"Man is endowed with reason; beasts
Allowed their instinct—that at least:
But here's an author owning neither—
No reason and no instinct either:
He thinks he has all natures known,
And yet he does not know his own.
Now here's the spaniel—who is drawn
The master spirit sprung to fawn.
Pooh, pooh! a courtier in his calling
Must fawn more deeply for enthralling.
Now there's the fox—his attribute
To plunder—as we say, 'to loot.'
Pooh, pooh! a lawyer at that vice
Would outfox Reynard in a trice.
Then come the wolf and tiger's brood;
He bans them for their gust of blood.
Pooh, pooh! he bloodier is than they;
They slay for hunger—he for pay."
A publisher, who heard him speak,
And saw him read Parsee and Greek,
Thought he had found a prize: "Dear sir,
If you against mankind will stir,
And write upon the wrongs of Siam,
No man is better pay than I am;
Or, since 'tis plain that you know true Greek,
To make an onslaught on the rubrick."
Twisting his trunk up like a wipsy,
"Friend," said the elephant, "you're tipsy:
Put up your purse again—be wise;
Leave man mankind to criticise.
Be sure you ne'er will lack a pen
Amidst the bustling sons of men;
For, like to game cocks and such cattle,
Authors run unprovoked to battle,
And never cease to fight and fray them
Whilst there's a publisher to pay them.
FABLE XI.
The Turkey, Peacock, and Goose.
As specks appear on fields of snow,
So blemishes on beauty show.
A peacock fed in a farm-yard
Where all the poultry eyed him hard—
They looked on him with evil eye,
And mocked his sumptuous pageantry:
Proud of the glories he inherited,
He sought the praises they well merited.
Then, to surprise their dazzled sight,
He spread his glories to the light.
His glories spread, no sooner seen
Than rose their malice and their spleen.
"Behold his insolence and pride—
His haughtiness!" the turkey cried.
"He trusts in feathers; but within
They serve to hide his negro skin."
"What hideous legs!" exclaimed the goose;
"The tail to hide them were of use.
And hearken to his voice: it howls
Enough to frighten midnight owls."
"Yes, they are blemishes, I own,"
Replied the peacock; "harsh the tone
Is of my voice—no symmetry
In my poor legs; yet had your eye
Been pleased to mark my radiant train,
You might have spared detraction's vein.
For if these shanks which you traduce
Belonged to turkey or to goose,
Or had the voice still harsher been,
They had not been remarked or seen;
But Envy, unto beauties blind,
Seeks blemishes to soothe her mind."