THE CONCERT OF THE BEASTS.
Attention—noble auditory!
While the rebeck I tune;
And be prepared with plaudits soon,
When ye have heard my story.
Certain of the subject beasts
Of the mighty Lion's court
An entertainment musical,
To make his Royal Highness sport
Upon his birth-day festival,
Devised,—to grace the occasion gay,
And pleasure to insure,
They organized an orchestra
To make success secure.
As often it doth happen,
Little wisdom was displayed,
In choosing actors competent,
That understood their trade.
Naught was said about the Nightingale,
Of the Blackbird not a word;
Of Lark or Linnet no one thought,
Or the Canary-bird.
Singers, much less accomplished
But more self-satisfied,
Took upon themselves the charge
The music to provide.
Before the time appointed
To electrify all hearts,
Each musician loudly vaunted
How they would play their parts.
At length the choir the prelude
Commenced within the hall,
Before the expectant multitude,—
Adroit performers all—
Two lusty Crickets treble sang;
Frog and locust took their place
To do up the contra-alto;
Hog and Donkey grunted base;
While, to make up the melody,
Two Hornets brisk the tenor try.
With what delicious cadence
And accent delicate
The orchestra resounded,
Sure I need not here repeat;
I'll only say, that most
Stopped up their ears, at once;
But, from deference to their host,
Their annoyance sought to hide,
At the barbarous dissonance,
That echoed far and wide.
Frog saw, by the wry faces,
That no bravo's cheering shout
Or glad applause awaited them;
And sprang the choir from out.
"The stupid Ass is out of tune
Most shockingly," said he.
"No—'tis the treble," Donkey brayed,
"That mars the harmony."
"The Hog, he fairly spoils the whole,"
A squeaking Cricket cried.
"No, no!"—said Chucky,—"on my soul,
I say the Locust, worse than all,
Out of all time and tune doth squall."
"That speech becomes you very ill!
Mind what you say!"—in accents shrill,
Locust angrily replied.
"'Tis plain that those confounded tenors,
The Hornets, are the real sinners!"
The Lion silenced the dispute:
"Before the concert was begun
Each puffed-up and conceited brute
Was bragging loud—yea, every one;
And challenged confident applause,
As if, to him alone, were due,
The honor of the harmony
Produced by your melodious crew.
Now the experiment is made,
And your incompetence betrayed—
On your own shares, ye all are dumb,
In this outrageous pandemonium,
And, to avoid presumptuous shame,
Each on his neighbor lays the blame.
Now get ye gone—and from my sight
Forever banished be.
The day beware, that e'er ye dare
Again to sing to me!"
Such, Heaven grant to be
The issue of the fray,
When writers, two or three,
Their scanty wits uniting,—
If the book should make its way
Each arrogates the praise;
If not—the blame he lays
On his comrade's wretched writing.
FABLE XLIV.
THE SWORD AND THE SPIT.
Sheer, sharp and trusty, tempered well,
A Sword, as good as from the skilful hand
Of famous smith Toledan ever fell,
The shock of many a combat did withstand.
In turn, it several masters truly served,
And brought them safe through dangers many.
Though better fate it well deserved,
At auctions sold for paltry penny,
Some luckless chance—who ever would have thought it?—
At last, into an inn's dark corner brought it.
There—like an useless thing—upon a pin
Hung up, it ate itself away
In useless rust, until the maid, one day,
By order of the innkeeper, her master,—
A precious blockhead, too, he must have been,—
Into the kitchen took it,—sad disaster!—
To spit a hen. Degrading—shame upon her!—
What once had been a blade of proof and honor.
While this was going on within the inn,
A certain stranger, newly come to court,—
A clown, that would a modish life begin,—
Did to a cutler for a sword resort.
The cutler saw that, for the case in hand,
The sword was but an idle ornament;
And, if the hilt could but inspection stand,
No matter what the blade might be—so sent
His booby customer, for the time, away;—
"A sword should ready be another day."
The rogue, then, takes an old and battered spit,
Which, in his kitchen, service long had done;
He cleans, and polishes, and sharpens it;
And sells it to the unsuspecting clown,—
In such transactions miserably raw,—
For the good sword of Thomas d'Ayala.
An arrant knave, as gallows e'er did cure,—
The innkeeper as great a blockhead,—sure.
With equal knavery and stupidity,
May not we charge these vile translators
Who, with their works, in wretched rivalry,
We see infesting all the world of Letters?
One, with bad versions, famous writers fits—
Thus turning noble swords to vulgar spits.
Another clothes vile works in sounding words;
Then, seeks to sell his spits for trusty swords.