Can diplomatic dignity
      To simple fables condescend?
    Can I your famed benignity
      Invoke, my muse an ear to lend?
    If once she dares a high intent,
    Will you esteem her impudent?
    Your cares are weightier, indeed,
      Than listening to the sage debates
      Of rabbit or of weasel states:
    So, as it pleases, burn or read;
    But save us from the woful harms
    Of Europe roused in hostile arms.
    That from a thousand other places
    Our enemies should show their faces,
    May well be granted with a smile,
    But not that England's Isle
    Our friendly kings should set
    Their fatal blades to whet.
    Comes not the time for Louis to repose?
    What Hercules, against these hydra foes,
  Would not grow weary? Must new heads oppose
    His ever-waxing energy of blows?
    Now, if your gentle, soul-persuasive powers,
    As sweet as mighty in this world of ours,
    Can soften hearts, and lull this war to sleep,[5]
    I'll pile your altars with a hundred sheep;
          And this is not a small affair
          For a Parnassian mountaineer.
        Meantime, (if you have time to spare,)
          Accept a little incense-cheer.
        A homely, but an ardent prayer,
          And tale in verse, I give you here.
        I'll only say, the theme is fit for you.
          With praise, which envy must confess
        To worth like yours is justly due,
          No man on earth needs propping less.

        In Athens, once, that city fickle,
          An orator,[6] awake to feel
        His country in a dangerous pickle,
        Would sway the proud republic's heart,
          Discoursing of the common weal,
        As taught by his tyrannic art.
        The people listen'd--not a word.
        Meanwhile the orator recurr'd
        To bolder tropes--enough to rouse
        The dullest blocks that e'er did drowse;
        He clothed in life the very dead,
        And thunder'd all that could be said.
          The wind received his breath,
          As to the ear of death.
        That beast of many heads and light,[7]
          The crowd, accustom'd to the sound
        Was all intent upon a sight--
        A brace of lads in mimic fight.
        A new resource the speaker found.
        'Ceres,' in lower tone said he,
        'Went forth her harvest fields to see:
        An eel, as such a fish might he,
        And swallow, were her company.
        A river check'd the travellers three.
        Two cross'd it soon without ado;
        The smooth eel swam, the swallow flew.--'
            Outcried the crowd
            With voices loud--
          'And Ceres--what did she?'
        'Why, what she pleased; but first
        Yourselves she justly cursed--
          A people puzzling aye your brains
        With children's tales and children's play,
        While Greece puts on her steel array,
          To save her limbs from, tyrant chains!
        Why ask you not what Philip[8] does?'
        At this reproach the idle buzz
        Fell to the silence of the grave,
        Or moonstruck sea without a wave,
        And every eye and ear awoke
        To drink the words the patriot spoke.
        This feather stick in Fable's cap.
        We're all Athenians, mayhap;
        And I, for one, confess the sin;
          For, while I write this moral here,
          If one should tell that tale so queer
        Ycleped, I think, "The Ass's Skin,"[9]
        I should not mind my work a pin.
      The world is old, they say; I don't deny it;--
            But, infant still
            In taste and will,
      Whoe'er would teach, must gratify it.[10]

  Impertinent, we tease and weary Heaven
  With prayers which would insult mere mortals even.
  'Twould seem that not a god in all the skies
  From our affairs must ever turn his eyes,
  And that the smallest of our race
  Could hardly eat, or wash his face,
  Without, like Greece and Troy for ten years' space,
  Embroiling all Olympus in the case.

    A flea some blockhead's shoulder bit,
    And then his clothes refused to quit.
  'O Hercules,' he cried, 'you ought to purge
  This world of this far worse than hydra scourge!
  O Jupiter, what are your bolts about,
  They do not put these foes of mine to rout?'

  To crush a flea, this fellow's fingers under,
  The gods must lend the fool their club and thunder!

    There's nothing like a secret weighs;
      Too heavy 'tis for women tender;
    And, for this matter, in my days,
      I've seen some men of female gender.

  To prove his wife, a husband cried,
  (The night he knew the truth would hide,)
  'O Heavens! What's this? O dear--I beg--
  I'm torn--O! O! I've laid an egg!'
  'An egg?' 'Why, yes, it's gospel-true.
  Look here--see--feel it, fresh and new;
  But, wife, don't mention it, lest men
  Should laugh at me, and call me hen:
    Indeed, don't say a word about it.'
  On this, as other matters, green and young,
    The wife, all wonder, did not doubt it,
  And pledged herself by Heaven to hold her tongue.
  Her oath, however, fled the light
  As quick as did the shades of night.
  Before Dan Phoebus waked to labour
  The dame was off to see a neighbour.
  'My friend,' she said, half-whispering.
  'There's come to pass the strangest thing--
  If you should tell, 'twould turn me out of door:--
  My husband's laid an egg as big as four!
  As you would taste of heaven's bliss,
  Don't tell a living soul of this.'
  'I tell! why if you knew a thing about me,
  You wouldn't for an instant doubt me;
    Your confidence I'll ne'er abuse.'
  The layer's wife went home relieved;
    The other broil'd to tell the news;
  You need not ask if she believed.
  A dame more busy could not be;
  In twenty places, ere her tea,
  Instead of one egg, she said three!
    Nor was the story finish'd here:
  A gossip, still more keen than she,
    Said four, and spoke it in the ear--
  A caution truly little worth,
  Applied to all the ears on earth.
  Of eggs, the number, thanks to Fame,
    As on from mouth to mouth she sped,
    Had grown a hundred, soothly said,
  Ere Sol had quench'd his golden flame!

  Our eyes are not made proof against the fair,
    Nor hands against the touch of gold.
        Fidelity is sadly rare,
    And has been from the days of old.
    Well taught his appetite to check,
      And do full many a handy trick,
      A dog was trotting, light and quick,
    His master's dinner on his neck.
  A temperate, self-denying dog was he,
  More than, with such a load, he liked to be.
  But still he was, while many such as we
  Would not have scrupled to make free.
  Strange that to dogs a virtue you may teach,
  Which, do your best, to men you vainly preach!
  This dog of ours, thus richly fitted out,
  A mastiff met, who wish'd the meat, no doubt.
  To get it was less easy than he thought:
    The porter laid it down and fought.
    Meantime some other dogs arrive:
    Such dogs are always thick enough,
    And, fearing neither kick nor cuff,
        Upon the public thrive.
    Our hero, thus o'ermatch'd and press'd,--
    The meat in danger manifest,--
    Is fain to share it with the rest;
    And, looking very calm and wise,
    'No anger, gentlemen,' he cries:
    'My morsel will myself suffice;
    The rest shall be your welcome prize.'
    With this, the first his charge to violate,
    He snaps a mouthful from his freight.
    Then follow mastiff, cur, and pup,
    Till all is cleanly eaten up.
    Not sparingly the party feasted,
    And not a dog of all but tasted.

    In some such manner men abuse
    Of towns and states the revenues.
    The sheriffs, aldermen, and mayor,
    Come in for each a liberal share.
    The strongest gives the rest example:
      'Tis sport to see with what a zest
      They sweep and lick the public chest
    Of all its funds, however ample.
    If any commonweal's defender
      Should dare to say a single word,
      He's shown his scruples are absurd,
    And finds it easy to surrender--
    Perhaps, to be the first offender.

    Some seek for jokers; I avoid.
    A joke must be, to be enjoy'd,
    Of wisdom's words, by wit employ'd.
    God never meant for men of sense,
    The wits that joke to give offence.

    Perchance of these I shall be able
    To show you one preserved in fable.
    A joker at a banker's table,
    Most amply spread to satisfy
      The height of epicurean wishes,
      Had nothing near but little fishes.
    So, taking several of the fry,
    He whisper'd to them very nigh,
    And seem'd to listen for reply.
    The guests much wonder'd what it meant,
    And stared upon him all intent.
    The joker, then with sober face,
    Politely thus explain'd the case:
    'A friend of mine, to India bound,
          Has been, I fear,
          Within a year,
    By rocks or tempests wreck'd and drown'd.
    I ask'd these strangers from the sea
    To tell me where my friend might be.
      But all replied they were too young
    To know the least of such a matter--
    The older fish could tell me better.
      Pray, may I hear some older tongue?'
    What relish had the gentlefolks
    For such a sample of his jokes,
    Is more than I can now relate.
    They put, I'm sure, upon his plate,
    A monster of so old a date,
    He must have known the names and fate
    Of all the daring voyagers,
    Who, following the moon and stars,
    Have, by mischances, sunk their bones,
    Within the realms of Davy Jones;
    And who, for centuries, had seen,
  Far down, within the fathomless,
  Where whales themselves are sceptreless,
    The ancients in their halls of green.

    A country rat, of little brains,
      Grown weary of inglorious rest,
    Left home with all its straws and grains,
      Resolved to know beyond his nest.
    When peeping through the nearest fence,
    'How big the world is, how immense!'
    He cried; 'there rise the Alps, and that
    Is doubtless famous Ararat.'
    His mountains were the works of moles,
    Or dirt thrown up in digging holes!
    Some days of travel brought him where
    The tide had left the oysters bare.
    Since here our traveller saw the sea,
    He thought these shells the ships must be.
    'My father was, in truth,' said he,
      'A coward, and an ignoramus;
    He dared not travel: as for me,
      I've seen the ships and ocean famous;
    Have cross'd the deserts without drinking,
    And many dangerous streams unshrinking;
  Such things I know from having seen and felt them.'
  And, as he went, in tales he proudly dealt them,
    Not being of those rats whose knowledge
    Comes by their teeth on books in college.
    Among the shut-up shell-fish, one
    Was gaping widely at the sun;
    It breathed, and drank the air's perfume,
    Expanding, like a flower in bloom.
      Both white and fat, its meat
      Appear'd a dainty treat.
    Our rat, when he this shell espied,
    Thought for his stomach to provide.
    'If not mistaken in the matter,'
    Said he, 'no meat was ever fatter,
    Or in its flavour half so fine,
    As that on which to-day I dine.'
    Thus full of hope, the foolish chap
      Thrust in his head to taste,
    And felt the pinching of a trap--
      The oyster closed in haste.

      We're first instructed, by this case,
    That those to whom the world is new
    Are wonder-struck at every view;
      And, in the second place,
    That the marauder finds his match,
    And he is caught who thinks to catch.

    A certain mountain bear, unlick'd and rude,
    By fate confined within a lonely wood,
    A new Bellerophon,[16] whose life,
    Knew neither comrade, friend, nor wife,--
    Became insane; for reason, as we term it,
    Dwells never long with any hermit.
    'Tis good to mix in good society,
    Obeying rules of due propriety;
    And better yet to be alone;
    But both are ills when overdone.
    No animal had business where
    All grimly dwelt our hermit bear;
    Hence, bearish as he was, he grew
    Heart-sick, and long'd for something new.
    While he to sadness was addicted,
      An aged man, not far from there,
    Was by the same disease afflicted.
      A garden was his favourite care,--
      Sweet Flora's priesthood, light and fair,
    And eke Pomona's--ripe and red
    The presents that her fingers shed.
    These two employments, true, are sweet
    When made so by some friend discreet.
    The gardens, gaily as they look,
    Talk not, (except in this my book;)
    So, tiring of the deaf and dumb,
    Our man one morning left his home
      Some company to seek,
      That had the power to speak.--
      The bear, with thoughts the same,
      Down from his mountain came;
    And in a solitary place,
    They met each other, face to face.
    It would have made the boldest tremble;
      What did our man? To play the Gascon
      The safest seem'd. He put the mask on,
    His fear contriving to dissemble.
    The bear, unused to compliment,
    Growl'd bluntly, but with good intent,
    'Come home with me.' The man replied:
    'Sir Bear, my lodgings, nearer by,
    In yonder garden you may spy,
    Where, if you'll honour me the while,
    We'll break our fast in rural style.
    I've fruits and milk,--unworthy fare,
    It may be, for a wealthy bear;
    But then I offer what I have.'
    The bear accepts, with visage grave,
    But not unpleased; and on their way,
    They grow familiar, friendly, gay.
    Arrived, you see them, side by side,
    As if their friendship had been tried.
    To a companion so absurd,
    Blank solitude were well preferr'd,
    Yet, as the bear scarce spoke a word,
    The man was left quite at his leisure
    To trim his garden at his pleasure.
    Sir Bruin hunted--always brought
    His friend whatever game he caught;
    But chiefly aim'd at driving flies--
  Those hold and shameless parasites,
  That vex us with their ceaseless bites--
    From off our gardener's face and eyes.
    One day, while, stretch'd upon the ground
    The old man lay, in sleep profound,
    A fly that buzz'd around his nose,--
    And bit it sometimes, I suppose,--
    Put Bruin sadly to his trumps.
    At last, determined, up he jumps;
    'I'll stop thy noisy buzzing now,'
    Says he; 'I know precisely how.'
      No sooner said than done.
      He seized a paving-stone;
    And by his modus operandi
    Did both the fly and man die.

    A foolish friend may cause more woe
    Than could, indeed, the wisest foe.

  Two friends, in Monomotapa,
    Had all their interests combined.
    Their friendship, faithful and refined,
  Our country can't exceed, do what it may.
    One night, when potent Sleep had laid
    All still within our planet's shade,
    One of the two gets up alarm'd,
      Runs over to the other's palace,
      And hastily the servants rallies.
    His startled friend, quick arm'd,
  With purse and sword his comrade meets,
      And thus right kindly greets:--
    'Thou seldom com'st at such an hour;
  I take thee for a man of sounder mind
  Than to abuse the time for sleep design'd.
    Hast lost thy purse, by Fortune's power?
  Here's mine. Hast suffer'd insult, or a blow,
  I've here my sword--to avenge it let us go.'
    'No,' said his friend, 'no need I feel
    Of either silver, gold, or steel;
    I thank thee for thy friendly zeal.
    In sleep I saw thee rather sad,
    And thought the truth might be as bad.
    Unable to endure the fear,
    That cursed dream has brought me here.'

  Which think you, reader, loved the most!
  If doubtful this, one truth may be proposed:
  There's nothing sweeter than a real friend:
        Not only is he prompt to lend--
    An angler delicate, he fishes
    The very deepest of your wishes,
    And spares your modesty the task
    His friendly aid to ask.
    A dream, a shadow, wakes his fear,
    When pointing at the object dear.[18]

    A goat, a sheep, and porker fat,
      All to the market rode together.
    Their own amusement was not that
      Which caused their journey thither.
  Their coachman did not mean to 'set them down'
  To see the shows and wonders of the town.
      The porker cried, in piercing squeals,
      As if with butchers at his heels.
      The other beasts, of milder mood,
      The cause by no means understood.
      They saw no harm, and wonder'd why
      At such a rate the hog should cry.
      'Hush there, old piggy!' said the man,
      'And keep as quiet as you can.
      What wrong have you to squeal about,
      And raise this dev'lish, deaf'ning shout?
      These stiller persons at your side
      Have manners much more dignified.
            Pray, have you heard
            A single word
      Come from that gentleman in wool?
      That proves him wise.' 'That proves him fool!'
          The testy hog replied;
            'For did he know
            To what we go,
      He'd cry almost to split his throat;
      So would her ladyship the goat.
      They only think to lose with ease,
      The goat her milk, the sheep his fleece:
      They're, maybe, right; but as for me,
      This ride is quite another matter.
      Of service only on the platter,
      My death is quite a certainty.
      Adieu, my dear old piggery!'
      The porker's logic proved at once
      Himself a prophet and a dunce.

      Hope ever gives a present ease,
        But fear beforehand kills:
      The wisest he who least foresees
            Inevitable ills.

        I had the Phrygian quit,
        Charm'd with Italian wit;[21]
        But a divinity
        Would on Parnassus see
        A fable more from me.
        Such challenge to refuse,
        Without a good excuse,
        Is not the way to use
        Divinity or muse.
          Especially to one
        Of those who truly are,
        By force of being fair,
        Made queens of human will.
          A thing should not be done
        In all respects so ill.
        For, be it known to all,
        From Sillery the call
        Has come for bird, and beast,
        And insects, to the least;
        To clothe their thoughts sublime
        In this my simple rhyme.
        In saying Sillery,
        All's said that need to be.
        Her claim to it so good,
          Few fail to give her place
          Above the human race:
        How could they, if they would?

        Now come we to our end:--
          As she opines my tales
        Are hard to comprehend--
            For even genius fails
        Some things to understand--
        So let us take in hand
          To make unnecessary,
          For once, a commentary.
  Come shepherds now,--and rhyme we afterwards
  The talk between the wolves and fleecy herds.

      To Amaranth, the young and fair,
      Said Thyrsis, once, with serious air,--
    'O, if you knew, like me, a certain ill,
      With which we men are harm'd,
      As well as strangely charm'd,
  No boon from Heaven your heart could like it fill!
    Please let me name it in your ear,--
    A harmless word,--you need not fear.
  Would I deceive you, you, for whom I bear
  The tenderest sentiments that ever were?'
      Then Amaranth replied,
  'What is its name? I beg you, do not hide'
  ''Tis LOVE.'--' The word is beautiful! reveal
  Its signs and symptoms, how it makes one feel.'--
  'Its pains are ecstacies. So sweet its stings,
  The nectar-cups and incense-pots of kings,
  Compared, are flat, insipid things.
    One strays all lonely in the wood--
    Leans silent o'er the placid flood,
      And there with great complacency,
      A certain face can see--
    'Tis not one's own--but image fair,
                    Retreating,
                    Fleeting,
                    Meeting,
                    Greeting,
        Following everywhere.
      For all the rest of human kind,
      One is as good, in short, as blind.
    There is a shepherd wight, I ween,
    Well known upon the village green,
  Whose voice, whose name, whose turning of the hinge
  Excites upon the cheek a richer tinge--
  The thought of whom is signal for a sigh--
  The breast that heaves it knows not why--
      Whose face the maiden fears to see,
      Yet none so welcome still as he.'--
      Here Amaranth cut short his speech:
    'O! O! is that the evil which you preach?
    To me I think it is no stranger;
    I must have felt its power and danger.'
  Here Thrysis thought his end was gain'd,
  When further thus the maid explain'd:
      ''Tis just the very sentiment
      Which I have felt for Clidamant!'
      The other, vex'd and mortified,
      Now bit his lips, and nearly died.

    Like him are multitudes, who when
  Their own advancement they have meant,
    Have play'd the game of other men.

      The lion's consort died:
      Crowds, gather'd at his side,
      Must needs console the prince,
      And thus their loyalty evince
      By compliments of course;
      Which make affliction worse.
      Officially he cites
      His realm to funeral rites,
      At such a time and place;
      His marshals of the mace
      Would order the affair.
      Judge you if all came there.
      Meantime, the prince gave way
      To sorrow night and day.
      With cries of wild lament
      His cave he well-nigh rent.
    And from his courtiers far and near,
    Sounds imitative you might hear.

      The court a country seems to me,
    Whose people are, no matter what,--
    Sad, gay, indifferent, or not,--
      As suits the will of majesty;
      Or, if unable so to be,
      Their task it is to seem it all--
      Chameleons, monkeys, great and small.
  'Twould seem one spirit serves a thousand bodies--
  A paradise, indeed, for soulless noddies.

            But to our tale again:
      The stag graced not the funeral train;
      Of tears his cheeks bore not a stain;
      For how could such a thing have been,
      When death avenged him on the queen,
      Who, not content with taking one,
      Had choked to death his wife and son?
      The tears, in truth, refused to run.
      A flatterer, who watch'd the while,
      Affirm'd that he had seen him smile.
      If, as the wise man somewhere saith,
      A king's is like a lion's wrath,
      What should King Lion's be but death?
      The stag, however, could not read;
      Hence paid this proverb little heed,
      And walk'd, intrepid, to'ards the throne;
      When thus the king, in fearful tone:
        'Thou caitiff of the wood!
      Presum'st to laugh at such a time?
      Joins not thy voice the mournful chime?
        We suffer not the blood
      Of such a wretch profane
      Our sacred claws to stain.
      Wolves, let a sacrifice be made,
      Avenge your mistress' awful shade.'
        'Sire,' did the stag reply,
      The time for tears is quite gone by;
      For in the flowers, not far from here,
      Your worthy consort did appear;
      Her form, in spite of my surprise,
      I could not fail to recognise.
        "My friend," said she, "beware
      Lest funeral pomp about my bier,
        When I shall go with gods to share,
      Compel thine eye to drop a tear.
          With kindred saints I rove
          In the Elysian grove,
          And taste a sort of bliss
          Unknown in worlds like this.
      Still, let the royal sorrow flow
      Its proper season here below;
            'Tis not unpleasing, I confess."'
      The king and court scarce hear him out.
      Up goes the loud and welcome shout--
      'A miracle! an apotheosis!'
      And such at once the fashion is,
      So far from dying in a ditch,
      The stag retires with presents rich.

      Amuse the ear of royalty
      With pleasant dreams, and flattery,--
      No matter what you may have done,
      Nor yet how high its wrath may run,--
      The bait is swallow'd--object won.

  One's own importance to enhance,
    Inspirited by self-esteem,
  Is quite a common thing in France;
    A French disease it well might seem.
  The strutting cavaliers of Spain
  Are in another manner vain.
  Their pride has more insanity;
  More silliness our vanity.
  Let's shadow forth our own disease--
  Well worth a hundred tales like these.

  A rat, of quite the smallest size,
  Fix'd on an elephant his eyes,
  And jeer'd the beast of high descent
  Because his feet so slowly went.
  Upon his back, three stories high,
  There sat, beneath a canopy,
  A certain sultan of renown,
    His dog, and cat, and concubine,
    His parrot, servant, and his wine,
  All pilgrims to a distant town.
  The rat profess'd to be amazed
  That all the people stood and gazed
  With wonder, as he pass'd the road,
  Both at the creature and his load.
  'As if,' said he, 'to occupy
  A little more of land or sky
  Made one, in view of common sense,
  Of greater worth and consequence!
  What see ye, men, in this parade,
  That food for wonder need be made?
  The bulk which makes a child afraid?
  In truth, I take myself to be,
  In all aspects, as good as he.'
  And further might have gone his vaunt;
    But, darting down, the cat
    Convinced him that a rat
  Is smaller than an elephant.

    On death we mortals often run,
    Just by the roads we take to shun.

    A father's only heir, a son,
    Was over-loved, and doted on
    So greatly, that astrology
    Was question'd what his fate might be.
    The man of stars this caution gave--
      That, until twenty years of age,
      No lion, even in a cage,
    The boy should see,--his life to save.
    The sire, to silence every fear
    About a life so very dear,
    Forbade that any one should let
    His son beyond his threshold get.
    Within his palace walls, the boy
    Might all that heart could wish enjoy--
    Might with his mates walk, leap, and run,
    And frolic in the wildest fun.
    When come of age to love the chase,
      That exercise was oft depicted
    To him as one that brought disgrace,
      To which but blackguards were addicted.
    But neither warning nor derision
    Could change his ardent disposition.
    The youth, fierce, restless, full of blood,
    Was prompted by the boiling flood
    To love the dangers of the wood.
    The more opposed, the stronger grew
    His mad desire. The cause he knew,
    For which he was so closely pent;
      And as, where'er he went,
    In that magnificent abode,
    Both tapestry and canvas show'd
    The feats he did so much admire,
    A painted lion roused his ire.
    'Ah, monster!' cried he, in his rage,
    'Tis you that keep me in my cage.'
      With that, he clinch'd his fist,
      To strike the harmless beast--
      And did his hand impale
      Upon a hidden nail!
        And thus this cherish'd head,
      For which the healing art
      But vainly did its part,
        Was hurried to the dead,
      By caution blindly meant
      To shun that sad event.

    The poet Aeschylus, 'tis said,
    By much the same precaution bled.
        A conjuror foretold
    A house would crush him in its fall;--
        Forth sallied he, though old,
    From town and roof-protected hall,
      And took his lodgings, wet or dry,
      Abroad, beneath the open sky.
      An eagle, bearing through the air
      A tortoise for her household fare,
    Which first she wish'd to break,
    The creature dropp'd, by sad mistake,
      Plump on the poet's forehead bare,
    As if it were a naked rock--
    To Aeschylus a fatal shock!

      From these examples, it appears,
    This art, if true in any wise,
      Makes men fulfil the very fears
    Engender'd by its prophecies.
      But from this charge I justify,
      By branding it a total lie.
      I don't believe that Nature's powers
      Have tied her hands or pinion'd ours,
      By marking on the heavenly vault
      Our fate without mistake or fault.
      That fate depends upon conjunctions
    Of places, persons, times, and tracks,
      And not upon the functions
    Of more or less of quacks.
  A king and clown beneath one planet's nod
  Are born; one wields a sceptre, one a hod.
  But it is Jupiter that wills it so!
      And who is he?[23] A soulless clod.
  How can he cause such different powers to flow
      Upon the aforesaid mortals here below?
      And how, indeed, to this far distant ball
      Can he impart his energy at all?--
      How pierce the ether deeps profound,
      The sun and globes that whirl around?
      A mote might turn his potent ray
      For ever from its earthward way.
      Will find, it, then, in starry cope,
      The makers of the horoscope?
  The war[24] with which all Europe's now afflicted--
  Deserves it not by them to've been predicted?
      Yet heard we not a whisper of it,
      Before it came, from any prophet.
      The suddenness of passion's gush,
      Of wayward life the headlong rush,--
      Permit they that the feeble ray
      Of twinkling planet, far away,
    Should trace our winding, zigzag course?
    And yet this planetary force,
      As steady as it is unknown,
      These fools would make our guide alone--
    Of all our varied life the source!
      Such doubtful facts as I relate--
      The petted child's and poet's fate--
      Our argument may well admit.
        The blindest man that lives in France,
      The smallest mark would doubtless hit--
        Once in a thousand times--by chance.

  Dame Nature, our respected mother,
  Ordains that we should aid each other.

  The ass this ordinance neglected,
  Though not a creature ill-affected.
  Along the road a dog and he
  One master follow'd silently.
  Their master slept: meanwhile, the ass
  Applied his nippers to the grass,
  Much pleased in such a place to stop,
  Though there no thistle he could crop.
  He would not be too delicate,
  Nor spoil a dinner for a plate,
  Which, but for that, his favourite dish,
  Were all that any ass could wish.

    'My dear companion,' Towser said,--
  ''Tis as a starving dog I ask it,--
  Pray lower down your loaded basket,
    And let me get a piece of bread.'
  No answer--not a word!--indeed,
  The truth was, our Arcadian steed[26]
  Fear'd lest, for every moment's flight,
  His nimble teeth should lose a bite.
  At last, 'I counsel you,' said he, 'to wait
    Till master is himself awake,
    Who then, unless I much mistake,
  Will give his dog the usual bait.'
  Meanwhile, there issued from the wood
  A creature of the wolfish brood,
  Himself by famine sorely pinch'd.
  At sight of him the donkey flinch'd,
  And begg'd the dog to give him aid.
  The dog budged not, but answer made,--
  'I counsel thee, my friend, to run,
  Till master's nap is fairly done;
  There can, indeed, be no mistake,
  That he will very soon awake;
  Till then, scud off with all your might;
  And should he snap you in your flight,
  This ugly wolf,--why, let him feel
  The greeting of your well-shod heel.
  I do not doubt, at all, but that
  Will be enough to lay him flat.'
    But ere he ceased it was too late;
    The ass had met his cruel fate.

    Thus selfishness we reprobate.

    A trading Greek, for want of law,
    Protection bought of a pashaw;
    And like a nobleman he paid,
    Much rather than a man of trade--
    Protection being, Turkish-wise,
    A costly sort of merchandise.
    So costly was it, in this case,
  The Greek complain'd, with tongue and face.
      Three other Turks, of lower rank,
    Would guard his substance as their own,
      And all draw less upon his bank,
    Than did the great pashaw alone.
    The Greek their offer gladly heard,
    And closed the bargain with a word.
    The said pashaw was made aware,
    And counsel'd, with a prudent care
    These rivals to anticipate,
    By sending them to heaven's gate,
    As messengers to Mahomet--
    Which measure should he much delay,
    Himself might go the self-same way,
    By poison offer'd secretly,
    Sent on, before his time, to be
    Protector to such arts and trades
    As flourish in the world of shades.
    On this advice, the Turk--no gander--
    Behaved himself like Alexander.[28]
    Straight to the merchant's, firm and stable,
    He went, and took a seat at table.
    Such calm assurance there was seen,
    Both in his words and in his mien,
    That e'en that weasel-sighted Grecian
    Could not suspect him of suspicion.
  'My friend,' said he, 'I know you've quit me,
  And some think caution would befit me,
    Lest to despatch me be your plan:
    But, deeming you too good a man
      To injure either friends or foes
      With poison'd cups or secret blows,
    I drown the thought, and say no more.
      But, as regards the three or four
        Who take my place,
        I crave your grace
      To listen to an apologue.

      'A shepherd, with a single dog,
          Was ask'd the reason why
      He kept a dog, whose least supply
      Amounted to a loaf of bread
      For every day. The people said
      He'd better give the animal
      To guard the village seignior's hall;
      For him, a shepherd, it would be
      A thriftier economy
      To keep small curs, say two or three,
      That would not cost him half the food,
      And yet for watching be as good.
      The fools, perhaps, forgot to tell
      If they would fight the wolf as well.
      The silly shepherd, giving heed,
      Cast off his dog of mastiff breed,
      And took three dogs to watch his cattle,
      Which ate far less, but fled in battle.
      His flock such counsel lived to rue,
      As doubtlessly, my friend, will you.
      If wise, my aid again you'll seek--'
      And so, persuaded, did the Greek.

      Not vain our tale, if it convinces
        Small states that 'tis a wiser thing
        To trust a single powerful king,
      Than half a dozen petty princes.