A THIRD ODE TO THE POET DELILLE.
The Lyric Bard proclaimeth the Folly of the present
French.—Adviseth them not to harbour Passions
degrading to Humanity.—Peter, with wonderful
Fancy portrayeth Prudence and Passion.
—Peter taketh the Part of the late unfortunate
Monarch and his Queen, and endeth his
Ode with a beautiful and apt Comparison.—
The Poet then illustrateth the Actions of the
French by a most apposite Tale.
Delille, the world from laugh can scarce refrain—
Most Samson-like, ye've ruin'd a rare pile:
To see you building thus, all hands, again,
On an owl's face so grave must plant a smile.
Sorrow discard thy weeds, and dry thy tears—
Pity, disdain t'embalm them with thy breath:
They're sinking!—lo, if aught like life appears,
'Tis Health's stol'n rose upon the cheek of Death.
Once happiness was yours, my friend, indeed—
‘We'll have no more on't,’ mad ye cry'd, ‘away!
Change! change! we'll cut off the great nation's head,
And try what the huge trunk will say.’
Off goes the head—
The nation's dead!
Well, now 'tis done—the head is off—what then?
Ye seem to stare, like disappointed men.
Where was Dame Foresight? Ah, ye silly folk!
And yet it is too serious for a joke.
Since, then, the head is off; for freedom panting,
What is't ye look for?—‘Lord, Dame Freedom's wanting;
Into a terrible mistake we fall—
For Tyranny's hard irons load us all!’
Indeed! ye just have found the secret out!
Ye're wiser than ye were, good folks, no doubt!
Alter not things when rul'd by passion—Why?
Because good Madam Prudence is not nigh:
Prudence keeps company that's vastly sober;
Prudence is mildly-breathing, smiling May,
So full of balmy blossoms, all so gay;
Passion, the mad, wide-wasting, wild October.
Prudence, a pretty, pleasing, stealing rill,
Winning with easy lapse its winding course;
Passion, a torrent rough, from hill to hill,
Tumbling and tearing, drowning man and horse.
Prudence is also a fresh-water eel,
So calmly gliding through the liquid glass;
Passion, a porpus—tempests at his heel,
Flound'ring amid old Ocean's thund'ring mass.
Prudence is that small pleasing worm of light,
The mild hedge-regent of the dewy night;
A little moon to many an insect race,
Who by her silv'ry radiance find their way,
Nibble the fairest flow'rs, and sip and play,
Gaze on their loves, dance, ogle, and embrace.
Passion's a meteor, skipping here and there;
Hopping o'er hedge and ditch, and fen and pool,
Amidst his wild and fierce and mad career,
Making himself indeed a downright fool:
And after all, what is this thing of caper?
A simple child of stinking mud and vapour!
Why so enrag'd against poor Louis Seize,
Who pliable did every thing to please?
And why in league against his charming queen,
Revenge, and Madness, Malice, Envy, Spleen?
Revenge's company for ever shun:
Too much of danger frequently appears;
A kind of weak and overloaded gun,
Bursting with horrid crash about our ears.
Ridiculous the triumph will be found,
When, for a penny's worth, we lose a pound.
The monarch eat a little of the state—
But should ye therefore madly give him fate?
We should not rage for trifling matters,
And blust'ring kick the world about;
It shows the folly of our natures,
For a pin's head to make a rout.
Lord! grant a little fungus on the vine
And olive, yielding oil and juice and gladness;
Who'd root up the whole tree for't? nought but swine—
'Twere idiotism, stupidity, and madness.
The following simple well-known story shows
What sad misfortune from such folly flows.
THE KNIGHT AND THE RATS.
A KNIGHT liv'd in the west not long ago
Like knights in general, not o'erwise, I trow—
This knight's great barn was visited by rats,
In spite of poison, gins, and owls, and cats:
Like millers, taking toll of the sweet corn,
Carous'd they happily from night to morn.
Lo, waxing wrath, that neither gins nor cats,
Nor owls, nor poison, could destroy the rats;
‘I'll nab them by a scheme, by heav'ns,’ quoth he:
So of his neighbourhood he rous'd the mob,
Farmers and farmers' boys, to do this job;
His servants too of high and low degree;
And eke the tribes of dog, by sound of horn,
To kill the rats that dar'd to taste the corn.
This done, the knight, resolv'd with god-like ire,
Ran to his kitchen for a stick of fire,
From whence intrepid to the barn he ran;
Much like the Macedonian and fair punk,
Who, at Persepolis so very drunk,
Did with their links the mighty ruin plan.
Now, 'midst the dwelling flew the blazing stick:
Soon from the flames rush'd forth the rats so thick;
Men, dogs, and bats, in furious war unite—
The conquer'd rats lie sprawling on the ground;
The knight, with eyes triumphant, stares around,
Surveys the carnage, and enjoys the sight.
Not ev'n Achilles saw, so blest, his blade
Dismiss whole legions to th' infernal shade!
But, lo! at length by this rat-driving flame,
Burnt was the corn—the walls down thund'ring came;
The meaning of it was not far to learn—
When turning up those billiard-balls his eyes,
That held a pretty portion of surprise,
‘Zounds! what a blockhead! I have burnt the barn!’
