The poetical works of John Godfrey Saxe :: :: University of Virginia Library

Quoth Sleep (whose face, though twice as fair,
Was strangely like the other's,—
So like, in sooth, that anywhere
They might have passed for brothers):

“A busy life is mine, I trow;
Would I were omnipresent!
So fast and far have I to go;
And yet my work is pleasant.

“I cast my potent poppies forth,
And lo!—the cares that cumber
The toiling, suffering sons of Earth
Are drowned in sweetest slumber.

“The student rests his weary brain,
And waits the fresher morrow;
I ease the patient of his pain,
The mourner of his sorrow.

“I bar the gates where cares abide,
And open Pleasure's portals
To visioned joys; thus, far and wide,
I earn the praise of mortals.”

“Alas!” replied the other, “mine
Is not a task so grateful;
Howe'er to mercy I incline,
To mortals I am hateful.

“They call me ‘Kill-joy,’ every one,
And speak in sharp detraction
Of all I do; yet have I done
Full many a kindly action.”

“True!” answered Sleep, “but all the while
Thine office is berated,
'T is only by the weak and vile
That thou art feared and hated.

“And though thy work on earth has given
To all a shade of sadness;
Consider—every saint in heaven
Remembers thee with gladness!”

THE GOLD-FINGERED BRAHMIN.

A HINDOO TALE.

A famous merchant, who had made
A fine estate by honest trade
With foreign countries,—by mischance
(The failure of a firm in France
And several cargoes lost at sea),
Became as poor as poor could be;
Of all his riches saving naught,
Except, indeed, the pleasing thought
Of generous deeds in better days,
Which some remembered to his praise.
Of these, a Brahmin, who had known
The merchant ere his wealth had flown,
And how he helped the sick and poor,
Entered, one day, his open door,
And said, “My friend! I know you well;
Your former state; and what befell

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That all was lost; and well I know
Your noble life, and fain would show
(Since I have power—Heaven be adored!)
How all your wealth may be restored.
Now please attend: whene'er you see
A Brahmin who resembles me
In looks and dress (and such an one
Will enter here at set of sun),
Just strike him on the forehead—thrice;
And lo! his fingers, in a trice,
Will turn to solid gold! Of these
Cut off as many as you please
(The ten will make a goodly sum),
And thus the Brahmin-form will come
Whenever you have need of gold.
Consider well what I have told!”

With this the Brahmin went away,
And, sure enough, at close of day,
A stranger, like the other, came,—
So like, indeed, he seemed the same,—
And sat him down; and, quick as thought,
The blows are struck, the charm is wrought,
And all his fingers turn to gold!
O wondrous sight!—And now behold
The happy merchant rich once more
As in his thrifty days of yore!

A barber, curious to know
Whence all this sudden wealth might flow,
By watching morning, noon, and night,
The magic Brahmin brought to light;
At last, he thought beyond a doubt
He 'd found the golden secret out;
And straight he called three Brahmins in,
And bade them sit: “For so I'll win,”
The fellow reasoned, “thrice as much
As if a single man I touch:
The more the men, the more the gold!
I'll have as much as I can hold
In all my pockets, at a blow!”
But when he struck the Brahmins, lo!
They turned not into golden ores,
But turned—the barber out of doors!
And, angry at his scurvy trick,
Each beat him soundly with a stick!

MORAL.

To all who read this pleasant tale,
The barber's fate may serve to teach,
How sadly imitators fail
Who aim at things beyond their reach!

THE FARMER AND THE MAGIC RING.

A FAIRY TALE.

In grateful reward of some generous thing
That an honest young farmer had done
To a wandering Fairy, she gave him a ring
That was set with a magical stone.

“Pray take it, and wear it as long as you live,”
Said the Fay, as the present she gave;
“'T is a wonderful ring, and is potent to give
Whatever its wearer may crave.

“One wish, and no more, it is certain to bring;
Whatever you have in your thought,
You have only to wish,—with a turn of the ring,—
And presto! the marvel is wrought!”

Now, what should he wish?—it was not very clear,
And so he consulted his spouse;
Who quickly replied, “Good gracious! my dear!
Just wish for a couple of cows!”

“Nay,—nay! that were foolish!” the farmer replies;
“The cows I can earn in a year,
By the work of my hands; pray, let us be wise,
And wish to some purpose, my dear!”

“Well,—wish for more land!” said the voluble dame;
“There 's a meadow adjoining our farm
You long have been wanting; that surely were game
Well worthy your magical charm!”

“Nay,—nay!” said the farmer; “that, too, I can buy
In a couple of years, at the most;

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Something better than that we must find ere we try
What virtue this bauble may boast.

“One wish, recollect, is allowed,—and no more;
In waiting there 's surely no harm;
And then, how the fault we should ever deplore
If we foolishly squander the charm!”

And so—it is told—to the day when he died
By talent and labor alone
The farmer grew wealthy, nor ever had tried
A wish with the magical stone!

MORAL.

“O fool of a farmer!” how many will say,
“Who, having so potent a ring,
Just stupidly threw the advantage away!—
Was ever so silly a thing?”—
But, from wishing amiss, what mortal can tell
What evil might chance to befall?
Or know that in wishing his choice were as well
As not to have chosen at all?

THE GRUMBLING PEASANTS.

A ROMAN TALE.

One summer's day—the tale is told—
An honest Peasant, poor and old,
Worked in the meadow with his wife,
When thus she spoke: “Well, on my life!
'T is precious hard that you and I
Must sweat beneath the burning sky,
Like galley slaves, for paltry pay,
And all because—alas the day!—
Of Adam's fall! But for his sin
And Eve's, how happy we had been!”
“True!” said the Peasant; “I believe,
Had I been Adam, you been Eve,
No foolish fancies would have come
To drive us from our Eden-home;
But all the race, this very day,
Had in the Garden been at play!”
The Count, their master, standing near
(Though quite unnoticed), chanced to hear
Their wise discourse; and, laughing, said:
“Well, my good friends, suppose instead
Of Paradise, my mansion there
Were yours to-day; with princely fare
For food to eat and wine to drink,
Would that content ye, do ye think?”

“Ah! that were Paradise indeed!
What more,” they cried, “could mortals need?”
“Well, we shall see,” the Count replied;
“But that your virtue may be tried,
Remember, on the table, served
With many a dish, there 's one reserved;
Partake of every one you see
Save that, which (like the Fatal Tree)
Just in the centre I will place.
Beware of that! lest Adam's case
Should be your own, and straight you go
Back to your sickle, rake, and hoe!”
Soon to the castle they were led,
And by a table richly spread,
As for a bacchanal carouse,
Behold the Peasant and his spouse!
“See!” said the woman, “what a treat!
Far more, I'm sure, than we can eat;
With such excess we well may spare
The dish that 's in the centre there!”
“Who cares for that?” the Peasant said;
(While eagerly the couple fed
From all the plates that round them lay.)
“My dear! I would n't look that way!”
“No harm in looking!” said the wife;
“I would n't touch it for my life.”
But in their minds, at length, there grew
A strong desire for something new;
Whereat the woman said, “I wish
I knew what 's hidden in that dish?”
“And, to be sure,” the man replied,
“Merely to look was not denied!”
“And even touching it,” said she,
“Were no great harm, it seems to me;
Of course, I will not lift the lid;
And who would know it if I did?”
She suits the action to the word,
When from the dish a little bird
(The Count had slyly hidden there)
Came rushing forth into the air,
And through the open window flew;
And so it was the master knew
What they had done. “Away!” he said;
“Back to the field and earn your bread

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As you were wont,—and ne'er complain
Of Adam and of Eve again!”

THE LITTLE GLASS SHOE.

A NORTHLAND FAIRY TALE.

“Ho! ho! ha! ha!—what is it I view?”
John Wilde, the plowman, cried,
As he hit his foot on a little glass shoe
That lay on the mountain-side;
“Some fay has lost it, there 's never a doubt,
And ah! how lucky for me!
The owner will soon be roaming about
To find where his shoe may be.
And so,” said John, “I'll carry it home,
That 's just what I will do,
And he will pay me a pretty sum
Who buys this little glass shoe!”
And he spread the story far and near,
For many a mile around,
That the fairy folk might surely hear
Who the little glass shoe had found.
And soon to John a merchant came,
Who said he had heard the news;
And would the plowman sell the same
To a dealer in little glass shoes?
And he offered John a pretty price
For the shoe that he had found;
But John replied it was much too nice
To go for a hundred pound.
Then the merchant offered a hundred more,
But the plowman still said, “Nay;
The man who buys my shoe,” he swore,
“Will dearly have to pay.
There 's not so pretty a shoe on earth
To cover a lady's toes;
And then I happen to know its worth
Far better than you suppose.
The shoe is one of wondrous price
(That nobody can deny),
And yet, perchance, there 's some device
May serve the shoe to buy.
If you are able to show me, now,
When I am plowing my field,
That every furrow behind my plow
A shining ducat may yield,—
Why, then to you the shoe I'll give,
Else I will keep it myself,—
For an ornament, as long as I live,
To grace my mantel-shelf!”
And so it was the fairy bought
('T was he in a merchant's guise!)
His own glass shoe, and, quick as thought,
Away to his home he hies.
And off went John, with much delight,
As fast as he could go,
By trial to prove that very night
If the charm would work or no.
And he found the fairy's word was true,
As he promised in the trade;
For a shining ducat came to view
In every furrow he made!
And again next morning off he went—
Nor scarce to eat could stop—
To plow again,—he was so intent
To gather his golden crop.
And so he plowed, and plowed, and plowed,
And scarce for slumber ceased;
No wonder John was growing proud,
So fast his wealth increased!
And still he plowed by day and night,
When none were looking on,
Till he seemed, indeed, a sorry wight,
He grew so lean and wan!—
And still, when none his work might view,
He plowed by night and day;
And still the more his riches grew,
The more he pined away.
Until, at last, his work was stopped,
And the plowman, where was he?—
Down in the furrow, alas! he dropped,
As dead as dead could be!

MORAL.

Though good is gold, to have and hold,
My story makes it clear
Who sells himself for sordid pelf
Has bought it much too dear!

THE ROSE AND THE FAIRY.

AN ORIENTAL TALE.

And tiny Fairy, of the sort
Who love in flowery fields to sport,
One dewy eve espied a Rose
So fair and fragrant, straight he goes
And nestles in her bosom; dips
Deep in her leaves his elfin lips,
And sucks the virgin honey thence;
Regaling thus his dainty sense
Of taste and odor rare, until

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The Sybarite has drunk his fill!
“Sweet blossom!” sighed the grateful Fay,
“Thy bounty I would fain repay.
The fairest flowers that deck the field
Or garden, all to thee must yield
In loveliness; but that the Queen
Among her subjects may be seen
E'en in the dark and envious night
(That hides thy beauty from the sight),
This little Lantern shall be thine
To show, at night, thy form divine!”
With modest thanks the Rose receives
The Glow-worm's light upon her leaves,
Then turns to list a thrilling lay
That witched her maiden heart away!
For Philomela filled the grove,
Just then, with such a song of love
For “Rosa, fairest of the fair,”
The maid was won, ere half aware
The singer, while he bent to bless
The trembler with a soft caress,
Had snatched her lamp,—the rogue! and gone
And left her in the dark—alone!

L'ENVOI.

The Glow-worm lantern (we are told
By wise expositors) is gold;
Which serves to set in fairest light
The charms that else were lost to sight.
Moreover, it is plain to see
The cunning Nightingale is he,
The smooth-tongued knave, whose wicked art
For lucre cheats the loving heart,
That, like poor Rose, is doomed to prove
How Craft may feign the voice of Love!

THE TWO SPARROWS.

FROM THE FRENCH.

Two sparrows, votaries of Love,
The Mars and Venus of the grove,
Had been, for years, such constant mates,
You would have sworn the very Fates
Were impotent to break the bond
That joined a pair so true and fond.
Together still they sought their food;
Together played in field or wood;
Together built the cosey nest
That served for shelter and for rest;
Together fought the feathered foes
With whom they came to words or blows;
In fine, they lived, as lovers ought,
Without a single selfish thought,
Save such as might concern the twain,
Their mutual joy or mutual pain.

At last, one day, they chanced to get
Their feet entangled in a net,
(A vagrant boy had spread the snare
To catch and keep the pretty pair!)
And soon, despite their noisy rage,
They both were prisoned in a cage;
Where—much I grieve the tale to tell—
A sorry scandal now befell:
They scold, recriminate, and fight,
Like arrant foes, from morn till night;
Until, at length, the wretched birds
In cruel acts and bitter words
The very furies emulate,—
And all their love is turned to hate!

L'ENVOI.

Full many a couple come to strife
And hatred in connubial life,
Whose days of courtship promised fair
As those of this unhappy pair;
But, like the sparrows in my tale,
When trouble comes, their tempers fail;
They blame each other for the fate
Which both should strive to mitigate;
With patience helping to endure
The ills that kindness fails to cure!

LOVE AND CARE.

AN ALLEGORY.

A youth was traveling on a summer's day,
When suddenly a stranger
Appeared before him, saying, “Sir your way
Is rough and full of danger;

“And I—you 've heard of me; my name is Care—
Intend, for your protection,
To dog your steps, and watch you, everywhere,
With keen but kind inspection!”

A surly wight he seemed; and so the lad,
Who wished not his assistance,

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Stept off with quickened pace; while, slow and sad,
Care followed at a distance,

And soon the youth espies along the way,
Tripping in wanton measure,
A dashing damsel, very fine and gay;
Her name (she said, was Pleasure.

“Come! follow me!” the merry maiden cried,
With peals of silver laughter;
“I will,—I will!” the joyful youth replied,
And gayly followed after.

Alas! she led him such a crazy dance,
He presently grew tired,—
And stopt, at length,—unwilling to advance
Through paths so much bemired.

To Pleasure's ways no longer now inclined,
He offered small resistance
When Care came up (for he was close behind)
And tendered his assistance.

But soon escaping from his hated guide,
He spied a pensive maiden
Of wondrous beauty,—by a fountain's side,—
With sprigs of myrtle laden.

“O Love!” he cried, (for truly it was she!)
“I beg your kind endeavor
From this detested Care to set me free,—
And keep me so forever!”

“Nay!” said the maid; “and yet my votaries swear,
My charms are so beguiling,
That in my cheering presence even Care
Has got a trick of smiling!”

DEATH INSURANCE.

A FABLE.

A mountebank whose life displayed
Uncommon genius in the trade
Of getting much while giving naught
(Except a deal of knavish thought),
Gave out through all the country round
That he the magic art had found
Of teaching Eloquence to all
Who chose to pay, (the fee was small!)
Indeed, the rogue declared, his plan
Would educate the dullest man,
Nay, e'en a horse or ox or ass,
Till he in speaking would surpass
Immortal Tully! and would show
All modern arts that lawyers know,
Besides, to grace a brilliant speech
“All this I undertake to teach
The merest dunce,—or else,” he said,
“The forfeiture shall be my head!”

Of course so marvelous a thing
Soon, through the courtiers, reached the king;
Who, having called the charlatan
Into his presence, thus began:
“Well, Sir Professor, I have heard
Your boasts, and take you at your word.
Between us be it now agreed
That to my stable you proceed
At once, and thence a donkey take,
Of whom—'t is bargained—you shall make
An orator of fluent speech;
Or, failing thus the brute to teach,
You shall be hanged till you are dead!”
“A bargain, Sire!” the fellow said;
“And ten years' time shall be allowed;
It is but fair.” The monarch bowed.
“And now my fee be pleased to pay!”
Then takes the gold and goes away.

A courtier whom he chanced to meet,
A fortnight later, in the street,
Began the fellow to deride
About his bargain,—“Faith!” he cried,
“A fine agreement you have made!
I mean to see the forfeit paid;
The art of rhetoric to teach,
Of course you'll make a gallows speech!”

“Laugh as you may, my merry man!”
Replied the cunning charlatan;
“Although my wisdom you may flout,
I know quite well what I'm about.
If in the years allotted I,
The king, or ass, should chance to die,
Pray, don't you see, my giddy friend,
The bargain finds a speedy end?
My fee was but a premium paid
To one in the insurance trade.
Of one or other of the three
Ten years are pretty sure to see

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The epitaph,—as chances fall;
I take the hazard,—that is all!”

THE CADI'S STRATAGEM.

A TURKISH TALE.

A pious widow's cottage chanced to stand
Hard by the Calif's palace; and he sought,
For his own use, to buy her bit of land:
But all in vain,—the land could not be bought.

“It was my husband's home,” the woman said,
“Who, dying, left it to his loving wife;
Here will I dwell, in honor of the dead,
Nor with it part until I part with life!”

The haughty Calif's anger knew no bound,
That thus the dame withstood him to his face;
By force he razed her cottage to the ground,
And built a grand pavilion in its place.

Straight to the Cadi, then, the widow goes,
And asks for justice at his Honor's hand:
“Leave me awhile,” the Cadi said, and rose;
“Allah is great, and hears your just demand.”

Then with an empty sack, he took his way
To the pavilion, where he chanced to meet
The Calif at the door. “Great Sire! I pray
A little of the earth beneath your feet;

“Enough to fill,” the Cadi said, “this sack.”
“'T is granted!” said the Calif, laughing loud.
“Now, please to put the load upon my back,
Most potent Prince!”—and reverently bowed.

“Nay,” said the Calif, “I should surely fail
Should I essay to lift a load so great;
For such a task my strength would not avail;
A porter would be crushed beneath the weight!”

“Prince of Believers!” said the Cadi, then,
“If this be even so, how wilt thou fare
In the great day of final judgment, when
The weight of all this land thou hast to bear?”

The Calif, stricken with remorse, exclaimed,
“Allah is Allah!—be his name adored!
For wit and wisdom thou art justly famed;
This day shall see the widow's land restored.

“And for the wrong I did the woman's land,
In tearing down her house, I thus atone:
This fine pavilion in its place shall stand;
For, with the soil, the building is her own!”

THE KING'S ASTROLOGER.

A HISTORICAL INCIDENT.

Few hearts, however brave they may appear,
Are wholly free from superstitious fear;
Thirteen at table, or the salt upset,
A broken looking-glass,—have served to fret
With anxious boding many a mind too proud
Its secret terrors to confess aloud.
A veteran soldier has been known to quail
At the white phantom in a nursery-tale;

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Or list the “death-watch,” by the evening fire,
With fears that roaring guns could not inspire,
Though Science sought his quaking nerves to rule,
And calm-eyed Reason called the trembler “fool!”
And many a monarch, boastful of his power,
And proud to make his slavish minions cower
Beneath his royal frown, has been himself
The humblest slave of some imagined elf
Begot of Superstition's baleful night;
Some wicked gnome or diabolic sprite,
Malicious fairy or vindictive “wraith,”
Who, seeking to avenge man's broken faith
Or haughty scorn, sets all his plans awry,
Or blasts his harvests with an “evil eye!”

When Louis the Eleventh ruled in France,
His favorite Astrologer, by chance,
Or by predicting some unwelcome thing
Concerning state-affairs, displeased the king
So much, the angry monarch (Rumor saith)
Resolved to put the hated seer to death;
So, summoning the man, with this intent,
He mockingly demanded what it meant
That he who knew the mysteries of Fate,
And how of others' death to fix the date,
Should be so ignorant about his own?
The Seer, divining from his sneering tone
The monarch's purpose, answered, “I foresee,
Your Majesty, when that event will be;
My death will happen (so my Star assures)
Three days—precisely—in advance of yours!”

What was the monarch's answer? The report
Tells only this, that in the royal court
The Seer thenceforth was safely lodged, and there
To his life's end received the kindest care!

NO ADMITTANCE.

AN ORIENTAL TALE.

A wealthy Syrian—Abdallah by name—
Fell ill and died; and when his spirit came
Before the gate of heaven, the angel there
(Who stands with awful and majestic air
To guard the Elysian portal) softly said,
“Whence comest thou?” The Syrian bowed his head,
And answered, “From Aleppo.” “Very well,—
What wert thou?” asked the heavenly sentinel.
“A merchant.” “True; but tell me all the rest,”
Replied the angel, “all,—the worst and best;
From me—reflect—no act can be concealed!”
Whereat the merchant all his life revealed,
And nothing hid of aught that he had done:
How he had sailed beneath the Indian sun,
In quest of diamonds, and for yellow gold
To Northern Asia; how he bought and sold
By the Red Sea, and on the wondrous Nile,
And stormy Persian Gulf; and all the while
Had bravely striven to keep his conscience clear,
Though always buying cheap and selling dear,
As merchants use,—“And so I throve amain,”
He said, “for many a year,—nor all in vain
For public benefaction, since I gave
Freely for charity,—content to save
Enough for me and mine,—a handsome store,—
And that is all.” “Nay, there is something more,”
The angel said. “Of thy domestic life
Thou hast not spoken,—hadst thou not a wife?”
“Yes,” said the Syrian, with a sigh that spoke

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Of many a groan beneath the marriage yoke.
Whereat the angel said, “By God's rich grace,
Come in, poor suffering soul! and take thy place
Among the martyrs, and give Heaven thanks!”
Now, as he entered the celestial ranks,
Another soul approached the golden door,
Who, having heard all he who came before
Had spoken, and observed him entering in
The open portal, thought himself to win
Easy admittance; for when he had told
His history, like the other, he made bold
To add, “All this, Good Angel, is most true;
And, as for wives, I 've had no less than two!”
“Twice married!” said the angel, with a face
Of wrath and scorn,—“unfortunates have place
In heaven's blest mansions; but, by Reason's rules,
(So get thee hence!) there is no room for fools!”

THE STRAY CAMEL.

AN ARABIAN TALE.

A camel-driver, who had lost
His camel, chancing to accost
A wandering Arab in the way,
Said, “Sir! my beast has gone astray;
And went, I think, the road you came.”
“Pray,” said the stranger, “was he lame?”
“He was, indeed!” was the reply.
“And, tell me, had he lost an eye?”
“'T is even so!” “And one front tooth?”
“In faith!—you speak the simple truth!”
“And, for his load, was there a sack
Of honey on the camel's back?”
“There was, indeed!—now tell me, pray
(Of course he can't be far away),
Just when and where the brute you passed;
And was he going slow or fast?”
“Faith!” said the stranger, “on my word,
I know no more than I have heard
From your own lips! Nor in my way
Have I observed, for many a day,
A camel like the one you claim;
I swear it, in the Prophet's name!”

The camel-driver all in vain
Besought the Arab to explain;
He still insisted, as before,
That of the beast he knew no more
Than from the owner he had heard.
Whereat the camel-driver, stirred
With wrath, expressed his firm belief
This knowing Arab was a thief;
Then to the Cadi off he went,
And told the tale. His Honor sent,
And brought the stranger into court.
“You hear this worthy man's report,”
The Cadi said, “of what occurred;
And still you answer not a word,
Save that his beast you never saw.
Allah is great! and law is law!
How know you, then, that he was lame?”
“By this,—that where the camel came,
Upon the sand one footprint lagged,
Which showed one foot the camel dragged.”
“'T is well explained; now tell me why
You said the camel lacked an eye?
And from his jaw one tooth had lost?”
“By this,—that nowhere had he crossed
The road to browse the other side;
And, furthermore, I plainly spied
Where'er his teeth had chanced to pass,
A narrow line of standing grass,
Which showed, as clear as truth is truth,
The camel had one missing tooth!”
“And how about the honey?” “Well,—
It surely was n't hard to tell
The nature of the camel's load,
When, gathered all along the road,
A thousand bees”—“There, that will do,”
The Cadi said; “the case is through
And you 're discharged! But let me hint
(A lesson plain as any print),
A deal of trouble may arise
At times from being overwise!”

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THE FIVE KNAVES.

AN ORIENTAL TALE.

Once in a time, in Indostan,
A thief conceived a cunning plan
(So potent is the voice of Hope)
To save his throttle from the rope,
Though now the day was drawing nigh
When he by law was doomed to die.
He bade the jailer tell the King
He fain would show a wondrous thing,—
A precious secret fairly worth
The ear of any prince on earth.

And now the culprit, being led
Into the royal presence, said,
“This golden coin which here you see,
If planted, will become a tree
Whose fruit, increased a hundred-fold,
Will be—like this—the purest gold.
I pray your Majesty to try
If this be true before I die.”
With this, the King and courtiers went
Into the garden with intent
To plant the curious coin of gold;
But now, when all was ready, “Hold!”
Exclaimed the thief,—“this hand of mine
Would surely spoil our whole design.
The hand that plants the gold must be
(Else all is nought) entirely free
From stain of fraud; and so I pray
Your Gracious Majesty will lay
The seed in earth.” “Yes,—no,—in sooth”—
The King replied, “for in my youth
I pilfered from my sire; some stain,
For all my sorrow, may remain.
My good Prime Minister is here;
His hand, no doubt, is wholly clear
Of any taint.” “Nay,” he replied,
“That 's more than I can well decide;
As Tax-Receiver—now—I may
Have kept a trifle. So I pray
To be excused, for prudence' sake,
And let our Commissary take
The coin in hand. Sure that were best;
For he, no doubt, can stand the test.”
“Faith!” said the Commissary, “I
Would rather not. I can't deny
My good intent; but since I pay
Large sums of money every day
For soldiers, sailors, and a herd
Of spies,—I would n't give my word
I have not kept a small amount,
Not entered in my book account.
Since any error—e'en the least—
Would spoil the charm, pray let the Priest
Proceed to plant the coin of gold.”
“Nay, that I fear were over-bold;
Despite my prayers and pious zeal,”
Replied his Reverence, “I deal
In tithes and sacrificial dues;
And so I beg you will excuse
My sharing in a work like this
Where nothing must be done amiss.”

“Faith!” said the thief, “since no man here
(As we have learned) is wholly clear
Of knavish tricks, I ask you whether
We should not all be hung together?”

The monarch, laughing, made reply,
“Why, yes, if every rogue must die!
Well, since we five are knaves confest,
I pardon you,—and spare the rest!”

THE AMBITIOUS VINE.

AN APOLOGUE OF THE ALGIC INDIANS.

A vine that stood beside a thriving Oak
Grew weary of the labor
Of self-support, and thus she plainly spoke
Unto her stronger neighbor:—

“I prithee bend your handsome trunk to me,
My noble forest-brother;
That, mutually embracing, we may be
Supporters of each other.”

“Nay,” said the tree, “I was not made to bend;
I'm strong and self-reliant,
As oaks are wont,—but you, my pretty friend,
Are twenty times as pliant!

“So clasp your slender arms around me, dear;
And we will grow together,
High as yon azure cloud, nor ever fear
The roughest wind or weather!”

“Nay, nay,” replied the foolish Vine, “I hate
To seem so much your debtor:
You do the twining, now, and I'll be straight;
I 'd like it vastly better!”

162

“Nature wills otherwise,” the Oak replied,
“However you may grumble;
The moment such a silly plan were tried,
Together we should tumble!

“Come you to me; and, taking Nature's course,
We'll keep our proper places:
I to the twain will give my manly force,
And you your maiden graces.

“But if, perverse, you try to live alone,
With none to hold and cherish
Your slender form, before you 're fairly grown,
You certainly will perish.

“Or if, instead of fondly clinging fast
To one who would protect you,
You flirt with others,—all the trees at last
Will scornfully reject you.”

“I see,—I see!” exclaimed the musing Vine,
“The weaker must be nourished;”
Then clasped the oak with many a graceful twine,
And so they grew and flourished!

THYRSIS AND AMARANTH.

Thyrsis, enamored of a maid,—
Fair Amaranth,—a trick essayed
To test the way her fancy ran;
And thus the simple swain began:
“O Amy! if you only knew,
And, like myself, could feel it too,
A certain malady that harms
Young fellows, while it sweetly charms,
I'm sure you 'd wish your gentle breast
Were of the same disease possest.
Its name you may have chanced to hear;
Pray let me breathe it in your ear,—
'T is Love! my darling!—that 's the word!”
“'T is one,” quoth she, “that I have heard,
And think it pretty; pray reveal
Exactly how it makes you feel;
And tell me plainly all the signs
By which its presence one divines.”
“Ah!” said the boy, “its very woes
Are ecstasies!—the patient goes
With laggard step and longing looks,
And murmurs love to babbling brooks,
And all the while, in every place,
Sees naught but one bewitching face!
There is a shepherd-lad—suppose—
Whom some sweet village maiden knows.
She fears to see him; yet would she,
If she might choose, no other see;
If she but hears his voice or name,
Her cheeks are flushed with scarlet flame;
At thought of him she heaves a sigh,
Yet cannot guess the reason why”—
“Nay,—stop!” cries Amaranth, “I ween
I know the malady you mean!
Although I did n't know its name,
I warrant, now, 't is just the same
As that (I hope it is n't wrong!)
I 've felt for Cledamant so long!”

MORAL.

Poor Thyrsis! He was not the first,
Nor yet the latest, who has shown
A rival's interest may be nursed
By one who seeks to serve his own!

A DOUBLE DISTRESS.

A PERSIAN TALE.

That blessings lost, though hard to bear,
Are light when weighed with carking care,—
Some ill whose ever-goading spite
Affects us morning, noon, and night,—
Sadi, the Persian poet, shows
Most humorously. The story goes—
So sings the bard—that, on a time,
Somewhere within the Eastern clime,
A worthy gentleman, whose wife
Took sudden leave of him and life,
In deepest lamentation fell
For the dear dame whom long and well
The man had loved,—as well might be,—
For she was good, and fair to see,
And crowned with every winning grace
Of mind and soul to match her face.

What much his weight of woe in creased,
The mother of the dear deceased,

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A meddling beldame, old and cross,
Remained to help him mourn his loss.
From morn to night the vixen's tongue
He heard, and groaned; and still she clung
Leech-like unto the widowed spouse;
For, by the daughter's nuptial vows,
The woman said, it was agreed—
Dared he dispute it?—no, indeed!—
Her mother in the house should stay,
A guest—unto her dying day!
In vain the hapless man essayed
To buy her off; in vain portrayed
The pleasures of a trip to Rome;
She still “preferred to stay at home!”

One day, amidst the deafening din
Of angry tongues, some friends came in,
With sympathetic voice to pay
Condolence, in the common way;
And, hinting at his recent loss,
Hoped Heaven would help him bear his cross.
“Thanks!” said the mourner, with a sigh,
“My loss is great,—I can't deny;
But for affliction, I must say,
What God was pleased to take away
A less calamity I find
Than what He chose to leave behind!”

THE TWO KINGS.

AN ALLEGORY.

When mighty Jove had fashioned human kind,
And named the earth to be their dwelling-place
(So in an Eastern apologue we find),
He sent two ministers to rule the race.

He gave command to Pleasure and to Pain
(Of heavenly, one, and one of hellish birth):
“Henceforth, my minions, be it yours to reign
As sovereign lords o'er all the sons of earth.”

And soon it was agreed between the twain
A separate dominion would be best;
The vicious only should be ruled by Pain;
And Pleasure be the master of the rest.

A proper plan enough it seemed, at first;
But soon they found, despite each outward sign,
That—save, indeed, between the best and worst—
None less than Jove could fairly draw the line.

They found—to make discrimination nice—
To classify the race defied their skill:
The virtuous all had more or less of vice;
The vicious showed some sparks of virtue still.

The generous man was “fashed wi' worldly lust”;
The devotee was full of saintly pride;
The chaste was covetous; and none so just
But they had still some little sin to hide.

And, looking sharply at the darker part,
Not one among them all was wholly bad;
Here was a sot who had a generous heart,
And there a thief who saved a drowning lad.

Virtue and Vice!—how easily they trace
The larger forms of each; but to assign
Their just proportion in a special case,—
Who but the gods could safely draw the line?

And so it was agreed (lest strife befall
From such confusion) each, in turn, should reign:
Pleasure should have dominion over all;
And all, at times, should feel the rule of Pain.

And still, as erst, they rule the human race,—
Pleasure and Pain,—in short, alternate sway;

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And whichsoe'er may show his regal face,
We know his fellow is not far away!

JUPITER AND HIS CHILDREN.

A CLASSIC FABLE.

Once on sublime Olympus, when
Great Jove, the sire of gods and men,
Was looking down on this our Earth,
And marking the increasing dearth
Of pious deeds and noble lives,
While vice abounds and meanness thrives,—
He straight determined to efface
At one fell swoop the thankless race
Of human kind. “Go!” said the King
Unto his messenger, “and bring
The vengeful Furies: be it theirs,
Unmindful of their tears and prayers,
These wretches—hateful from their birth—
To wipe from off the face of earth!”
The message heard, with torch of flame
And reeking sword, Alecto came,
And by the beard of Pluto swore
The human race should be no more!

But Jove, relenting thus to see
The direst of the murderous three,
And hear her menace, bade her go
Back to the murky realms below.
“Be mine the cruel task!” he said,
And, at the word, a bolt he sped,
Which, falling in a desert place,
Left all unhurt the human race!
Grown bold and bolder, wicked men
Wax worse and worse, until again
The stench to high Olympus came,
And all the gods began to blame
The monarch's weak indulgence,—they
Would crush the knaves without delay!

At this, the Ruler of the air
Proceeds a tempest to prepare,
Which, dark and dire, he swiftly hurled
In raging fury on the world!
But not where human beings dwell
(So Jove provides) the tempest fell.

And still the sin and wickedness
Of men grew more, instead of less;
Whereat the gods declare, at length,
For thunderbolts of greater strength,
Which Vulcan soon, at Jove's command,
Wrought in his forge with dexterous hand.
Now from the smithy's glowing flame
Two different sorts of weapons came:
To hit the mark was one designed;
As sure to miss, the other kind.
The second sort the Thunderer threw,
Which not a human being slew;
But, roaring loudly, hurtled wide
On forest-top and mountain-side!

MORAL.

What means this ancient tale? That Jove
In wrath still felt a parent's love;
Whatever crimes he may have done,
The father yearns to spare the son.

NOUS ET VOUS.

A GALLIC FABLE.

As two young friends were walking out, one day
(So Florian has told),
They chanced to see, before them, in the way
A well-filled purse of gold.
“By Jove! a pretty prize for us!” cried Ned;
While Tom with hasty hand
Was pocketing the purse. “For us?” he said;
“I do not understand
Your meaning, sir; for me, sir! that 's the word!”
(Joy beaming in his face.)
“Considering how the incident occurred,
‘Us’ is n't in the case!”
“Well—be it so!” the other made reply,
“Although 't is hardly fair;
I am not anxious, sir,—indeed, not I,
Your treasure-trove to share!”
Just then, two robbers plainly they espied
In waiting to accost
Our travelers,—when Tom, a-tremble, cried,
“Ah! brother, we are lost!”
“We?” answered Ned. “Oh, we have naught to fear:
'T is you the rogues must face;
You,—you, my boy! To me 't is very clear
‘We’ is n't in the case!”
And at the word away the fellow ran.
When, rushing from the wood,

165

The thieves attacked the unresisting man,
Who, pale with terror, stood
The while they robbed him of his precious purse,
Too weak for flight or strife,—
No friend to aid him—and (oh sad reverse!)
In peril of his life!

MORAL.

So wags the world!—where oft the selfish “nous”
Seems fated to forget
The time may come when e'en the humblest “vous”
May pay a friendly debt.
The prosperous man who but himself regards
May chance to change his tone,
When Fortune leaves him to his losing cards,
Unpitied and alone!

THE FAIRY AND THE THREE WISHES.

AN ORIENTAL TALE.

A fairy of the friendly sort
Who serve mankind as if in sport,
Know how to wash and sweep a room
With twirling mop and whisking broom,
In garden work are skillful too,
And apt in, all that huswives do;
But if you cross them, lo! they cease
Their industry with strange caprice,
Or, more perversely, quickly spoil
The product of their former toil,—
A fairy of this curious kind
(Which still in merry books we find)
Had aided long a farmer's skill
His land to plow and plant and till,
Until the honest yeoman grew
Not rich, indeed, but well-to-do,
Thanks to the fairy,—nimble sprite!
Who served his master day and night
(For still the fay his vigils kept
While master, man, and mistress slept),
Until at last the vagrant mood
That ever rules the goblin-brood
Was his no more: he fain would dwell
With those whom he has served so well;
For to the giver kindness makes
A joy surpassing his who takes.

But now, alas! (and hence we see
That fays have griefs as well as we,)
An order from the Fairy-King
Came, with an escort, charged to bring
The farmer's favorite, that he
Might straight attend his Majesty
At Land's-End!—he would have it so,
And so, perforce, the fay must go.
But ere he left his rustic life,
He bade the farmer and his wife
Three several wishes to express.
“Just three,” he said, “no more,—nor less,
And these will I at once fulfill,
Whate'er, my friends, may be your will!”

The first was sure an easy task;
For wealth—vast wealth, of course, they ask.
It comes! and with it all the train
Of ills that vex the heart and brain
Of those who pay the taxes which
(Beside the king's!) annoy the rich,
Thieves, swindlers, beggars, borrowers, all
That plunder parlor, kitchen, hall,
By various arts,—force, fraud, and lies!
“Take all away!” the farmer cries;
“The poor are happier than they
Who to such harpies fall a prey;
O, give us back, dear sprite, once more
Contentment and our humble store.”
Two wishes gone,—to bring the man
And dame just where they first began!
At thought of this they laughed outright;
So did the fairy (sprightly sprite!)
But ere he went, with friendly voice,
He helped them to a better choice:
'T was Wisdom! riches of the mind,
Surpassing all that misers find
In money-bags; abundance rare
And void of grief and carking care;
Wealth—if it bear the genuine seal—
Which none can borrow, beg, or steal!

THE RIVAL QUEENS.

AN APOLOGUE.

A damask Rose and a Lily white,
Each lovely as ever was known,

166

Grew doubly red and pale with spite
Concerning the floral throne.

For some declared the Lily was queen;
While others, as firm as those,
Said, “No! just look at her languid mien;
Our sovereign shall be the Rose!”

“A queen,” said the friends of the ruddy Rose,
“The royal purple should wear;”
“A queen,” 't was answered, “every one knows,
Should—like the Lily—be fair!”

The quarrel was bitter and long and loud,
And all for battle were fain;
No wonder, I ween, the Rose grew proud;
No wonder the Lily grew vain!

And so, for many a hateful day
And many an angry week
They tossed their heads in a scornful way,
And both refused to speak.

Until, one day, with the golden morn,
The slumbering Rose awoke,
And, all ashamed of her recent scorn,
To her rival kindly spoke.

“O lovely Lily!” exclaimed the Rose;
“What boots it, lady, that we
Should stand and stare like foolish foes,
Who were wont good friends to be?”

“Ah! why, indeed?” the Lily replied,
As toward the other she bends
With a graceful nod, “'T is pity that pride
Should sever the best of friends!

“And I 've been thinking,” the Lily went on,
“That not by arrogant claims
A true nobility best is shown,
But in noble acts and aims.”

“And I 've been thinking,” the Rose returned,
“For all our pride of race,
In every flower may be discerned
Some sweet, peculiar grace.

“Though Rose be red, and Lily be fair,
With all the charms we 've got,
The humblest flower in field or bower
Hath some that we have not!”

PROVIDENCE IMPARTIAL.

A FABLE.

An old Hellenic saw declares
The gods, who govern men's affairs
Impartial (grumble as we may),
For all their favors make us pay
According to their special worth:
Wealth, honor, beauty, noble birth,
Has each its price; and still the higher
The gift, the more the gods require!
Hence, let not foolish pride inflate
The seeming favorites of Fate.
A Fir-tree, very large and tall,
That grew beside a Bramble small,
Was boasting of his strength and size:
“What houses I would make!” he cries;
“While you are simply good for naught,
Unworthy of the Woodman's thought!”
“True!” said the Bramble; “but reflect!—
If he were here, would you elect
(Think of his axe, and tell me, sir)
To be a Bramble or a Fir?”

THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES.

“Give me your soldiers' bracelets; all
Their splendid jewels, great and small,
And straight your army shall be led
Within the city walls.” So said
Tarpeia, while the Sabine waits
In siege before the Roman gates.
Whereat each soldier, filing past
The traitress, on her body cast
His heavy bracelet; till at last
The shining heap became so great,
She fell and died beneath their weight.
Even so it fares with mortals, who
With headlong eagerness pursue
Ambition, pleasure, wealth, or fame;
The glittering prize at which they aim
Comes often, like Tarpeia's fate,
To bruise and crush them with its weight.

167

JUST ONE DEFECT.

A PERSIAN FABLE.

Who buys a house, however fine
In architectural design,
And howsoever vast and grand
The prospect which it may command,
May very prudently explore
Concerning one condition more:
So Sadi sings, and tells of one,
Somewhere beneath the Persian sun,
Who thought to buy a mansion where
A foul-mouthed broker praised the air
And all things else, with eager voice:
“You could not make a better choice,”
The fellow bawled. “Now, look ye here!
I 've lived next door this twenty year,
And know the house is fairly worth
Ten times the price! There 's not on earth
A finer building! Just inspect
The place, and mention one defect!”
“Why, truly,” said the man, “I see
But one.” “Indeed! what may it be?”
“The house I should not reckon dear,
I think,—if yours were not so near!”

LOVE AND POETRY.

A FABLE.

I.

To Psyche, when her maiden heart
Was fancy-free, the Muses went
To teach her the poetic art;
But all in vain their kind intent;
She answered, she did not desire
To meddle with poetic fire!

II.

But Cupid came, and won the maid
(Psyche—“the soul” of all things good);
Her husband's teaching she obeyed,
And caught from him the lyric mood;
And ever since—as all agree—
Love is the soul of Poesy!

REASON VERSUS CUSTOM.

AN APOLOGUE.

Once on a time, a man of sterling sense
At Fashion's whims and shams took such offense,
He vowed, at last, that not another day
Would he submit to her despotic sway;
Thenceforth, he said, do others as they might,—
He meant, for one, to follow Reason's light!
“A brave resolve!” his laughing neighbors cried.
“Well, well,” he answered, “you shall see it tried
In practice; thus—when Fashion disagrees
With Reason (as in life one daily sees)
I mean, henceforth, in all things, great and small,
As you shall note, to follow Reason's call.”
And so it came to pass; from that day forth,
He judged all things by their intrinsic worth
Or seeming fitness; furnished his abode,
And wore his clothes, regardless of the mode;
All things discarding as a foolish waste
Which seemed discordant with the laws of taste,
Or clearly served no profitable end;
Whate'er, in brief, his reason might commend
Of old or new he took into his plan
Of living,—like a reasonable man;
In Fashion's mere despite rejecting naught,
Nor at her mere behest accepting aught
Which Reason interdicted. Who can say
He was not wise, or name a wiser way?
A scheme like this should surely prosper well;
But if you ask me truthfully to tell
The sequel,—I must candidly confess
'T was what the reader may have chanced to guess.
With every step our bold reformer took,
By just so much—consider—he forsook
The common path. “The oddest man in town!”

168

His neighbors said, at first—then set him down
For “half-demented!” By and by, they vowed
Such wild, strange actions should not be allowed;
The man was clearly “going to the bad.”
At last, his dear relations proved him mad,
In open court, and shut him in a cell;
Where long he lived with lunatics, to tell
His doleful tale; and earnestly advise
Against the foolishness of being wise
Where folly is the mode!—“I tried to steer
My course by Reason, and she brought me here!”

THE SULTAN AND THE EXVIZIER.

A COLLOQUY: FROM THE PERSIAN.

SULTAN.
Since you turned Dervish, long ago,
By true report your life I know,
And high advance in wisdom's lore;
And much, believe me, I deplore
The day I lost—by envious Fate—
My good Prime Minister of State.

DERVISH.
Thanks! gracious Sire! the life I live
Has more of peace than power can give;
Here, in my cloister, I have learned
Contempt of rank; and all I earned
Of power and pelf in your employ
Would poorly stead my present joy.

SULTAN.
No doubt!—and as for power and pelf,
I 'd like a quiet life myself;
And yet your wisdom I would fain
Employ to serve my realm again;
The truly wise are truly great,
And such, alone, should rule the state.

DERVISH.
'T is true, your Majesty; and yet,
I would not pay the hateful debt:
You call me wise; well—be it so;
But being wise, I must forego
An office which (am I too bold?)
A wise man would not choose to hold!

THE TWO FRIENDS.

A RABBINICAL TALE.

Good Rabbi Nathan had rejoiced to spend
A social se'nnight with his ancient friend,
The Rabbi Isaac. In devout accord
They read the Sacred Books, and praised the Lord
For all his mercies unto them and theirs;
Until, one day, remembering some affairs
That asked his instant presence, Nathan said,
“Too long, my friend (so close my soul is wed
To thy soul), has the silent lapse of days
Kept me thy guest; although with prayer and praise
The hours were fragrant. Now the time has come
When, all-reluctant, I must hasten home
To other duties than the dear delights
To which thy gracious friendship still invites.”
“Well, be it so, if so it needs must be,”
The host made answer; “be it far from me
To hinder thee in aught that Duty lays
Upon thy pious conscience. Go thy ways;
And take my blessing!—but, O friend of mine,
In His name whom thou servest, give me thine!”
“Already,” Nathan answered, “had I sought
Some fitting words to bless thee; and I thought
About the palm-tree, giving fruit and shade;
And in my grateful heart, O friend, I prayed
That Heaven be pleased to make thee even so!
Oh, idle benediction!—Well I know
Thou lackest nothing of all perfect fruit
Of generous souls; or pious deeds that suit
With pious worship. Well I know thine alms

169

In hospitable shade exceed the palm's;
And, for rich fruitage, can that noble tree,
With all her opulence, compare with thee?
Since, then, O friend, I cannot wish thee more,
In thine own person, than thy present store
Of Heaven's best bounty, I will even pray
That—as the palm-tree, though it pass away,
By others, of its seed, is still replaced—
So thine own stock may evermore be graced
With happy sons and daughters, who shall be,
In wisdom, strength, and goodness, like to thee!”

PERSEVERE AND PROSPER

AN ARABIAN TALE.

“To the manly will there's ever a way!”
Said a simple Arab youth;
“And I'm going to try, this very day,
If my teacher tells the truth:
He 's always saying,—the good old man,—
‘Now, please remember, my dear,
You are sure to win, whatever you plan,
If you steadily persevere!’

“I mean to try it,—upon my life!
If I go through fire and water;
And, since I wish to marry a wife,
I'll have the Calif's daughter!”
So off to the Vizier straight he goes,
Who only laughed at the lad;
And said him “Nay,”—as you may suppose,—
For he thought the fellow was mad!

And still for many and many a day
He came to plead his case,
But the Vizier only answered “Nay,”
And laughed him in the face.
At last, the Calif came across
The youth in the Vizier's hall,
And, asking what his errand was,
The Vizier told him all.

“Now, by my head!” the Calif said,
“'T is only the wise and great
A Calif's daughter may ask to wed,
For rank with rank must mate;
Unless, mayhap, some valiant deed
May serve for an equal claim
(For merit, I own, should have its meed,
And princes yield to Fame).

“In the Tigris once a gem was lost,
'T was ages and ages since,
A Ruby of wondrous size and cost,
And fit for the noblest prince;
That gem, my lad, must surely be
Somewhere beneath the water,—
Go find it, boy, and bring it to me;
Then come and marry my daughter!”

“And so I will!” the lad replied,
And off to the river he ran;
And he dips away at the foamy tide,
As fast as ever he can:
With a little cup he dips away;
Now, what 's the fellow about?
He 's going to find the gem, some day,
By draining the Tigris out!

And still he dips by day and night,
Till the fishes begin to cry,
“This fellow is such a willful wight,
He'll dip the river dry!”
And so they sent their monarch to say
(A wise and reverend fish),
“Now why are you dipping our water away?
And what do you please to wish?”

“I want the Ruby, sir,” he cried.
“Well, please to let us alone,
And stop your dipping,” the fish-king cried,
“And the gem shall be your own!”
And he fetched the Ruby, of wondrous size,
From out the foamy water;
And so the lad obtained his prize,
And married the Calif's daughter!

L'ENVOI.

This pleasant story was meant to teach
That pluck is more than skill;
And few are the ends beyond the reach
Of a strong, untiring will!

170

LAKE SARATOGA.

AN INDIAN LEGEND.

A lady stands beside the silver lake.
“What,” said the Mohawk, “wouldst thou have me do?”
“Across the water, sir, be pleased to take
Me and my children in thy bark canoe.”

“Ah!” said the Chief, “thou knowest not, I think,
The legend of the lake,—hast ever heard
That in its wave the stoutest boat will sink,
If any passenger shall speak a word?”

“Full well we know the Indian's strange belief,”
The lady answered, with a civil smile;
“But take us o'er the water, mighty Chief;
In rigid silence we will sit the while.”

Thus they embarked, but ere the little boat
Was half across the lake, the woman gave
Her tongue its wonted play—but still they float,
And pass in safety o'er the utmost wave!

Safe on the shore, the warrior looked amazed,
Despite the stoic calmness of his race;
No word he spoke, but long the Indian gazed
In moody silence in the woman's face.

“What think you now?” the lady gayly said;
“Safely to land your frail canoe is brought!
No harm, you see, has touched a single head!
So superstition ever comes to naught!”

Smiling, the Mohawk said, “Our safety shows
That God is merciful to old and young;
Thanks unto the Great Spirit!—well he knows
The pale-faced woman cannot hold her tongue!”

THE IMPARTIAL JUDGE.

A PERSIAN TALE.

To good Ben Asher—of immortal fame—
In eager haste a worthy subject came,
And, bowing low before the Sultan, cried,
“Prince of Believers! who has ne'er denied
Impartial justice to the meanest slave,
Some fitting punishment I humbly crave
On one who in my house has wrought a shame;
A deed of violence I need not name
In further speech; for, Sire! the fearful fact
Was seen by those who seized him in the act!”
“Go, bring him here!” the Sultan said; “but first
Put out the lights. The villain's face accurst
I would not see.” Now, when all this was done,
The Sultan, standing by, commanded one
To seize and stab the culprit to the heart!
“Now light the lamps!” The Sultan then (apart
To his Vizier, the while his hands he raised
Devoutly heavenward) said, “God be praised
For this that I behold!” The Vizier asked,
What favor Heaven had done in this, that tasked
The Sultan's gratitude? “I feared my son,”
Ben Asher said, “this dreadful deed had done;
And, meaning still that justice should prevail,
And fearing lest my doting heart should fail,
I durst not see the man till he was dead;
Judge, then, my joy,” the trembling Sultan said,

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“That, looking on the wretch so justly slain,
I find, thank Heaven! my terror was in vain!”

THE ELEPHANT'S SERMON.

YRIARTE.

Of this and the following Fables credited to Yriarte, it is proper to say that they are taken from French versions of the works of the great Spanish Fabulist, and therefore make no pretension of fidelity—whether of matter or manner—to the original text. I take occasion of this note to add, concerning other pieces in this volume, that, though derived directly from the Greek, Roman, German, and French originals, they are, for the most part,—as the scholarly reader will observe,—not so much translations as paraphrases, wherein I have endeavored to preserve the spirit of the author, while consulting the exigencies of an English poem in respect of rhyme and rhythm and general manner of treatment.

In olden times, when—it is said—
The humblest of the brute creation
(Though not in school or college bred)
Possessed the art of conversation;

The Elephant, as chief High-Priest,
Of brutes the proper censor morum,
Assembled every bird and beast,
And plainly laid their faults before 'em.

Some were of vanity accused
(Though none by name the priest addresses),
And some their talents had abused
By indolence or wild excesses;

And some were charged with envious minds,
And some with foolish ostentation;
And not a few the censor finds
Convict of wanton depredation.

And some, the Elephant declares,
Are basely cruel and malicious;
Some fail to mind their own affairs;
And most, in some respect, are vicious.

The faithful Hound, the trusty Horse,
The constant Dove, the modest Linnet,
The Sermon hear without remorse;
Nay, find a deal of pleasure in it!

In brief, the best of all the crowd
Are charmed to hear the wise prelection;
The others frown, or rave aloud,
Or hang their heads in deep dejection.

The Wolf and Tiger howl in wrath,
To hear the parson's faithful chiding;
The Serpent hisses in his path;
The Worm goes wriggling to his hiding.

The Wasp and Hornet buzz their spite;
The Monkey mocks with hideous grinning;
The Fox goes sneaking out of sight,
To wait another chance for sinning.

“Ah, well!” the Elephant exclaims,
“Though ill enough ye seem to bear it,—
(Remember, I have called no names;)
Whom the cap fits, may take and wear it!”

THE CONNOISSEURS.

YRIARTE.

Within a wine-vault once arose
A quarrel—so the story goes—
Among the Bacchanalian crowd,
So fierce and bitter, long and loud,
It fairly threatened broken laws,
And bloody noses,—all because
Two parties held conflicting views
About the fittest way to choose
Their beverage! Some stoutly hold,
“A first-rate tap is always old;
At least, a thousand proofs attest
The oldest always is the best.
Not till the cunning spiders spin
A million lines across the bin
Do men of sense imbibe the juice;
Then, only then, 't is fit for use,
Pure, mellow, fragrant, ripe; in fine,
Worthy the glorious name of wine!”
The others just as roundly swear,
“New wine is best. Age” (they declare)
“Is far more apt to mar than mend
Good wine (whatever fools pretend),
And then 't is oft a mere device,
Got up by rogues to raise the price!”
While thus with wrath that grew to rage,
Their foolish feud the wranglers wage,
Up spoke a stranger from Navarre:
“Cease, gentlemen! your wordy war!
I 've tippled wine of every sort,
Canary, Malta, Xeres, Port,
And many a famous tap beside;
All brands and ages have I tried,—
The white, the red, the old, the new,
The good, the bad, the false, the true;
I 've drunk in cellar, booth, and inn;

172

I 've drunk from bottle, cask, and skin;
And if there be a judge of wine,
To know the fair, the foul, the fine,
In glass or bumper, cup or can,—
By jolly Bacchus! I'm the man!
Crede experto! Take my word,
For all the nonsense you have heard
About the charm of ‘old’ or ‘new,’
'T is trial only tests the true!
Old wine may still be wretched stuff,
And new wine excellent enough
For men or gods! No rule on earth,
Save drinking, can decide its worth,
Give me good wine, and I engage
I'll not inquire about its age!”

L'ENVOI.

In Books and Art some bid us seek
The highest worth in the “antique”;
While other critics (just as wise)
No genius but the “modern” prize:
In judging either, I protest
I think the toper's rule is best!

THE ROYAL CONCERT.

YRIARTE.

The animals once,—so the legends report,—
To honor the Lion, their popular king,
A concert proposed, in his majesty's court,
At which all the brutes were invited to sing.

Not all,—I should say, as a lover of truth,—
For somehow or other the managers missed
The principal matter, and managed, in sooth,
To have the best singers left out of the list!

Not a Nightingale, Wood-Thrush, or Blackbird was in it;
Nay, even the Lark and Canary were slighted;
No mention was made of the musical Linnet;
But all of the others were warmly invited!

There was plenty of jealousy, you may be sure,
And wrangling enough,—as is always the case
When the cleverest maestro attempts to secure
For each of his singers the properest place.

'T is settled at last; the rehearsal is done;
And now for the Concert the vocalists meet,
With no fear of failure, for every one
What he 's wanting, in talent makes up in conceit!

A couple of Hornets the tenor essayed;
The Crickets attempted the treble and alto;
The basso (of course) by a Donkey was brayed;
While to Locusts and Frogs was assigned the contralto!

The singers commence!—but no answering cheers
Reward their endeavors,—the audience swore
(While some ran away and some stopt up their ears)
That never was music so murdered before!

At this, the performers, abating their noise,
Sought, each for himself, some ingenious excuse;
And straight on his fellows with vigor employs
The fiercest reproaches and foulest abuse.

The Frogs said the Crickets were quite out of place;
Such villainous treble they never had heard;
The Crickets replied by denouncing the bass;
A Donkey sing bass?—it was truly absurd!

“'T was the fault of the Frogs!” was the Donkey's reply;
“'T is clearly the Hornets'!” the Locusts exclaim;

173

The Hornets returned, “'T is a thundering lie!”
And on their accusers retorted the blame.

Then the King of the Beasts, who could bear it no more,
Looked down from his throne, with a growl and a grin,
And thus spoke his mind, in a terrible roar,
Which silenced at once their obstreperous din:—

“Go!—out of my hearing, ye ignorant crew;
Ere it came to the trial, each impudent wight
Was boasting the wonderful things he could do;
Quick! out of my hearing and out of my sight!”

MORAL.

So in human affairs, when pretenders, who once
In arrogant boasting had vied with each other,
Meet a common disaster,—then every dunce
Excuses himself by accusing another!

THE BARN-YARD CRITICS.

YRIARTE.

A Pig and Sheep together slept
In the same farm-yard; and with these
A gallant Cock his vigils kept,—
Who, with his fellows, dwelt in peace.

“A pleasant sort of life is this,”
The Porker said. “Say, Madam Sheep!
Is not the highest earthly bliss
To lie at ease, and eat and sleep?

“For me, I think the perfect leisure
And luxury in which we live,
Worth more than all the active pleasure
That men or gods have power to give!”

The woolly dame has naught to say,—
Too meek to answer; though she tries,
While listening in a civil way,
To look (in vain!) extremely wise!

But Chanticleer, who chanced to hear
These sage reflections, cocked his eye,
Gave a shrill crow his throat to clear,
And thus to Piggie made reply:—

“A sleepy life, I must confess,
Were very little to my taste;
To live—like you—in idleness,
Of time is, sure, a foolish waste.

“To rule the roost, and strut about,
That 's happiness, in my belief;
A little sleep is well, no doubt,
But, for oné's health, it should be brief.

“In fact, I 've tried it; and I find
One's slumbers should be always light;
Sleep surely stupefies the mind,
While watching makes it clear and bright.”

While thus they argue, loud and long,
The patient Sheep has listened well;
But which is right and which is wrong
Is something more than she can tell.

She little dreams the wranglers draw
(Like other critics, great and small)
Each from himself the narrow law
By which he seeks to govern all!

THE FIGHTING COCKS.

YRIARTE.

A fine old cock—a cock renowned,
In brief, for many a mile around
His native farm-yard—came at length
With a young cock to pit his strength:
A callow chick, who fought so well,
Despite the odds, that—strange to tell—
The elder was compelled to yield,
And, fairly vanquished, leave the field
And laurel to his youthful foe,
Who now set up a lusty crow,
As dunghill victors always will,
In pride of courage, strength, or skill.

174

All breathless with the battle's heat,
The other sought a safe retreat,
Where thus he gave reflection tongue:
“Well fought—by Jove!—for one so young!
Give him the proper age and height,
He 'd make, no doubt, a pretty fight!”

No more our philosophic bird
With his late foe was seen or heard
In close debate, for well he knows
That words, at last, may come to blows;
And with a chick so fierce and tough,
One trial clearly was enough!

But soon it chanced occasion lent
A turn to give his temper vent;
A neighbor truculent and bold
Despite his years (for he was old,
And long had gloried in the praise
Of brave exploits in former days),
Our hero forced into a fight,
And, rallying with all his might,
Soon drove him fairly from the ground!

Alone at last,—he looked around,
And seeing that the coast was clear,
That none the monologue might hear,
Thus to himself expressed his mind:
“What unexpected things we find!
For such an old historic cock
How well he bore the battle shock!
How venerable age appears!
And so I spared him—for his years!”

MORAL.

How shrewdly men contrive to hide,
E'en from themselves, their wounded pride!

THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ORGAN.

YRIARTE.

A Nightingale who chanced to hear
An Organ's deep and swelling tone,
Was wont to lend a careful ear,
That so she might improve her own.

One evening, while the Organ's note
Thrilled through the wood, and Philomel
Sat tuning her melodious throat
To imitate its wondrous swell,

A twittering Sparrow, hopping near,
Said, “Prithee, now, be pleased to state
What from those wooden pipes you hear
That you can wish to imitate?

“I do not hesitate to say,
Whatever the stupid thing can do
To please us, in a vocal way,
That very Organ learned from you!

“Of all sweet singers none is greater
Than Philomel; but, on my word!
To imitate one's imitator,—
Can aught on earth be more absurd?”

“Nay,” said the Nightingale, “if aught
From me the Organ ever learned,
By him no less have I been taught,
And thus the favor is returned.

“Thus to my singing—don't you see?
Some needed culture I impart;
For Nature's gifts, as all agree,
Are finest when improved by Art!”

MORAL.

Whate'er the foolish Sparrow thought,
The Nightingale (so Wisdom votes)
Was wise in choosing to be taught
E'en by an Organ's borrowed notes.

And hence the Student may obtain
Some useful rules to guide his course:
Shun self-conceit; nor e'er disdain
Instruction from the humblest source!

THE LIZARDS.

YRIARTE.

A famous Naturalist, whose knife
Made cruel work with insect life,
Dissecting muscle, vein, and nerve,
Remorseless,—with intent to serve
The cause of Science, and no thought
Of all the suffering he wrought,—
Two lizards in his garden caught,
And straight proceeded to dissect
The biggest one, and then inspect
The severed parts, head, tail, and skin,
And all the mysteries within;
And as each part is made to pass
Beneath his microscopic glass.
He takes his pen, and in a book
Records each scientific look,
For future use; then takes his pen,
And with his glass begins again.

175

Weary at length, he stops to hear
Remarks of friends. Some only sneer
At what they deem mere waste of time,
If not—for cruelty—a crime;
While others marvel much to learn
(As at the glass they take their turn)
What mighty things are lodged within
The compass of a lizard's skin!
While thus they talk of what the eye
Of Science caused them to descry
In the dead lizard, sooth to say,
His living brother ran away!

Arrived at home, he quickly sends
An invitation to his friends
To come and hear what wondrous things
From his late tour the traveler brings;
Then tells the story you have heard
(Above), omitting not a word
Of all that to his friend occurred.
“Strange as it seems,” the lizard cries,
“'T is true! I saw it with these eyes!
Now if such things in us there be
As men of Science stare to see,
And straightway write the items down,—
Say, shall we heed the stupid clown
Who calls us lizards ‘vermin’? Nay!
Whatever envious folks may say,
We 're clearly noble. Let us claim
The rank that suits the lizard's name!”

MORAL.

When keen Reviewers criticise
The stuff that puny authors write
(Which worms alone should analyze),
They only give the fools delight,
Who cry, “The book is surely great
Which so much interest can create!”

FLINT AND STEEL.

YRIARTE.

The Flint and Steel—the story goes—
Old friends by natural relation,
Fell out, one day, and, like two foes,
Indulged in bitter altercation.

“I'm weary,” said the angry Flint,
“Of being beat; 't is past concealing;
Your conduct (witness many a dint
Upon my sides!) is most unfeeling.

“And what reward have I to show?
What sort of payment do you render,
To one who bears each hateful blow
That you may blaze in transient splendor?”

“You seem to think yourself abused,”
The Steel replied with proper spirit;
“But, say, unless with me you 're used,
What praise of service do you merit?

“Your worth, as any one may see
(For all your feeling of defiance),
Is simply nought, unless with me
You keep your natural alliance.”

“True!” said the Flint; “but there 's no call,
Whate'er my worth, for you to flout it;
My value, sir, may be but small;
But think what yours would be without it!”

MORAL.

The writer who depends alone
On genius, hoping to be able
To cope with scholars fully grown,
May profit by this simple fable.

As from the Steel no fire comes forth,
Until it feels the Flint's abrasion;
So genius is of little worth
Without the aid of cultivation.

THE LACE-WEAVERS.

YRIARTE.

Once in Madrid—the story goes—
Between two artisans arose
A question of such special weight,
It held them long in grave debate,
Though each—'t is only fair to say—
Discussed it in a candid way,
Unlike debaters who, in sooth,
Care more for victory than truth.

Both men were weavers, we are told:
One made galloons, or lace-of-gold;
The other lace-of-linen, fine
At once in texture and design.
“Who,” said the former, “would suppose
That while (as everybody knows)
My lace of purest gold is wrought,
For vastly less it may be bought

176

Than yours, my neighbor, which, instead
Of gold, is made of flaxen thread?
Pray tell me why (I can't divine)
Yours sells for thrice as much as mine?”
“Faith!” said the other, “to my mind,
The reason is not hard to find;
You work in gold, and I in thread;
If, saying so, the whole were said,
Your lace would surely far exceed
My lace in value. 'T is agreed!
You work in gold; I grant it,—still
Your best galloons show little skill
Compared with what the eye may trace
In my fine webs of linen lace;
Rich workmanship, my worthy friend,
Gives value gold can never lend!”

MORAL.

Hence critics, who are fain to smile
When readers praise an author's style,
As if the matter were the test
Of what in authorship is best,
May learn how much the writer's art,
By style and finish may impart
To works which else had failed to claim
The worth that gives undying fame!

THE SHAM LIBRARY.

YRIARTE.

Once, in Madrid, there dwelt a worthy man,
And wealthy too, of whom 't was truly said
His house—the best the architects could plan—
Was vastly better furnished than his head!

And yet one room this splendid dwelling lacked
A wealthy squire should have, beyond a doubt;
To wit, a Library,—a thing in fact
“No gentleman can fairly live without.”

So said a neighbor, adding his advice
That one be built without the least delay;
“And let,” he said, the room be large and nice;
By Jove! I would n't wait another day!”

“Egad!” he answered, “I must find a spot
Somewhere about the house; of course I know
A man wants books, and books, sir, shall be got;
If not for use, they 're requisite for show!

“I have it now! my carpenter shall use
What space he chooses in the northern wing;
One sees from there the loveliest of views;
Faith! on reflection, it is just the thing!

“I'll have it finished in the finest style;
Such as may suit a gentleman's abode;
With doors and shelves ('t will cost a pretty pile!)
All stained and gilded in the latest mode.

“And then I'll send my trusty servant Bob
(An honest fellow and the best of cooks,
And always clever at a tasty job),
By careful measurement, to buy the books.”

But ere the work was done, from floor to shelf,
The owner, pondering on the great expense
Incurred already, said within himself:
“This room, egad! is really quite immense!

“With handsome books these cases to supply
Will cost a sum of money rather tall!
But since I merely aim to please the eye,
Pray, what 's the use of real books at all?

“A thousand gilded backs will do as well,
Lettered to look like volumes all a-row;

177

Mere wooden backs in fact, but who can tell
They are not real, I should like to know!”

So said, so done; and now at length behold
All things complete. With pride the owner looks
To see—at little cost of precious gold—
His wooden cases filled with wooden books!

MORAL.

“A fool!” you say, “to spend his money so!”
Well—not a very Solomon, indeed;
But wiser, sure, than they who buy for show
The costly volumes which they never read!

THE GOAT AND THE HORSE.

YRIARTE.

A Goat who lent a ravished ear
A Fiddle's harmony to hear,—
The while unconsciously his feet
The viol's measures gayly beat,—
Unto a Horse, who near him stood,
So rapt he quite forgot his food
In the sweet music of the hour,
(Such was the player's wondrous power!)
Thus, when the witching strains were done,
A boastful monologue begun:
“My honest neighbor, do you know
Whence came the sounds that charmed us so?
The viol which so sweetly sings
Owes all its music to the Strings;
And those same strings—be pleased to note—
Came from the bowels of a Goat!
(A mate of mine you may have seen
With me upon the village green;
Where, side by side, we used to play
Through many a pleasant summer's day.)
And who can tell, my worthy friend,
But I, some happy day, may lend
The like assistance to the art
Which has such power to charm the heart?”
“True!” said the Nag; “but not alone
Are strings required to give the tone
The viol boasts; pray, do not I
From my long tail the hairs supply
With which the Bow so deftly brings
The music from the stupid strings?
The cost to me is surely small
(A little fright,—no pain at all).
Then, for the pleasure that I give
I have my payment while I live
In conscious pride; while you, instead,
Must wait for yours till you are dead!”

MORAL.

Some authors thus, who vainly strive
For fame while they are yet alive,
Write on, in hope that after death
Their works may win applauding breath!

THE TURKEY AND THE CROW.

YRIARTE.

A pompous old Turkey, conceited and vain,
As deeming himself of a lordlier breed
Than the wandering birds of the forest and plain,
Once challenged a Crow to a trial of speed.

If you e'er saw a Crow as he sailed through the sky,
And noticed how lightly and swiftly he went,
Compared with a Turkey attempting to fly,
Of this notable match you will guess the event.

“I say!” screamed the Gobbler, as falling behind
He saw his antagonist certain to win,
“Look here! did it ever occur to your mind
You 're as black as the deuce and as ugly as sin?

“Moreover,” he cries, “I have frequently heard
You 're the odious tool of the treacherous Fates;

178

A wicked, uncanny, Plutonian bird;
A monster of evil whom every one hates!

“Away with yourself! it is loathsome to see
A fowl who on carrion feeds with delight;
From birds who are decent no wonder you flee;
The faster, the better!—quick! out of my sight!”

The match being over, the winner replied:
“You spoke of my color,—that is n't the thing:
The question, I think, which we met to decide
Was which of the two is the fleeter of wing.”

MORAL.

Some critics, aware they are likely to fail
In argument, follow a similar plan;
The works of the author 't were vain to assail,
And so they endeavor to injure the man!

THE BEE AND THE CUCKOO.

YRIARTE.

A Bee, whose dainty ear had grown
Quite weary of the monotone
Which ever from the Cuckoo's throat
Repeated one unvarying note,
At last besought the tiresome bird,
For mercy's sake, to change the word;
“'T is ‘Cuckoo! Cuckoo!’ all day long!
Pray, cease your egotistic song:
It makes me nervous, sooth to say,
And quite unfits to work or play!”
“You call my song monotonous?
Well, since you choose to make a fuss
About my singing, tell me why
(Exclaimed the Cuckoo, in reply)
Your honey-cells you always frame
Alike,—in size and shape the same?
If I'm monotonous,—confess
The fault you find is yours no less!”
“Nay!” said the Bee, “a thing of use
Has in its worth a fair excuse
For many a fault that else would be
A hateful thing to hear or see;
While arts designed to please the taste
With varied beauties must be graced;
And, lacking these, they serve alone
To pain us,—like your ‘Cuckoo tone!”

THE SILKWORM AND THE CATERPILLAR.

YRIARTE.

Once on a time—if tales are true—
Among the animals a movement
Was started by the foremost few
To aid their mutual improvement;

A scheme was planned—whate'er the name—
To mend their physical condition;
And in its nature much the same
As our “Industrial Exposition.”

To this the tribes of every sort
And element—fur, fin, and feather—
In friendly rivalry resort,
And their inventions bring together.

Among a hundred useful things,
And many more designed for winning
Æsthetic praise, the Silkworm brings
A knot of thread of home-made spinning;

A silk cocoon!—how soft and bright!
All eyes are glistening with pleasure;
How charming to the touch and sight!
And then, for fabrics, what a treasure!

The very Mole is not so blind
But she can see the thing is pretty;
And “Premium First” declares the mind
Of the unanimous “Committee!”

At last a croaking voice is heard;
The Caterpillar's, in dissension;
“Cocoons!—a trifle—on my word!
And then they 're not a new invention!”

The beasts, amazed, with one accord
Cried, “Who is this, whose pert decision

179

Would overrule our grave award,
And treat our judgment with derision!”

“I see!” said Reynard (cunning elf!)
“'T is Mr. Caterpillar, surely!
The fellow makes cocoons himself,
And thinks all others spin as poorly!”

MORAL.

When critics (would-be authors once)
Would rob true Genius of her glory,
One sees in each detracting dunce
The Caterpillar of my story!

THE MONKEY-SHOWMAN.

YRIARTE.

A monkey who, by many a prank,
Had served a strolling mountebank,
And long had sought, with curious eye,
The secret of his arts to spy,
Grew so inflated with conceit,
He swore that there was not a feat
His master did, to charm the crowd,
But he could do,—were he allowed
To show his skill. So, on a day
When Mister Showman was away,
And Jocko chanced to stay at home,
He summoned all his friends to come
And note how surely he would raise
The customary shouts of praise.

He made his bow, and straight began
To play the “India-Rubber man,”
Who in contorted shapes appears,
And stands—at last—upon his ears!
Next, dances on the swinging wire;
Then, as applauding shouts inspire
To bolder deeds, he mounts with ease
And safely braves the high trapeze;
Then takes a musket, and with skill
Performs the Prussian soldier's drill;
At last—as was his master's way,
To close the wonders of the day—
He brings the “Magic Lantern” out,
Darkens the room, and talks about
The curious things that on the screen
By watchful eyes will now be seen;
Then moves the plates of painted glass
From side to side, and as they pass,
Announces in a pompous speech
The name and character of each
Delightful scene that greets their eyes!

What can it mean?—no cheers arise!
A storm of hisses come instead,
So fierce the frightened monkey fled,
And, having reached a safer place,
Was told the cause of his disgrace;
To wit, that, while all else was right,
His “Magic Lantern” had no light!

MORAL.

How bootless are the author's pains
Who lacks illuminating brains!

THE OIL-MERCHANT'S ASS.

YRIARTE.

An Ass, whose customary toil
Was bearing heavy sacks of oil
(The kind which often serves, at night,
Our houses, shops, and streets to light),
His labor over for the day,
Straight to his stable took his way;
But, as he sought to enter there,
The groping donkey, unaware,
Against the door-hasp hit his nose;
Whereat his indignation rose
To such a pitch, he roundly swore,
(As many an ass has done before!)
And thus, in wrath, expressed his mind:
“By Jove! one might as well be blind,
As break his noddle in the dark
For want of light! A single spark
Had saved my skin; but not a ray
My master gives to light my way.
I, who for others daily toil,
And fill a thousand lamps with oil,
For lack of one—so justice goes!—
Against the door must break my nose!”

MORAL.

The miser, who, to gather pelf
For thankless heirs, defrauds himself;
The ignoramus, proud to show
His gilded volumes all a-row,—
Such men as these may we not class
(Poor donkeys!) with the Oilman's Ass!

THE MONKEY-TOURIST.

YRIARTE.

A monkey clad in cloth-of-gold
(So in the proverb we are told)

180

Will be a Monkey still. The aim
Of this new fable is the same;
Pray, listen while I tell in rhyme
The tale how, once upon a time,
A Monkey, drest in garments bright
With gaudy colors such as might
Become a Harlequin, set out—
To show her finery, no doubt—
Upon her travels. In what way,
By ship or coach, I cannot say;
'T is only known her journey ran
As far abroad as Tetuan:
A country—as I understand—
On maps set down as “Monkey-land”;
And widely famous as the place
Where most abound the simian race,
And where, one scarcely needs to add,
The chattering tribes are simply clad
In their own skins, and know no more
Of dress than Mother Eve, before
She ate of the forbidden fruit,
And donned, for shame, her fig-leaf suit.

Here—as the reader may suppose—
Our lady-tourist proudly shows,
With many a change, her gay attire,
Which all the natives much admire,
And think the wearer must possess
A mind as brilliant as her dress,
And, thereupon, the stranger made
Their leader in a coming raid
For forage, in the country round,
Where monkey-provender was found.

Alas, the day! her clothing proved
An obstacle where'er she moved;
And when the weary day was done,
Her gaudy garments,—every one,—
That in the morning looked so fine,
Were strewn in rags along the line
Through which the expedition led;
And she, worn out and nearly dead,
At night was but the scoff and scorn
Of those who hailed her “queen” at morn!

MORAL.

A thousand instances confess
That judging people by their dress,
As bright or brave, is a mistake
That men as well as monkeys make!