      By such a period scarce confined!
    The princess and yourself no less deserve.
      Her charms as witnesses shall serve;
      As witnesses, those talents high
      Pour'd on you by the lavish sky,
      Outshining all pretence of peers
        Throughout your youthful years.
      A Bourbon seasons grace with wit:
    To that which gains esteem, in mixture fit,
      He adds a portion from, above,
        Wherewith to waken love.
    To paint your joy--my task is less sublime:
      I therefore turn aside to rhyme
      What did a certain bird of prey.

    A kite, possessor of a nest antique,
        Was caught alive one day.
        It was the captor's freak
        That this so rare a bird
      Should on his sovereign be conferr'd.
    The kite, presented by the man of chase,
    With due respect, before the monarch's face,
            If our account is true,
            Immediately flew
        And perch'd upon the royal nose.
      What! on the nose of majesty?
      Ay, on the consecrated nose did he!
    Had not the king his sceptre and his crown?
      Why, if he had, or had not, 'twere all one:
    The royal nose, as if it graced a clown,
      Was seized. The things by courtiers done,
  And said, and shriek'd, 'twere hopeless to relate.
            The king in silence sate:
          An outcry, from a sovereign king,
          Were quite an unbecoming thing.
  The bird retain'd the post where he had fasten'd;
  No cries nor efforts his departure hasten'd.
      His master call'd, as in an agony of pain,
      Presented lure and fist, but all in vain.
        It seem'd as if the cursed bird,
        With instinct most absurd,
        In spite of all the noise and blows,
        Would roost upon that sacred nose!
    The urging off of courtiers, pages, master,
    But roused his will to cling the faster.
    At last he quit, as thus the monarch spoke:
    'Give egress hence, imprimis, to this kite,
    And, next, to him who aim'd at our delight.
        From each his office we revoke.
      The one as kite we now discharge;
      The other, as a forester at large.
      As in our station it is fit,
      We do all punishment remit.'
  The court admired. The courtiers praised the deed,
  In which themselves did but so ill succeed.--
      Few kings had taken such a course.
      The fowler might have fared far worse;
      His only crime, as of his kite,
      Consisted in his want of light,
      About the danger there might be
      In coming near to royalty.
      Forsooth, their scope had wholly been
      Within the woods. Was that a sin?--
      By Pilpay this remarkable affair
        Is placed beside the Ganges' flood.
      No human creature ventures, there,
        To shed of animals the blood:
    The deed not even royalty would dare.
      'Know we,' they say,--both lord and liege,--
      'This bird saw not the Trojan siege?
      Perhaps a hero's part he bore,
      And there the highest helmet wore.
      What once he was, he yet may be.
      Taught by Pythagoras are we,
    That we our forms with animals exchange;
      We're kites or pigeons for a while,
      Then biped plodders on the soil;
              And then
            As volatile, again
          The liquid air we range.--'
    Now since two versions of this tale exist,
      I'll give the other if you list.
      A certain falconer had caught
      A kite, and for his sovereign thought
      The bird a present rich and rare.
        It may be once a century
      Such game is taken from the air;
        For 'tis the pink of falconry.
      The captor pierced the courtier crowd,
        With zeal and sweat, as if for life;
      Of such a princely present proud,
        His hopes of fortune sprang full rife;
      When, slap, the savage made him feel
      His talons, newly arm'd with steel,
      By perching on his nasal member,
      As if it had been senseless timber.
    Outshriek'd the wight; but peals of laughter,
    Which threaten'd ceiling, roof, and rafter,
      From courtier, page, and monarch broke:
      Who had not laugh'd at such a joke?
      From me, so prone am I to such a sin,
      An empire had not held me in.
  I dare not say, that, had the pope been there,
    He would have join'd the laugh sonorous;
  But sad the king, I hold, who should not dare
    To lead, for such a cause, in such a chorus.
  The gods are laughers. Spite of ebon brows,
  Jove joints the laugh which he allows.
  As history saith, the thunderer's laugh went up
  When limping Vulcan served the nectar cup.
  Whether or not immortals here are wise,
  Good sense, I think, in my digression lies.
  For, since the moral's what we have in view,
  What could the falconer's fate have taught us new?
  Who does not notice, in the course of things,
  More foolish falconers than indulgent kings?

      A fox, old, subtle, vigilant, and sly,--
    By hunters wounded, fallen in the mud,--
    Attracted, by the traces of his blood,
      That buzzing parasite, the fly.
      He blamed the gods, and wonder'd why
      The Fates so cruelly should wish
      To feast the fly on such a costly dish.
      'What! light on me! make me its food!
      Me, me, the nimblest of the wood!
      How long has fox-meat been so good?
  What serves my tail? Is it a useless weight?
  Go,--Heaven confound thee, greedy reprobate!--
  And suck thy fill from some more vulgar veins!'
    A hedgehog, witnessing his pains,
        (This fretful personage
        Here graces first my page,)
        Desired to set him free
        From such cupidity.
      'My neighbour fox,' said he,
    My quills these rascals shall empale,
    And ease thy torments without fail.'
  'Not for the world, my friend!' the fox replied.
    'Pray let them finish their repast.
  These flies are full. Should they be set aside,
    New hungrier swarms would finish me at last.'
  Consumers are too common here below,
  In court and camp, in church and state, we know.
      Old Aristotle's penetration
      Remark'd our fable's application;
      It might more clearly in our nation.
      The fuller certain men are fed,
      The less the public will be bled.

    Love bears a world of mystery--
    His arrows, quiver, torch, and infancy:
    'Tis not a trifling work to sound
    A sea of science so profound:
    And, hence, t' explain it all to-day
    Is not my aim; but, in my simple way,
  To show how that blind archer lad
    (And he a god!) came by the loss of sight,
  And eke what consequence the evil had,
    Or good, perhaps, if named aright--
  A point I leave the lover to decide,
  As fittest judge, who hath the matter tried.
    Together on a certain day,
    Said Love and Folly were at play:
    The former yet enjoy'd his eyes.
    Dispute arose. Love thought it wise
    Before the council of the gods to go,
  Where both of them by birth held stations;
  But Folly, in her lack of patience,
    Dealt on his forehead such a blow
    As seal'd his orbs to all the light of heaven.
  Now Venus claim'd that vengeance should be given.
  And by what force of tears yourselves may guess
  The woman and the mother sought redress.
    The gods were deafen'd with her cries--
    Jove, Nemesis, the stern assize
    Of Orcus,--all the gods, in short,
    From whom she might the boon extort.
    The enormous wrong she well portray'd--
    Her son a wretched groper made,
    An ugly staff his steps to aid!
    For such a crime, it would appear,
    No punishment could be severe:
    The damage, too, must be repair'd.
      The case maturely weigh'd and cast,
    The public weal with private squared:
      Poor Folly was condemn'd at last,
    By judgment of the court above,
    To serve for aye as guide to Love.[26]

      A temple I reserved you in my rhyme:
      It might not be completed but with time.
      Already its endurance I had grounded
      Upon this charming art, divinely founded;
        And on the name of that divinity
        For whom its adoration was to be.
      These words I should have written o'er its gate--
        TO IRIS IS THIS PALACE CONSECRATE;
        Not her who served the queen divine;
      For Juno's self, and he who crown'd her bliss,
        Had thought it for their dignity, I wis,
          To bear the messages of mine.
          Within the dome the apotheosis
          Should greet th' enraptured sight--
        All heaven, in pomp and order meet,
        Conducting Iris to her seat
          Beneath a canopy of light!
    The walls would amply serve to paint her life,--
    A matter sweet, indeed, but little rife
  In those events, which, order'd by the Fates,
  Cause birth, or change, or overthrow of states.
      The innermost should hold her image,--
        Her features, smiles, attractions there,--
        Her art of pleasing without care,--
      Her loveliness, that's sure of homage.
      Some mortals, kneeling at her feet,[29]--
    Earth's noblest heroes,--should be seen;
    Ay, demigods, and even gods, I ween:
      (The worshipp'd of the world thinks meet,
      Sometimes her altar to perfume.)
        Her eyes, so far as that might be,
      Her soul's rich jewel should illume;
        Alas! but how imperfectly!
      For could a heart that throbb'd to bless
      Its friends with boundless tenderness,--
      Or could that heaven-descended mind
      Which, in its matchless beauty, join'd
      The strength of man with woman's grace,--
      Be given to sculptor to express?
      O Iris, who canst charm the soul--
      Nay, bind it with supreme control,--
        Whom as myself I can but love,--
      (Nay, not that word: as I'm a man,
      Your court has placed it under ban,
        And we'll dismiss it,) pray approve
      My filling up this hasty plan!
      This sketch has here received a place,
      A simple anecdote to grace,
      Where friendship shows so sweet a face,
      That in its features you may find
      Somewhat accordant to your mind.
      Not that the tale may kings beseem;
      But he who winneth your esteem
      Is not a monarch placed above
      The need and influence of love,
      But simple mortal, void of crown,
      That would for friends his life lay down--
      Than which I know no friendlier act.
      Four animals, in league compact,
      Are now to give our noble race
      A useful lesson in the case.

      Rat, raven, tortoise, and gazelle,
      Once into firmest friendship fell.
      'Twas in a home unknown to man
      That they their happiness began.
        But safe from man there's no retreat:
      Pierce you the loneliest wood,
      Or dive beneath the deepest flood,
      Or mount you where the eagles brood,--
        His secret ambuscade you meet.
      The light gazelle, in harmless play,
      Amused herself abroad one day,
      When, by mischance, her track was found
      And follow'd by the baying hound--
      That barbarous tool of barbarous man--
      From which far, far away she ran.
        At meal-time to the others
        The rat observed,--'My brothers,
        How happens it that we
        Are met to-day but three?
      Is Miss Gazelle so little steady?
      Hath she forgotten us already?'
      Out cried the tortoise at the word,--
      'Were I, as Raven is, a bird,
        I'd fly this instant from my seat,
      And learn what accident, and where,
      Hath kept away our sister fair,--
      Our sister of the flying feet;
    For of her heart, dear rat,
    It were a shame to doubt of that.'
          The raven flew;
    He spied afar,--the face he knew,--
    The poor gazelle entangled in a snare,
     In anguish vainly floundering there.
  Straight back he turn'd, and gave the alarm;
    For to have ask'd the sufferer now,
    The why and wherefore, when and how,
  She had incurr'd so great a harm,--
        And lose in vain debate
        The turning-point of fate,
    As would the master of a school,--
    He was by no means such a fool.[30]
    On tidings of so sad a pith,
    The three their council held forthwith.
        By two it was the vote
        To hasten to the spot
        Where lay the poor gazelle.
        'Our friend here in his shell,
        I think, will do as well
      To guard the house,' the raven said;
        'For, with his creeping pace,
        When would he reach the place?
        Not till the deer were dead.'
        Eschewing more debate,
        They flew to aid their mate,
        That luckless mountain roe.
        The tortoise, too, resolved to go.
        Behold him plodding on behind,
        And plainly cursing in his mind,
      The fate that left his legs to lack,
      And glued his dwelling to his back.
      The snare was cut by Rongemail,
      (For so the rat they rightly hail).
      Conceive their joy yourself you may.
      Just then the hunter came that way,
      And, 'Who hath filch'd my prey?'
          Cried he, upon the spot
          Where now his prey was not.--
          A hole hid Rongemail;
          A tree the bird as well;
          The woods, the free gazelle.
          The hunter, well nigh mad,
        To find no inkling could be had,
        Espied the tortoise in his path,
        And straightway check'd his wrath.
          'Why let my courage flag,
        Because my snare has chanced to miss?
        I'll have a supper out of this.'
          He said, and put it in his bag.
        And it had paid the forfeit so,
        Had not the raven told the roe,
          Who from her covert came,
          Pretending to be lame.
        The man, right eager to pursue,
        Aside his wallet threw,
        Which Rongemail took care
    To serve as he had done the snare;
        Thus putting to an end
    The hunter's supper on his friend.
      'Tis thus sage Pilpay's tale I follow.
      Were I the ward of golden-hair'd Apollo,
      It were, by favour of that god, easy--
          And surely for your sake--
          As long a tale to make
        As is the Iliad or Odyssey.
  Grey Rongemail the hero's part should play,
  Though each would be as needful in his way.
      He of the mansion portable awoke
      Sir Raven by the words he spoke,
      To act the spy, and then the swift express.
      The light gazelle alone had had th' address
      The hunter to engage, and furnish time
      For Rongemail to do his deed sublime.
      Thus each his part perform'd. Which wins the prize?
      The heart, so far as in my judgment lies.[31]