The Project Gutenberg eBook ofFables

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofFablesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: FablesAuthor: Sir Ronald RossRelease date: February 4, 2015 [eBook #48153]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: E-text prepared by David T. Jones, Mardi Desjardins, Neanderthal, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FABLES ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: FablesAuthor: Sir Ronald RossRelease date: February 4, 2015 [eBook #48153]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: E-text prepared by David T. Jones, Mardi Desjardins, Neanderthal, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)

Title: Fables

Author: Sir Ronald Ross

Release date: February 4, 2015 [eBook #48153]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by David T. Jones, Mardi Desjardins, Neanderthal, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FABLES ***

The Project Gutenberg eBook, Fables, by Sir Ronald Ross

Title pageFABLESBYRONALD ROSSOF WHICH COPIES TO THE NUMBER OF TWO HUNDRED ANDFIFTY ARE NOW PRIVATELY PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITYPRESS OF LIVERPOOL, ANNO DOMINI MCMVII, AND ARETO BE HAD OF THE AUTHOR AT THE UNIVERSITY ANDOF HENRY YOUNG AND SONS OF SOUTH CASTLE STREET,LIVERPOOL, FOR TWO SHILLINGS AND SIX PENCE.Entered at Stationers’ HallFor my Children. . . . . . . .These Fables were written in Indiabetween the years 1880 and 1890CONTENTSAN EXPOSTULATION WITH TRUTHARIEL AND THE HIPPOPOTAMUSTHE FROG, THE FAIRY, AND THE MOONTHE TROLL AND THE MOUNTAINTHE TOAD AND THE FAYSTHE PARSON AND THE ANGELPUCK AND THE CROCODILETHE VIRTUOUS GOATTHE TRUTH OF TRUTHTHE MAN, THE LION, AND THE FLYORPHEUS AND THE BUSY ONESTHE POET AND THE PENMANTHE PITEOUS EWETHE CONTEST OF BIRDSALASTOROCEAN AND THE ROCKDEATH AND LOVECALYPSO TO ULYSSESTHE STAR AND THE SUNTHE POET’S RETIREMENTAn Expostulation with TruthUttered by the Well Meaning PoetAltho’ you live aloft so far,Transcendent Goddess, in your star,Pray, try to see us as we are.Consider—and be more forgiving—Life is not reasoning but believing,And we must work to get our living.Expound with logic most exactAnd rightly marshal every fact—D’you think we thank you for your act?D’you think we’ve nothing else to doBut to distinguish false from true?—We’re lawyers, doctors, parsons too.But for our little fond delusionsWe’d never come to our conclusions,And then—just think of the confusions!You pain us when you contradict.Your presence would the less afflictIf you were not so very strict.Dear Lady, take this sober view,It matters little what is true—The world is not the place for you.I rede you therefore, go away;Or, if you really mean to stay,Let’s hear your views another day.Ariel and the HippopotamusDedicated to Rural MagnatesFine Ariel, serf to Prospero,Sped on the Great MeridianFor jetty pearls from AndamanTo make a chaplet to declareThe beauty of Miranda’s hair,When at the desert African,Out of his master’s ken, and slow,Lag’d on his errand, loth to go:For sweltering Sol with leaden beamMade stagnant all the windy streamAnd suck’d from earth a stifling steam.There idling still, the lazy SpriteBeheld below, beneath his flight,The Lord of Rivers, blackly bright,Who, planted in a marshy bed,On mighty rushes munching fedAnd sigh’d for more the more he sped.‘Good day, my lord; I hope you’re well,’Quoth then the jocund Ariel.‘Why, thank’ee, Sir, sound as a bell;Save I’d complain, did I but choose,My appetite’s so poor I loseHalf this fine fodder. What’s the news?’‘Great Sir, the news I brought awayIs not so good, I’m sad to say—Jove has the gout again to-day.’‘Why,’ said the Hippopotamus,‘That ain’t no call to make a fuss;I’ve had the same and am no wuss.’‘’Tis said that Cytherea, queenOf beauty, weds to-day at e’enThe sooty Vulcan hump’d and mean.’‘There,’ said the Hippopotamus,‘That party I will not discuss.She might have me and do no wuss.’‘Apollo, lord of lay and lyre,Hath seated now his Heavenly ChoirUpon Parnassus’ starry spire.’‘Foh!’ said the Hippopotamus,‘For that I do not care a cuss,And they may sing until they bus’!’‘Jove, sad for Io, hath aver’dNo sound of laughter shall be heardOne year in Heav’n, nor witty word.’‘Ah!’ said the Hippopotamus,‘That there don’t suit the likes of us.I vow I won’t be muzzled thus.’‘Farewell, Sir,’ quoth the lissom Sprite;‘Behoves me tear me from your sight.I must about the world ere night.’‘Farewell, young friend,’ responded he;‘The work I have to do you see.But if you hear the Thund’rer sighFor counsel, Mars for an ally,Dian for love, I think that I—I pray you say a word for me.’The Frog, the Fairy, and the MoonDedicated to LoversThe Frog that loved the Changing StarWas worship’d by a Fairy,Who made for him a waistcoat trimOf silk and satin, soft and airy,Button’d with eyes of firefliesIn manner military.And more to move his languid loveA crimson cap she made him,According to many, plumed with antennaeOf moths that rob the flowers’ honey;And with her kisses, lovers’ money,For that she gave she paid him.She fed him too, till he was blue,With endearing terms on caddis worms;And caught for him the wriggling germsOf midges; and with tender patsShe wiled and woo’d him while he chew’d ’em:Till he said, ‘Bother! I love another.I love the Star I see afar,That changeth oft her fires so softFrom blue to red and red to blue;And that is why I love not you.Therefore I pray you take awayYour tedious arm, which does me harmBecause it makes me feel too warm.But give to me my new guitarThat I may sing to yonder Star.’With that he gaped and guggled soThe Fairy into fits did go;And he bounded near and bounded far,Strumming the strings of his guitar,And tried to reach the Changing Star.And all the while with his splay feetKept time unto the music meet.With hat and waistcoat on he sprang,And as he bounded still he sang.And this the Saga says is whyThe Frog he always jumps so high;For, though the Star is very far,To reach it he must ever try,Until it’s time for him to die.As for the foolish Fay, ’tis wist,She wept herself into a mist,Which wanders where the Clouds are strewnAbout the deathbed of the Moon,When with wan lips, in sudden swoon(Because her unkind lord, the Sun,Will ever from her loveless run),She cries amid her Starry Maids:‘Ah me, alas, my beauty fades!’—And so sinks down into the Shades.The Troll and the MountainDedicated to the GreatSaid the Troll to the Mountain, ‘Old fellow, how goes it?’The Mountain responded, ‘My answer—suppose it.’Said the Troll, ‘Dear old friend, you are grumpy to-day.’Said the Mountain, ‘I think you had best run away.’The Troll said, ‘You suffer, old boss, from the blues.’The Mountain retorted, ‘I may if I choose.’‘Ah, that,’ cried the Troll, ‘is effect of the liver.’‘Take care,’ quoth the Hill, ‘or I’ll give you the shiver.’‘By my cap and its feather,’ the Spirit replies,‘You’ll be getting too portly without exercise.’‘You pert little fly,’ said the Rock in a rage,‘I will teach you to chaff at a hill of my age.’So he jump’d up to punish the impudent Fay,Who wisely retorted by running away;Until the old Mountain broke right down the middle,When back he came nimbly and played on the fiddle.My Advice to all Mountains that make such a stir, it’s‘Don’t get in a passion with pert little spirits.’The Toad and the FaysDedicated to PhilosophersThere sat a Toad upon a lawnLost in a dream of fancy;His right foot in a Rose was set,His left upon a Violet,His paunch upon a Pansy.Some merry Elfins passing byAt sight of him were sore affrighted,And would have fled; until he said,‘My little dears, if you knew whyI look to heaven thus and sigh,I think that you would be delighted.The Stars rise up and fall, the StarsDo shine in pools and stilly places,The Lilies blink on sandy bars,The Midges move in flickering mazes;But I profoundly pore upon,And reason, think, and cogitate,And marvel, muse, and meditate,Why had the ancient MastodonSo few sad hairs upon his pate?’The Parson and the AngelThus spake the Preacher. All aver’dA saintlier man was never heard.But no one knew that o’er his headAn Angel wrote the things he said,And these not only, but as wellThe things he thought but did not tell;And thus the double discourse fell.‘Beloved Brethren, never doWhat makes your (neighbour) censure you;That is, conceive yourself as good(And so impress the neighbourhood).Make you yourself a law to selfAnd so you will (enjoy yourself).For the best way to ’scape the devilIs to (protest you are not evil).For virtue lies in this, I take it,To drink the physic (but not shake it);To gulp it dutifully down(But leave the bitter dregs alone).Desire not aught of any man(But take your due); so that you can(Quite safely unto others doAs you wish they should unto you);And thus’—so summed the portly Priest—‘Be chosen for the Wedding Feast(As City Councillor at least).’Puck and the CrocodileDedicated to the GodlyPuck, wandering on the banks of Nile,Beheld one day a Crocodile,That with heart-wringing sighs and sobs,With groans and cries and throes and throbs,Made moan, until his rushing tearsRan down the wrinkles of the sand.‘What ails thee, Monster?’ made demandThe Sprite, ‘and why these million tears?’‘I weep, I shriek,’ the other cries,‘To see the World’s iniquities.’‘And I with you,’ the Elf replies.‘The World,’ resumed the Crocodile,‘Is full of Cruelty and Guile.’‘Except for you,’ Puck said, ‘it’s vile.’‘Honour and Chivalry are dead;The Soul of Pity vanished.’‘Save in yourself, Sir,’ Robin said.‘How are the Righteous much abhor’d,And silent still the Godly Word!’‘Not while you live,’ the Sprite aver’d.‘My friend, I thank you,’ said the Beast;‘I think you sympathise at least.The world is evil—pray beware—How fat you are, I do declare!God grant us all some day remission—I vow you’re in a fine condition.I think that all—I must say thatFor a fairy you are very fat.What unctuous food—excuse me, friend—You fays must find in fairy land.As I was saying, all is not—Fie, what a toothache I have got!See here, this molar. Pray look nearer,And you shall see the bad place clearer.Nay if you could but just creep inAnd say which tooth the mischief’s in—’‘No thank you, friend,’ our Puck replied;‘I’ll keep upon the outer side.With many large soul’d folk I’ve metI’ve found the stomach’s larger yet;And when the Righteous talk of SinLook to your pockets or your skin.’The Virtuous GoatDedicated to TeachersUpon a mountain lived of old(So says the Saga that is wise)An ancient Goat of portly size,Well known for virtues manifold,Who once to take the evening airReposed upon a meadow there,With Wife and Children in a row;And thus endeavour’d to bestowOn them (and all of us) adviceTo make our conduct more preciseAnd lead at last to paradise.‘My dears be Good. All else forgotYours shall be still a happy lot.Enough the Rule. Do not enquireThe How and Why of things—or higher.Be Virtuous, and neglect the Schools;For Wisdom was but made for fools.Scorn still the shallow Mind that priesIn science, art, philosophies;Essays the future to forecast,Forsooth, by study of the past;Maintains the laws should be (what treason!)Compounded by the use of reason;And will advise e’en men of noteTo govern well by thinking o’t;Avers when honest people chatterThat he knows best who knows the matter;And even go so far as stateGoats can by thinking mend their fate.So hold this saw before your eyes,Be Good and let who will be wise.’Alas, with his own virtue blind,He fail’d to mark the Wolf behind;Who, as he seized and bore him off,Distress’d him with this bitter scoff—‘With your high views I sympathise;But better also to be Wise.’The truth of TruthWithin a vast and gloomy FaneThere hung a Curtain to the floor,Which fill’d with terror those who cameTo wonder there or to adore;For, as the Priest had often said,Within the chamber dwelt in soothA breathing Horror, half divine,Half demon, and whose name was Truth.And none there were so doughty boldAs durst to lift the tapestry;For it was death, he said, to peerUpon the awful Mystery;Until one day—oh dreadful hour—Up jump’d a foolish hardy Youth,Who cried, ‘I care not if I die,But I will have the truth of Truth.’There came a Crowd to see the deed—To hear him shriek within and fall;But they were much astonish’d whenHe found—why Nothing there at all;Except indeed upon the floor(Ill fortune take the prying sinner!)A Pasty and a Pot of BeerWhich the poor Priest had got for dinner.The Man, the Lion, and the FlyDedicated to ReformersThere was a Man to wisdom deadWho took a mad thought in his head—‘A second Hercles I,’ he said.‘Behold,’ he cried, ‘I will go forthFrom east to west, from south to north,And with this knotted bludgeon bashThe Things that Sting, and those that GnashBlood-dripping teeth, and Giants glumSo mighty that with finger and thumbThey pick and eat chance passengers.And I will slay each thing that stirsTo grief of man and dole of beast,Until the world from wrong releasedPronounce me Emperor at least.’But as he spoke, upon the wayA casual Lion chanced to stray,Just as on any other day;And he, to measure of his thoughtIn ready deed inferior nought,Sprang at him furious, and they fought.Three hours they fought, until the sunYmounted in the vault begunTo make them wish that they had done.‘Friend,’ quoth the Lion, ‘or why foeUpon my word I do not know—If we fight more we melt, I trow.’‘A little grace,’ the Man replied,Wiping his brow, ‘is not denied;You’ll have but little when you’ve died.’So each beneath a tree disposedTook ease. The languid Lion dozed.The Man, who should have done likewise(So says the Saga that is wise),Was waked each time he sued reposeBy a great Fly upon his nose.First in the one ear then in t’otherThe winged monster buzz’d with bother;The twitching tender nostrils tried,The corners of the lips beside;From lip to eyelid leapt with fuss,Like old dame in an omnibus;Delighted vastly to have metSo great a store of unctuous sweat.At last to desperation drivenThe Man accursed the Fly to Heaven,And with his bludgeon great assay’dTo stay the small annoying raid.Wielding to right and left he smote;But still the nimble Fly, remote,Laughed at his anger and enjoy’dFresh perspiration.Thus annoy’d,His bludgeon broken on the tree,A helpless, weary wight was he.The Lion rose, refresh’d, with glee;‘I’m ready now,’ he said, ‘my man,To end the work the Fly began.’And this (the Chronicler explains)Is why the Lion still remains.Orpheus and the Busy OnesDedicated to the PublicOrpheus, the Stygian current cross’d,When Hell stood still to hear him sing,Torn from Eurydice twice lost(Almost by music saved e’er lost)Over the world went wandering.One day, sate on a mountain slope,Weary and sick for want of hope,(Or rather, shall we term it, dead,Since life is gone when hope is sped),He twang’d his lyre; till song sublimeOut of the ashes of his primeAnd fire of grief like Phoenix sprang;And all the startled hillside rang.Aroused, the dew-engrossed FlowersTurn’d to him all their maiden eyes;And from the sweet forgotten bowersFlew forth a thousand Butterflies.The Trees forgot their roots. Beneath,The noisy Crickets of the heathRub’d each his forehead with amazeTo hear one sing such heavenly lays.Under her stone the lumpy ToadPeer’d forth; even the solid sodGrew peopled with emerging Worms—Such power hath Music on all forms.Above, the pinched Pard amort(She had three cublings in a den)Forgot her hunger, and in shortReposed herself to listen then,Upon her furry paws her chin;And from her vantage watch’d the Poet,Delighted, but enraged to know it,While all her spotted sleek of skinHeaved with the pleasure she took in.Not only this, but shall I say ’t,The very Hills began debateWhether, to hear the singing clearer,They should not move a little nearer.Only, the Bard, to these strange waysAccustom’d, noted with amazeA herd of Hogs that near him fed,Which might for all he sang be dead.He ceased his song and tried the scaleTo find out where his voice might fail;His lyre divine descanted soonTo see the strings were all in tune;Till satisfied that these were right,And at those Hogs astonish’d quiteThat they not to his conquering lyre,Which all things else did so admire,Gave heed, but routed in the ryeAs tho’ he had not been close by,He ask’d of them the reason why.‘Good friend,’ a Bacon old replied,‘We have too much to do beside;The roots are many, the field is wide.Should we neglect this plenteousnessWe should be wrong, you must confess—The gods some day might give us less.Our girth is great; the fodder free;This field of food must finished be.That time is short you’ll not deny.We eat but little ere we die.’The Poet and the PenmanAll night had browsed the Pinion’d SteedUpon that lush and level meadThat swathes Parnassos’ feet;Till, when the pranksome Morning StarTo van of Day’s slow-driven carCame piping past the eastern bar,A Poet him did greet.‘Your back, my Pegasos,’ he cried,‘Shall win me to the tiers espiedOf yonder shelfed hill,Where all the Great are, I opine,And on the last proud peak divineApollo and the Earnest NineAt songs symphonic still.’Tomes had the Poet, rolls and wraps,Pens at his ears, and scribbled scraps,And so essay’d the mounting—‘Stand still, O Steed, and I will climb,Tho’ weighted here with pounds of rhyme,If you will only give me time,Who’d been on stirrups counting.’The Steed stood still; the thing was done;He slided, slip’d and shuffled on,And stay’d to pen his deeds:When now the Monster’s patience wears;He lowers his head, his haunches rears;And flying past the Stallion’s earsThe Poet measures weeds.Three times attempting, three times foil’d,The Bard beheld his breeches soil’d;And on his knees the mashed greenGave an arch proof of what had been;And winds like gamboling babes unseenMade all his errant sheets revolve.For now the Morning ’gan to solveThe long-strewn sands of heav’nly cloud;And that fair Mountain noble brow’d,In snowy silv’ry laces dightShone like a bride, against the nightUnveil’d, with many-pointed light.And lo half seen thro’ level mistA Critic rode with saucy wrist,Plump, smug and smooth and portly, dress’dIn corduroys and velvet vest;Who clip’d at ease an ambling cobWith dappled nose and ears alob;While all around a barking broodOf puppies nuzzled in the rood.‘He who to climb has climbing bloodMust fear no fall in marish mud;And he who phantoms fain would rideMay sometimes sit the ground,’ he cried.At this his thighs the Poet slam’dAnd papers in his pocket ram’d;‘Be off,’ he said, ‘or else be damn’d.’‘You lose your time,’ resumed the Man,Whose oozing eyes with mirth o’erran;‘You waste your time about that BruteWhom, if ’twere mine, egad I’d shoot,So gaunt and gall’d a hack is he.But take example now from me,Who riding in this airy plightFor breakfast get an appetite;And sitting here (I am so sly)With this my pocket-sextant ITake altitude of those on high.’‘Pedant avaunt!’ the Poet cries,And mounting shoots towards the skiesAn angry palm—‘Come not anear!I, as toward the marineerThe welcome star from beacon’d browsOf headland, when the Northern blowsHis scurrilous spitting spray in airAnd lobbing billows blotch the Bear,Appears, so shall appear and shineThro’ streaming rain and hissing brineTo cheer the coming better blood;And shall be fire when thou art mud!’‘Blind is the goose that play’d the geierAnd tried to see the white sun nigher!—He flapping lies; so shall you lieAnd grovel as you think to fly!’The other cries; whose Nag amazed,Viewing the winged Stallion, gazed,Shook out her tail and with a snort,Approaching in plebeian sort,Paw’d archly at him. He with scornAnd having too long mildly borne,Rear’d, spread his wings, and buck’d and neigh’d.She with the monstrous tone affray’dShot forth her rider like a ball;Who in the mid-air, ere his fall,The like-projected Poet met.As when two Suns in furious setTogether dash with whirl and wind,Their shrieking planets drawn behind;Or two great Blacks with blinding rage,Each dragging his black wife, engage,And clash their pates upon the green(The fleas being heard to crack between),The Critic so and Bard pell mellFighting concuss’d and fighting fell;And puppies tug’d their tatters.Bruises for breakfast got the one;Black eyes the other, and of Fame none.They fought it out, and when they’d doneWent home as rough as ratters.The Piteous EweDedicated to KingsKing Lion yawning at his gatesOn deep-empiled mosses, whenThe sunset gilt the underwood,Awaking claw’d in idle moodThe frighten’d dead leaves of his den,Content; when lo (the Rune relates)A tiny piercing note was heard.It was the Mouse (the Rune aver’d)Who saved the Sov’reign’s honour whenThe hunters mesh’d him in the glen.For that admitted now to cheepBefore the Audience half asleep,She introduced a weeping Sheep.‘Sire,’ said the Mouse, ‘with much adoThro’ wicked guards I bring to youThis much wrong’d creature to imploreJustice against the evil doer.’At this, no rhetorician,The shiv’ring Mutton then beganOf how three lovely Lambkins lostThe Wolf had taken to his den,Deep-delved in a dreadful glen—And ah! to her the bitter cost!One from her side when day was deadThe monster stole. Another tookAt gambol in the glassing brook.The third, the Mother’s last delight,When now the many-lamped NightNo more, with mystic moon aloft,Gave shudd’ring shadows to the flowersAnd stars of wan irradiance softTo every dewdrop; but the hoursOf Dawn and Daybreak, Sister Hours,Twin Lovelinesses, lit the world,And the confident buds unfurl’d,He seized with mangling tushes, tillThe innocent flower-eyes of the wood,That wont with early dew to fill,Grew piteous-wet with tears of blood;The mother helpless. So he rush’dWith shaggy flanks, and snarling gnash’dThe gripping teeth that gleam’d betweenHis cruel red lips scarcely seen,While springing branches clash’d behind,And left her weeping to the wind.‘Ho!’ roar’d the Monarch, ‘call the Court!With this black ruffian I’ll be short.How often have I giv’n commandThe young shall not be taken’—andHis thunder rang across the land,Until the forest flowers for fearShut up their petals not to hear.Then his gay Herald, the Macaw,Screams out the hest from hill to haugh,And from a thousand delled densRun forth his frighten’d denizens,To share the Council, or to knowWhat makes the Monarch bellow so.And, as they gather, to and froHe paces, and his red eyes flashEnough to turn them all to ash.Arranged before him in a rowThey take their places, high and low.The Wicked Wolf between his guards,Two grave and stalwart Leopards,Stands tip-toe, snarling, and repeatingIt was not he who did the eating;And, with his tail between his legs,For justice, justice only, begs.‘You or another,’ roar’d the King,‘I’ll find the one who did the thing—But first, Sir Premier, please reply(A Constitutional Monarch I)Why do you let my people die?’At this, with deference, said the Bear,’Twas not his fault—he was not there.Still lab’ring in affairs of stateTo make the kingdom good and great(Altho’ the wicked OppositionDid ever thwart him in his mission),A sleepless eye he always castUpon the future and the pastTo frustrate—hard for anyone—What the Last Government had done.At present he’d in contemplationSome mighty measures for the nation—To bring the Butterflies to termsBy giving franchise to the Worms;To teach the Gnats to carry logs;To give self-government to HogsBecause they had resolved to shirk,With noble Scorn, ignoble Work;To succour Wildcats, and to keepThe Wolves secure against the Sheep.And here he thought he smelt a plot:This trivial matter, was it notA little juggle to discreditThis last great measure?—There, he’d said it.But still his heart bled at the woeOccasion’d by his Party’s foe.At this the Tiger shriek’d with rage(The while his Secret’ry the Fox,Took papers from his office box),‘Unhappy land! accursed age!’He cried, ‘You seek to murder meWith weight of brute Majority;And me not only, but the causeOf Pity, Justice, and the Laws!Take back the charges you impute;It is not me but you who do’t.When we controll’d the Sov’reign’s landThe sun was bright, the breeze was bland.The roving Heifer, free from care,Scarce needed sniff th’ untainted airFor danger, and the young GazelleDrank heedless at the hidden well;And even I with happy smileWould lay me down to slumber, whileThe careless Lambkins gambol’d round,And Peace and Plenty blest the ground!With this fine eloquence inflamedThe rival factions loudly namedEach other Brute, and (it is said)Would soon have killed each other dead:But now the Boar with growl and gruntAnd bristling juba leapt to front.‘Accursed both!’ he cried. ‘What, what!Think you, ye fools, we know you not?Each canting, lying partisan,Who prates of Mercy and the LawWith merciless and murd’rous maw,Will always eat us when he can—Us, who with boon and bloodless toilSeek but the acorns for our spoil—Were not our eyes and tushes brightTo quell such bandits of the night.Why, e’en the Monarch—’Here a roarFrom all the Council check’d the Boar;And soon the King with pensive mienSaid, ‘This is not the way, I weenTo reach the truth—more difficultThan we supposed. Let us consultOur learned Judge, Lord Elephant.’So he advances, complaisantWith rocky brow, and at his earA pen as long as any spear;Small eyes that saw behind the TruthConvenience; and, as if to sootheDissention, with a swaying motionFrom side to side. ‘Sire, I’ve a notion,’He said, ‘there is no case at all.The plaintiff can no witness call,And hers the only evidence,Which, rightly sifted, has no sense.For in the night she says he tookHer first, her second in the brook.How could she see him in the dark?And for the second, pray you mark,Perhaps it was more likely drown’d.As for the third, when she look’d round,He’d gone: how did she know him then?This is of fancy, not of ken.Moreover, in th’ alternative,Sir Wolf can plead he could not liveBecause the din the lambkins madeAbout him slumb’ring in the shade.As for the much-bereaved Dame,With whom I deeply sympathise—Such sorrow wets my foolish eyes—I fear she may be thought to blameBecause she troubled MajestyBefore she had instructed me(Of course I ridicule the fee);And I should be prepared, in short,To hear it argued in the CourtWhether she did not bring the chargeIn order merely to dischargeAn ancient grudge against her foe—’‘Enough! and let the prisoner go!’The Sov’reign said. ‘And as for you,Dishonest and malignant Ewe,We do not order you to death(Whate’er your conduct meriteth)Only because it pleaseth usTo show we are magnanimous.’(He was indeed much praised for that,And more because the Sheep was fat).‘Break up the Court. Enough of worry,It’s time to dine, so let’s be merry.’With that they shifted in a hurry;But in the scramble no one knew(So says the Saga that is true)What happen’d to the Piteous Ewe.The Contest of BirdsDedicated to all the ExcellentThe Eagle which at Jove’s right handWas wont to take imperial stand,Proud of his perch, and with fond beakThe Thund’rer’s fondling finger tweak,Or blinking in sage thought t’ assumeHalf sov’reignty and weigh the doom,Was sick; for the World he sigh’d,His Mountains and his Forests wide;So true it is, not Jove’s right handIs worth to us our Native Land,And that the Little we have notCan make the Much we have forgot.Therefore to earth with arching vans,Released a while, the sky he spansIn flight; sinks thro’ the tempest; takesThe feather-fretting aid of wind;And now, new born with pleasure, breaksUpon a beauteous Vale confined.Now it is said that on that dayAll Birds that are had ceased their play,And question’d, each with heat and brawl,Which was the noblest of them all:Who when they saw the Eagle standAmidst them (now unused to standUpon the dull, flat, level earth)Burst into loud contemptuous mirth.‘It seems,’ exclaimed a civil Crow,‘You come here, friend, quite apropos.For we discuss’d the noblest here,And you are truly the most queer.Your wings and tail, excuse me friend,Seem too long for your other end.Pray change your—if I may suggest—Your tailor and be better dress’d.Look at myself how neat I go,And in the latest fashion too.’‘Or were your plumes, my friend, more brightWe could excuse your homely plight,’The Peacock said: ‘pray just admireMy plumes of azure, gold and fire.My dames about me ever moveIn wonder, and confess their love.Whene’er I show myself,’ said he,‘The Gods look down from Heaven to see.’‘Base virtues of the body!’ criedThe Parrot. ‘Is the soul denied?Know friend that beauteous words are worthMore than these qualities of earth.How wise I am admire, and knowIt is by study I am so.Still lost in contemplation IQuite understand the earth and sky;Can talk of wonders without end,More e’en than I can comprehend;Or say the wisest words, I ween,Although I don’t know what they mean.’‘Pshaw!’ said the Vulture, ‘fair or wise,You shall some day become my prize.Your merits shall be mine, ’od shake ’em,Whenever I may choose to take ’em;And when I have digested youYour virtues shall become mine too.As for our friend the new arrival,If he contend to be my rival,Let’s fight it out in heaven’s name!’‘What base arbitrement! for shame!’Exclaimed the mincing Nightingale.‘If he aspire let him prevailAgainst me in the test of songWhere he who triumphs is most strong.’‘Beware of pride,’ the Dodo said;‘I see that all of you are ledAstray by arrogance. For me,I glory in humility.I am so humble I confessMy utter wicked worthlessness.I say with tears’—and here he blowsThe part that should have been his nose—‘I say with tears I dote uponBeing beaten, bruised and trampled on.I love to be reminded stillOf all my faults and treated ill.So ’tis, I think, confess’d by allMy virtue’s not equivocal.’‘To me,’ the lofty Stork aver’d,‘This seems a most plebeian bird.With nails so long and legs so short,He cannot be of noble sort;Tho’ in his nose, I must confess,I see some sign of gentleness.I cannot really stoop so far(Whom all the Frogs and Mice in warAlready have confess’d their king)As rival this uncrowned thing.My subjects would at once repineNor let me eat ’em, I opine,As all contented subjects should,Did I disgrace my royal blood.’Which heard, the fiery Eagle’s eyesWith noble anger and surpriseFlash’d out. ‘Still dear what is most cheapYe little woodland creatures keep,’He cried; and flung aloft his head,Gazed up to heaven, his pinions spread(The wind of which made timorous stirAmong the things that round him were)And leaping on the air begunAscent, and vanish’d in the sun.Alastor’Tis said that a noble Youth of oldWas to his native village lostAnd to his home and aged sire;For he had wander’d (it is told)Where, pinnacled in eternal Frost,Apollo leads his awful Choir.Awful, for nought of human warmsThe agony of Their Song sublime,Which like the breath of Ice is given,Ascending in vapour from all forms,Where Gods in clear alternate chimeReveal Their mystery-thoughts to Heaven.Nor in those regions of windless ColdIs fiery the Sun tho’ fierce in light;But frozen-pale the numbed MoonWanders along the ridges that foldEnormous Peaks, what time the NightRivals with all her stars the Noon.For there, not dimly as here, the Stars,But globed and azure and crimson tinct,Climb up the windless wastes of Snow,Gold-footed, or thro’ the long-drawn barsOf mountain Mist with eyes unblink’dAnd scorn, gaze down on the world below;Or high on the topmost Peak and endOf ranges stand with sudden blaze,Like Angels born in spontaneous birth;Or wrap themselves in flame and descendBetween black foreheads of Rock in haze,Slowly like grieved gods to earth.And there for ever the patient WindRakes up the crystals of dry Snow,And mourns for ever her work undone;And there for ever, like Titans blindTheir countenance lifting to Heaven’s glow,The sightless Mountains yearn for the Sun.There nightly the numbed Eagle quells(Full-feathered to his feet of horn)His swooning eye, his eyrie won,And slumbers, frozen by frosty spellsFast to the pinnacle; but at MornUnfettered, leaps toward the Sun.He heard, he saw. Not to the airDared breathe a breath; but with his sightWreak’d on Immortals mortal wrong,And dared to see them as they were—The black Peaks blacken’d in Their light,The white Stars flashing with Their song.So fled. But when revealing MornShow’d him descended, Giant grown,Men ant-like, petty, mean and weak,He rush’d returning. Then in scornTh’ Immortals smote him to a StoneThat aches for ever on the Peak.Ocean and the RockThe Rock.Cease, O rude and raging Sea,Thus to waste thy war on me.Hast thou not enough assail’dAll these ages, Fool, and fail’d?The Ocean.Gaunt and ghastly Skeleton,Remnant of a time that’s gone,Tott’ring in thy last decayDurst thou still to darken day?The Rock.Empty Brawler brawl no more;Cease to waste thy watery warOn my bastion’d Bases broad,Sanctified by Time and God.The Ocean.Thou that beëst but to be,Scornest thou my Energy?Not much longer lasts the strife.I am Labour, I am Life.The Rock.Roar then, roar, and vent thy Surge;Thou not now shalt drone my dirge.Dost imagine to dismayThis my iron breast with Spray?The Ocean.Relic of primaeval slime,I shall whelm thee in my time.Changeless thou dost ever die;Changing but immortal, I.Death and LoveDeath, pacing between a ghastly MoonDying low down on the western HillsAnd the Star, bright usher of the Morn,The clear Dawn cryophor,Trod frosty footprints in the dewUpon a ridge; and beholding thereA lovely Lady lain belowHis tingling Arrow sped—A Barb with a burning icicle tip’d,Torn from the frore beard of the Northern StarThat stares on the shuddering pyramidsOf crumbling Arctic ice.With his Arrow he smote her and cried,‘Come not here!Not here will I bear thee. This is My world—The world of Death where Beauty dies,And I, I Death am god.’She sobbing arose, and sobbing sank;And would have perish’d, but Love that wayFell like a flame, and supported herAnd warm’d her dying hands;And said to him, ‘Fool, the touch of thy barbIs poison that I can poison with Love;For as thou art Death unto all the world,Even so am I Death to thee.’Calypso to Ulysses’ ’’’ ’’’ ’’’’ ’’’ ’’’ ’’Go, go from me sorrowful Wanderer—Go, go from me, tho’ no Man dearerThan thou art. The Stars will revisit me,And Thou not forget me O Ocean.Alone here, alone in my SolitudeI’ll sit by the Ocean for ever,And mourn for the Hero so lost to me—So loved by me, Lost, and no omen.Monotonous Waters shall sing to me;Shall sigh to me, sing of my Hero.Immortal like me is my Misery,And when will my Sorrow grow older.Immortal like me is my Love for thee;But mortal like thee, alas, thine is.I have no enchantment to quicken thee,Nor thou to console me with Death.The Star and the SunIn Darkness and pacing the thunder-beat ShoreBy many Waves,No sound being near to me there but the hoarseCicala’s cry,While that unseen Sword, the Zodiacal Light,Falchion of Dawn,Made clear all the Orient and wanner the Silvery Stars,I heard the fine flute of the Fast Fading Fire,The Morning Star,Pipe thus to the Glimmering Glories of Night,And sing, ‘O World,If I even leave thee then Who can remain?’But from the DeepThe Thundering Sun upsprang, and replied, ‘Even I.’The Poet’s RetirementDown from that blithe Idalian HillWhere Violets drink of dew their fill,And wading thro’ wet eastern FlowersWith wash’d feet Eos and the HoursCome laughing down, I laughing came.The Morn had now her threads of flameInlaid to Earth’s green tapestries,Gold-inwoven; and to their kneesIn chilly baths of thridding rillsAt tremble stood luce Daffodils;When lo I mark’d toward me moveThose Maidens Three whom poets love.‘O whither away, rash Youth,’ they cried,‘Singing thro’ daffodils dost thou stride?’‘Ladies, I wander for a while’—And here I duck’d and doff’d in style—‘I wander by Bourn, I wander by Byre,By Cape and Cote and Castle Spire,And sometime stick in puddled Mire;Or where the shrieking moon-drawn TidesDrench dripping jags on Mountain sides;Or twanging strings sound gay reprieveTo smoky Villages at eve,The while toward their wattled homeThe baaing Sheep do go, I roam,And when the paddock’d Ass careersMirthful, with high prick’d tail and ears.And I have left behind me thereMy Hippocrate teaching the air;And Learning prim; and Venus tooNow whipping Cupid with her shoe.’Then, of those slipper’d Maidens, SheRobed in flush rose red answer’d me,Who brightly gazing with mild lookHeld still a finger-parted book.‘Come then,’ she cried, ‘with me and dwellIn my Valley of Asphodel,Which is a land of laughing rillsAnd hung about with dazzling hills,Where oft the Swain with garter’d legsPiping for love in music begsNor Thisbe turns her petulant ear.There large-eyed Plato thou may’st herePersuade, or, if not idly awed,Masters a Master’s theme applaud.Or if the Thunder more inviteThan silver-threaded rain’s delightAnd sloping seats of knolled moss,Come where some thwarted Torrent tossThro’ his black gorges, mad to breakThe shining levels of the Lake.Or, if engross’d with human Fate,On ranged boards mark Love and HateEgg on to midnight-living crime,And glaring Horrors of dead timeCreep in behind. Or, restive still,Unlock’d from Hell soar Heaven’s hillThro’ sun-outstaring Cherubim.’‘Not so,’ cried one, a Virgin slim,Plumed, wrap’d and robed in such gold-greenAs thro’ woods sunset-dazed is seen,Who half upon her dinted breastApollo sculpt in little press’d.‘Come to my House of all delights,Whose marble Stairs with merged flightsAre shallow’d in the viewless Lake;Whose overpeering Turrets takeThe peep of Dawn, or flashing turnTo Eve departing golden scorn.There fairy-fluted pillars soarTo cloudy Roofs of limned lore,And Walls are window’d with rare scapesAnd rich designs: of blazon’d CapesPawing the sunset-burnish’d flood;Of rib-railed reaches of Solitude;Of rounded World and globed Skies,And Stars between, and faint Moonrise;Of black Tarns set mid mountain peaksAnd spouting silver-foamed leaks;Of Gods reclined, and Maids who move,Unlidding lustrous eyes of love;Of War; of Wisdom with a skull.And in the high aisles Fountains fullDisperse a stream of coolness thereFor frosted fern and maidenhair,And sculptured beauty hold the way.So thither go with me to-day.’Then She who all in purple dight,Brow-starr’d with orbed ruby light,Lifted from under rich deep locksLooks wrapt on Heaven, to earthly shocksDescending, thus replied: ‘Not theseFlat hapless lands of Towers and TreesMay past the morn your spirit please.But to some cold Crag, doffing drifts,His cleared brow that Heavenward lifts,And turns beneath the mistless Stars,Come. There no dew distilled marsThe many hued Sidereal blaze,And mooned Venus in white rageStares down the Dawn. Come; for that GlowThere solves to unpolluted flowThe crumbling crystals of the Snow;And windworn Cataracts wavering plungeTo lightless pine-valleys. Come, O come!Lest those faint Harmonies be unheardWhich, as from silver and gold strings stir’dBy the light fingers of the Wind,Run from the poised orbs swiftly spin’d.’She ceased, and with her finger tipMade sound the lyre upon her hip,And would have sung; but I replied,‘To be unchosen is descried;And we shall be made mad in HeavenBy need of choice of good things given.I love all Three so passing wellWhich I love best I cannot tell.Alas!’—I cried, but checked the word,For close behind a footstep heardCompel’d me turn; when lo that Maid,Dress’d in black velvet, who bewray’dPlump Popes and Pastors once to fear,Came up and took me by the ear.‘Is this the way,’ she cried, ‘you wasteTime should be spent in huddling hasteTo harry Ignorance to her den,Or pink fat Folly with the pen?Small unobserved things to use,Each with its little mite of news,To build that sheer hypothesisWhose base on righteous Reason is,Whose point among the Stars. For shame!Enough the seeming-serious game.But search the Depths; and for thy meed,A place among the men indeed.’PRINTED BYC. TINLING AND CO., LIMITED,53 VICTORIA STREET, LIVERPOOL

Title page

For my Children. . . . . . . .These Fables were written in Indiabetween the years 1880 and 1890

For my Children. . . . . . . .

These Fables were written in Indiabetween the years 1880 and 1890

AN EXPOSTULATION WITH TRUTHARIEL AND THE HIPPOPOTAMUSTHE FROG, THE FAIRY, AND THE MOONTHE TROLL AND THE MOUNTAINTHE TOAD AND THE FAYSTHE PARSON AND THE ANGELPUCK AND THE CROCODILETHE VIRTUOUS GOATTHE TRUTH OF TRUTHTHE MAN, THE LION, AND THE FLYORPHEUS AND THE BUSY ONESTHE POET AND THE PENMANTHE PITEOUS EWETHE CONTEST OF BIRDSALASTOROCEAN AND THE ROCKDEATH AND LOVECALYPSO TO ULYSSESTHE STAR AND THE SUNTHE POET’S RETIREMENT

Altho’ you live aloft so far,Transcendent Goddess, in your star,Pray, try to see us as we are.Consider—and be more forgiving—Life is not reasoning but believing,And we must work to get our living.Expound with logic most exactAnd rightly marshal every fact—D’you think we thank you for your act?D’you think we’ve nothing else to doBut to distinguish false from true?—We’re lawyers, doctors, parsons too.But for our little fond delusionsWe’d never come to our conclusions,And then—just think of the confusions!You pain us when you contradict.Your presence would the less afflictIf you were not so very strict.Dear Lady, take this sober view,It matters little what is true—The world is not the place for you.I rede you therefore, go away;Or, if you really mean to stay,Let’s hear your views another day.

Altho’ you live aloft so far,Transcendent Goddess, in your star,Pray, try to see us as we are.

Consider—and be more forgiving—Life is not reasoning but believing,And we must work to get our living.

Expound with logic most exactAnd rightly marshal every fact—D’you think we thank you for your act?

D’you think we’ve nothing else to doBut to distinguish false from true?—We’re lawyers, doctors, parsons too.

But for our little fond delusionsWe’d never come to our conclusions,And then—just think of the confusions!

You pain us when you contradict.Your presence would the less afflictIf you were not so very strict.

Dear Lady, take this sober view,It matters little what is true—The world is not the place for you.

I rede you therefore, go away;Or, if you really mean to stay,Let’s hear your views another day.

Fine Ariel, serf to Prospero,Sped on the Great MeridianFor jetty pearls from AndamanTo make a chaplet to declareThe beauty of Miranda’s hair,When at the desert African,Out of his master’s ken, and slow,Lag’d on his errand, loth to go:For sweltering Sol with leaden beamMade stagnant all the windy streamAnd suck’d from earth a stifling steam.There idling still, the lazy SpriteBeheld below, beneath his flight,The Lord of Rivers, blackly bright,Who, planted in a marshy bed,On mighty rushes munching fedAnd sigh’d for more the more he sped.‘Good day, my lord; I hope you’re well,’Quoth then the jocund Ariel.‘Why, thank’ee, Sir, sound as a bell;Save I’d complain, did I but choose,My appetite’s so poor I loseHalf this fine fodder. What’s the news?’‘Great Sir, the news I brought awayIs not so good, I’m sad to say—Jove has the gout again to-day.’‘Why,’ said the Hippopotamus,‘That ain’t no call to make a fuss;I’ve had the same and am no wuss.’‘’Tis said that Cytherea, queenOf beauty, weds to-day at e’enThe sooty Vulcan hump’d and mean.’‘There,’ said the Hippopotamus,‘That party I will not discuss.She might have me and do no wuss.’‘Apollo, lord of lay and lyre,Hath seated now his Heavenly ChoirUpon Parnassus’ starry spire.’‘Foh!’ said the Hippopotamus,‘For that I do not care a cuss,And they may sing until they bus’!’‘Jove, sad for Io, hath aver’dNo sound of laughter shall be heardOne year in Heav’n, nor witty word.’‘Ah!’ said the Hippopotamus,‘That there don’t suit the likes of us.I vow I won’t be muzzled thus.’‘Farewell, Sir,’ quoth the lissom Sprite;‘Behoves me tear me from your sight.I must about the world ere night.’‘Farewell, young friend,’ responded he;‘The work I have to do you see.But if you hear the Thund’rer sighFor counsel, Mars for an ally,Dian for love, I think that I—I pray you say a word for me.’

The Frog that loved the Changing StarWas worship’d by a Fairy,Who made for him a waistcoat trimOf silk and satin, soft and airy,Button’d with eyes of firefliesIn manner military.And more to move his languid loveA crimson cap she made him,According to many, plumed with antennaeOf moths that rob the flowers’ honey;And with her kisses, lovers’ money,For that she gave she paid him.She fed him too, till he was blue,With endearing terms on caddis worms;And caught for him the wriggling germsOf midges; and with tender patsShe wiled and woo’d him while he chew’d ’em:Till he said, ‘Bother! I love another.I love the Star I see afar,That changeth oft her fires so softFrom blue to red and red to blue;And that is why I love not you.Therefore I pray you take awayYour tedious arm, which does me harmBecause it makes me feel too warm.But give to me my new guitarThat I may sing to yonder Star.’With that he gaped and guggled soThe Fairy into fits did go;And he bounded near and bounded far,Strumming the strings of his guitar,And tried to reach the Changing Star.And all the while with his splay feetKept time unto the music meet.With hat and waistcoat on he sprang,And as he bounded still he sang.And this the Saga says is whyThe Frog he always jumps so high;For, though the Star is very far,To reach it he must ever try,Until it’s time for him to die.As for the foolish Fay, ’tis wist,She wept herself into a mist,Which wanders where the Clouds are strewnAbout the deathbed of the Moon,When with wan lips, in sudden swoon(Because her unkind lord, the Sun,Will ever from her loveless run),She cries amid her Starry Maids:‘Ah me, alas, my beauty fades!’—And so sinks down into the Shades.

As for the foolish Fay, ’tis wist,She wept herself into a mist,Which wanders where the Clouds are strewnAbout the deathbed of the Moon,When with wan lips, in sudden swoon(Because her unkind lord, the Sun,Will ever from her loveless run),She cries amid her Starry Maids:‘Ah me, alas, my beauty fades!’—And so sinks down into the Shades.

Said the Troll to the Mountain, ‘Old fellow, how goes it?’The Mountain responded, ‘My answer—suppose it.’Said the Troll, ‘Dear old friend, you are grumpy to-day.’Said the Mountain, ‘I think you had best run away.’The Troll said, ‘You suffer, old boss, from the blues.’The Mountain retorted, ‘I may if I choose.’‘Ah, that,’ cried the Troll, ‘is effect of the liver.’‘Take care,’ quoth the Hill, ‘or I’ll give you the shiver.’‘By my cap and its feather,’ the Spirit replies,‘You’ll be getting too portly without exercise.’‘You pert little fly,’ said the Rock in a rage,‘I will teach you to chaff at a hill of my age.’So he jump’d up to punish the impudent Fay,Who wisely retorted by running away;Until the old Mountain broke right down the middle,When back he came nimbly and played on the fiddle.My Advice to all Mountains that make such a stir, it’s‘Don’t get in a passion with pert little spirits.’

There sat a Toad upon a lawnLost in a dream of fancy;His right foot in a Rose was set,His left upon a Violet,His paunch upon a Pansy.Some merry Elfins passing byAt sight of him were sore affrighted,And would have fled; until he said,‘My little dears, if you knew whyI look to heaven thus and sigh,I think that you would be delighted.The Stars rise up and fall, the StarsDo shine in pools and stilly places,The Lilies blink on sandy bars,The Midges move in flickering mazes;But I profoundly pore upon,And reason, think, and cogitate,And marvel, muse, and meditate,Why had the ancient MastodonSo few sad hairs upon his pate?’

Thus spake the Preacher. All aver’dA saintlier man was never heard.But no one knew that o’er his headAn Angel wrote the things he said,And these not only, but as wellThe things he thought but did not tell;And thus the double discourse fell.‘Beloved Brethren, never doWhat makes your (neighbour) censure you;That is, conceive yourself as good(And so impress the neighbourhood).Make you yourself a law to selfAnd so you will (enjoy yourself).For the best way to ’scape the devilIs to (protest you are not evil).For virtue lies in this, I take it,To drink the physic (but not shake it);To gulp it dutifully down(But leave the bitter dregs alone).Desire not aught of any man(But take your due); so that you can(Quite safely unto others doAs you wish they should unto you);And thus’—so summed the portly Priest—‘Be chosen for the Wedding Feast(As City Councillor at least).’

Puck, wandering on the banks of Nile,Beheld one day a Crocodile,That with heart-wringing sighs and sobs,With groans and cries and throes and throbs,Made moan, until his rushing tearsRan down the wrinkles of the sand.‘What ails thee, Monster?’ made demandThe Sprite, ‘and why these million tears?’‘I weep, I shriek,’ the other cries,‘To see the World’s iniquities.’‘And I with you,’ the Elf replies.‘The World,’ resumed the Crocodile,‘Is full of Cruelty and Guile.’‘Except for you,’ Puck said, ‘it’s vile.’‘Honour and Chivalry are dead;The Soul of Pity vanished.’‘Save in yourself, Sir,’ Robin said.‘How are the Righteous much abhor’d,And silent still the Godly Word!’‘Not while you live,’ the Sprite aver’d.‘My friend, I thank you,’ said the Beast;‘I think you sympathise at least.The world is evil—pray beware—How fat you are, I do declare!God grant us all some day remission—I vow you’re in a fine condition.I think that all—I must say thatFor a fairy you are very fat.What unctuous food—excuse me, friend—You fays must find in fairy land.As I was saying, all is not—Fie, what a toothache I have got!See here, this molar. Pray look nearer,And you shall see the bad place clearer.Nay if you could but just creep inAnd say which tooth the mischief’s in—’‘No thank you, friend,’ our Puck replied;‘I’ll keep upon the outer side.With many large soul’d folk I’ve metI’ve found the stomach’s larger yet;And when the Righteous talk of SinLook to your pockets or your skin.’

Upon a mountain lived of old(So says the Saga that is wise)An ancient Goat of portly size,Well known for virtues manifold,Who once to take the evening airReposed upon a meadow there,With Wife and Children in a row;And thus endeavour’d to bestowOn them (and all of us) adviceTo make our conduct more preciseAnd lead at last to paradise.‘My dears be Good. All else forgotYours shall be still a happy lot.Enough the Rule. Do not enquireThe How and Why of things—or higher.Be Virtuous, and neglect the Schools;For Wisdom was but made for fools.Scorn still the shallow Mind that priesIn science, art, philosophies;Essays the future to forecast,Forsooth, by study of the past;Maintains the laws should be (what treason!)Compounded by the use of reason;And will advise e’en men of noteTo govern well by thinking o’t;Avers when honest people chatterThat he knows best who knows the matter;And even go so far as stateGoats can by thinking mend their fate.So hold this saw before your eyes,Be Good and let who will be wise.’Alas, with his own virtue blind,He fail’d to mark the Wolf behind;Who, as he seized and bore him off,Distress’d him with this bitter scoff—‘With your high views I sympathise;But better also to be Wise.’

Alas, with his own virtue blind,He fail’d to mark the Wolf behind;Who, as he seized and bore him off,Distress’d him with this bitter scoff—‘With your high views I sympathise;But better also to be Wise.’

Within a vast and gloomy FaneThere hung a Curtain to the floor,Which fill’d with terror those who cameTo wonder there or to adore;For, as the Priest had often said,Within the chamber dwelt in soothA breathing Horror, half divine,Half demon, and whose name was Truth.And none there were so doughty boldAs durst to lift the tapestry;For it was death, he said, to peerUpon the awful Mystery;Until one day—oh dreadful hour—Up jump’d a foolish hardy Youth,Who cried, ‘I care not if I die,But I will have the truth of Truth.’There came a Crowd to see the deed—To hear him shriek within and fall;But they were much astonish’d whenHe found—why Nothing there at all;Except indeed upon the floor(Ill fortune take the prying sinner!)A Pasty and a Pot of BeerWhich the poor Priest had got for dinner.

Within a vast and gloomy FaneThere hung a Curtain to the floor,Which fill’d with terror those who cameTo wonder there or to adore;

For, as the Priest had often said,Within the chamber dwelt in soothA breathing Horror, half divine,Half demon, and whose name was Truth.

And none there were so doughty boldAs durst to lift the tapestry;For it was death, he said, to peerUpon the awful Mystery;

Until one day—oh dreadful hour—Up jump’d a foolish hardy Youth,Who cried, ‘I care not if I die,But I will have the truth of Truth.’

There came a Crowd to see the deed—To hear him shriek within and fall;But they were much astonish’d whenHe found—why Nothing there at all;

Except indeed upon the floor(Ill fortune take the prying sinner!)A Pasty and a Pot of BeerWhich the poor Priest had got for dinner.

There was a Man to wisdom deadWho took a mad thought in his head—‘A second Hercles I,’ he said.‘Behold,’ he cried, ‘I will go forthFrom east to west, from south to north,And with this knotted bludgeon bashThe Things that Sting, and those that GnashBlood-dripping teeth, and Giants glumSo mighty that with finger and thumbThey pick and eat chance passengers.And I will slay each thing that stirsTo grief of man and dole of beast,Until the world from wrong releasedPronounce me Emperor at least.’But as he spoke, upon the wayA casual Lion chanced to stray,Just as on any other day;And he, to measure of his thoughtIn ready deed inferior nought,Sprang at him furious, and they fought.Three hours they fought, until the sunYmounted in the vault begunTo make them wish that they had done.‘Friend,’ quoth the Lion, ‘or why foeUpon my word I do not know—If we fight more we melt, I trow.’‘A little grace,’ the Man replied,Wiping his brow, ‘is not denied;You’ll have but little when you’ve died.’So each beneath a tree disposedTook ease. The languid Lion dozed.The Man, who should have done likewise(So says the Saga that is wise),Was waked each time he sued reposeBy a great Fly upon his nose.First in the one ear then in t’otherThe winged monster buzz’d with bother;The twitching tender nostrils tried,The corners of the lips beside;From lip to eyelid leapt with fuss,Like old dame in an omnibus;Delighted vastly to have metSo great a store of unctuous sweat.At last to desperation drivenThe Man accursed the Fly to Heaven,And with his bludgeon great assay’dTo stay the small annoying raid.Wielding to right and left he smote;But still the nimble Fly, remote,Laughed at his anger and enjoy’dFresh perspiration.Thus annoy’d,His bludgeon broken on the tree,A helpless, weary wight was he.The Lion rose, refresh’d, with glee;‘I’m ready now,’ he said, ‘my man,To end the work the Fly began.’And this (the Chronicler explains)Is why the Lion still remains.

But as he spoke, upon the wayA casual Lion chanced to stray,Just as on any other day;And he, to measure of his thoughtIn ready deed inferior nought,Sprang at him furious, and they fought.

Three hours they fought, until the sunYmounted in the vault begunTo make them wish that they had done.‘Friend,’ quoth the Lion, ‘or why foeUpon my word I do not know—If we fight more we melt, I trow.’‘A little grace,’ the Man replied,Wiping his brow, ‘is not denied;You’ll have but little when you’ve died.’

So each beneath a tree disposedTook ease. The languid Lion dozed.The Man, who should have done likewise(So says the Saga that is wise),Was waked each time he sued reposeBy a great Fly upon his nose.First in the one ear then in t’otherThe winged monster buzz’d with bother;The twitching tender nostrils tried,The corners of the lips beside;From lip to eyelid leapt with fuss,Like old dame in an omnibus;Delighted vastly to have metSo great a store of unctuous sweat.At last to desperation drivenThe Man accursed the Fly to Heaven,And with his bludgeon great assay’dTo stay the small annoying raid.Wielding to right and left he smote;But still the nimble Fly, remote,Laughed at his anger and enjoy’dFresh perspiration.Thus annoy’d,His bludgeon broken on the tree,A helpless, weary wight was he.The Lion rose, refresh’d, with glee;‘I’m ready now,’ he said, ‘my man,To end the work the Fly began.’And this (the Chronicler explains)Is why the Lion still remains.

Orpheus, the Stygian current cross’d,When Hell stood still to hear him sing,Torn from Eurydice twice lost(Almost by music saved e’er lost)Over the world went wandering.One day, sate on a mountain slope,Weary and sick for want of hope,(Or rather, shall we term it, dead,Since life is gone when hope is sped),He twang’d his lyre; till song sublimeOut of the ashes of his primeAnd fire of grief like Phoenix sprang;And all the startled hillside rang.Aroused, the dew-engrossed FlowersTurn’d to him all their maiden eyes;And from the sweet forgotten bowersFlew forth a thousand Butterflies.The Trees forgot their roots. Beneath,The noisy Crickets of the heathRub’d each his forehead with amazeTo hear one sing such heavenly lays.Under her stone the lumpy ToadPeer’d forth; even the solid sodGrew peopled with emerging Worms—Such power hath Music on all forms.Above, the pinched Pard amort(She had three cublings in a den)Forgot her hunger, and in shortReposed herself to listen then,Upon her furry paws her chin;And from her vantage watch’d the Poet,Delighted, but enraged to know it,While all her spotted sleek of skinHeaved with the pleasure she took in.Not only this, but shall I say ’t,The very Hills began debateWhether, to hear the singing clearer,They should not move a little nearer.Only, the Bard, to these strange waysAccustom’d, noted with amazeA herd of Hogs that near him fed,Which might for all he sang be dead.He ceased his song and tried the scaleTo find out where his voice might fail;His lyre divine descanted soonTo see the strings were all in tune;Till satisfied that these were right,And at those Hogs astonish’d quiteThat they not to his conquering lyre,Which all things else did so admire,Gave heed, but routed in the ryeAs tho’ he had not been close by,He ask’d of them the reason why.‘Good friend,’ a Bacon old replied,‘We have too much to do beside;The roots are many, the field is wide.Should we neglect this plenteousnessWe should be wrong, you must confess—The gods some day might give us less.Our girth is great; the fodder free;This field of food must finished be.That time is short you’ll not deny.We eat but little ere we die.’

Only, the Bard, to these strange waysAccustom’d, noted with amazeA herd of Hogs that near him fed,Which might for all he sang be dead.He ceased his song and tried the scaleTo find out where his voice might fail;His lyre divine descanted soonTo see the strings were all in tune;Till satisfied that these were right,And at those Hogs astonish’d quiteThat they not to his conquering lyre,Which all things else did so admire,Gave heed, but routed in the ryeAs tho’ he had not been close by,He ask’d of them the reason why.‘Good friend,’ a Bacon old replied,‘We have too much to do beside;The roots are many, the field is wide.Should we neglect this plenteousnessWe should be wrong, you must confess—The gods some day might give us less.Our girth is great; the fodder free;This field of food must finished be.That time is short you’ll not deny.We eat but little ere we die.’

All night had browsed the Pinion’d SteedUpon that lush and level meadThat swathes Parnassos’ feet;Till, when the pranksome Morning StarTo van of Day’s slow-driven carCame piping past the eastern bar,A Poet him did greet.‘Your back, my Pegasos,’ he cried,‘Shall win me to the tiers espiedOf yonder shelfed hill,Where all the Great are, I opine,And on the last proud peak divineApollo and the Earnest NineAt songs symphonic still.’Tomes had the Poet, rolls and wraps,Pens at his ears, and scribbled scraps,And so essay’d the mounting—‘Stand still, O Steed, and I will climb,Tho’ weighted here with pounds of rhyme,If you will only give me time,Who’d been on stirrups counting.’The Steed stood still; the thing was done;He slided, slip’d and shuffled on,And stay’d to pen his deeds:When now the Monster’s patience wears;He lowers his head, his haunches rears;And flying past the Stallion’s earsThe Poet measures weeds.Three times attempting, three times foil’d,The Bard beheld his breeches soil’d;And on his knees the mashed greenGave an arch proof of what had been;And winds like gamboling babes unseenMade all his errant sheets revolve.For now the Morning ’gan to solveThe long-strewn sands of heav’nly cloud;And that fair Mountain noble brow’d,In snowy silv’ry laces dightShone like a bride, against the nightUnveil’d, with many-pointed light.And lo half seen thro’ level mistA Critic rode with saucy wrist,Plump, smug and smooth and portly, dress’dIn corduroys and velvet vest;Who clip’d at ease an ambling cobWith dappled nose and ears alob;While all around a barking broodOf puppies nuzzled in the rood.‘He who to climb has climbing bloodMust fear no fall in marish mud;And he who phantoms fain would rideMay sometimes sit the ground,’ he cried.At this his thighs the Poet slam’dAnd papers in his pocket ram’d;‘Be off,’ he said, ‘or else be damn’d.’‘You lose your time,’ resumed the Man,Whose oozing eyes with mirth o’erran;‘You waste your time about that BruteWhom, if ’twere mine, egad I’d shoot,So gaunt and gall’d a hack is he.But take example now from me,Who riding in this airy plightFor breakfast get an appetite;And sitting here (I am so sly)With this my pocket-sextant ITake altitude of those on high.’‘Pedant avaunt!’ the Poet cries,And mounting shoots towards the skiesAn angry palm—‘Come not anear!I, as toward the marineerThe welcome star from beacon’d browsOf headland, when the Northern blowsHis scurrilous spitting spray in airAnd lobbing billows blotch the Bear,Appears, so shall appear and shineThro’ streaming rain and hissing brineTo cheer the coming better blood;And shall be fire when thou art mud!’‘Blind is the goose that play’d the geierAnd tried to see the white sun nigher!—He flapping lies; so shall you lieAnd grovel as you think to fly!’The other cries; whose Nag amazed,Viewing the winged Stallion, gazed,Shook out her tail and with a snort,Approaching in plebeian sort,Paw’d archly at him. He with scornAnd having too long mildly borne,Rear’d, spread his wings, and buck’d and neigh’d.She with the monstrous tone affray’dShot forth her rider like a ball;Who in the mid-air, ere his fall,The like-projected Poet met.As when two Suns in furious setTogether dash with whirl and wind,Their shrieking planets drawn behind;Or two great Blacks with blinding rage,Each dragging his black wife, engage,And clash their pates upon the green(The fleas being heard to crack between),The Critic so and Bard pell mellFighting concuss’d and fighting fell;And puppies tug’d their tatters.Bruises for breakfast got the one;Black eyes the other, and of Fame none.They fought it out, and when they’d doneWent home as rough as ratters.

‘Your back, my Pegasos,’ he cried,‘Shall win me to the tiers espiedOf yonder shelfed hill,Where all the Great are, I opine,And on the last proud peak divineApollo and the Earnest NineAt songs symphonic still.’

Tomes had the Poet, rolls and wraps,Pens at his ears, and scribbled scraps,And so essay’d the mounting—‘Stand still, O Steed, and I will climb,Tho’ weighted here with pounds of rhyme,If you will only give me time,Who’d been on stirrups counting.’

The Steed stood still; the thing was done;He slided, slip’d and shuffled on,And stay’d to pen his deeds:When now the Monster’s patience wears;He lowers his head, his haunches rears;And flying past the Stallion’s earsThe Poet measures weeds.

Three times attempting, three times foil’d,The Bard beheld his breeches soil’d;And on his knees the mashed greenGave an arch proof of what had been;And winds like gamboling babes unseenMade all his errant sheets revolve.For now the Morning ’gan to solveThe long-strewn sands of heav’nly cloud;And that fair Mountain noble brow’d,In snowy silv’ry laces dightShone like a bride, against the nightUnveil’d, with many-pointed light.And lo half seen thro’ level mistA Critic rode with saucy wrist,Plump, smug and smooth and portly, dress’dIn corduroys and velvet vest;Who clip’d at ease an ambling cobWith dappled nose and ears alob;While all around a barking broodOf puppies nuzzled in the rood.‘He who to climb has climbing bloodMust fear no fall in marish mud;And he who phantoms fain would rideMay sometimes sit the ground,’ he cried.

At this his thighs the Poet slam’dAnd papers in his pocket ram’d;‘Be off,’ he said, ‘or else be damn’d.’‘You lose your time,’ resumed the Man,Whose oozing eyes with mirth o’erran;‘You waste your time about that BruteWhom, if ’twere mine, egad I’d shoot,So gaunt and gall’d a hack is he.But take example now from me,Who riding in this airy plightFor breakfast get an appetite;And sitting here (I am so sly)With this my pocket-sextant ITake altitude of those on high.’‘Pedant avaunt!’ the Poet cries,And mounting shoots towards the skiesAn angry palm—‘Come not anear!I, as toward the marineerThe welcome star from beacon’d browsOf headland, when the Northern blowsHis scurrilous spitting spray in airAnd lobbing billows blotch the Bear,Appears, so shall appear and shineThro’ streaming rain and hissing brineTo cheer the coming better blood;And shall be fire when thou art mud!’

‘Blind is the goose that play’d the geierAnd tried to see the white sun nigher!—He flapping lies; so shall you lieAnd grovel as you think to fly!’The other cries; whose Nag amazed,Viewing the winged Stallion, gazed,Shook out her tail and with a snort,Approaching in plebeian sort,Paw’d archly at him. He with scornAnd having too long mildly borne,Rear’d, spread his wings, and buck’d and neigh’d.She with the monstrous tone affray’dShot forth her rider like a ball;Who in the mid-air, ere his fall,The like-projected Poet met.

As when two Suns in furious setTogether dash with whirl and wind,Their shrieking planets drawn behind;Or two great Blacks with blinding rage,Each dragging his black wife, engage,And clash their pates upon the green(The fleas being heard to crack between),The Critic so and Bard pell mellFighting concuss’d and fighting fell;And puppies tug’d their tatters.Bruises for breakfast got the one;Black eyes the other, and of Fame none.They fought it out, and when they’d doneWent home as rough as ratters.

King Lion yawning at his gatesOn deep-empiled mosses, whenThe sunset gilt the underwood,Awaking claw’d in idle moodThe frighten’d dead leaves of his den,Content; when lo (the Rune relates)A tiny piercing note was heard.It was the Mouse (the Rune aver’d)Who saved the Sov’reign’s honour whenThe hunters mesh’d him in the glen.For that admitted now to cheepBefore the Audience half asleep,She introduced a weeping Sheep.‘Sire,’ said the Mouse, ‘with much adoThro’ wicked guards I bring to youThis much wrong’d creature to imploreJustice against the evil doer.’At this, no rhetorician,The shiv’ring Mutton then beganOf how three lovely Lambkins lostThe Wolf had taken to his den,Deep-delved in a dreadful glen—And ah! to her the bitter cost!One from her side when day was deadThe monster stole. Another tookAt gambol in the glassing brook.The third, the Mother’s last delight,When now the many-lamped NightNo more, with mystic moon aloft,Gave shudd’ring shadows to the flowersAnd stars of wan irradiance softTo every dewdrop; but the hoursOf Dawn and Daybreak, Sister Hours,Twin Lovelinesses, lit the world,And the confident buds unfurl’d,He seized with mangling tushes, tillThe innocent flower-eyes of the wood,That wont with early dew to fill,Grew piteous-wet with tears of blood;The mother helpless. So he rush’dWith shaggy flanks, and snarling gnash’dThe gripping teeth that gleam’d betweenHis cruel red lips scarcely seen,While springing branches clash’d behind,And left her weeping to the wind.‘Ho!’ roar’d the Monarch, ‘call the Court!With this black ruffian I’ll be short.How often have I giv’n commandThe young shall not be taken’—andHis thunder rang across the land,Until the forest flowers for fearShut up their petals not to hear.Then his gay Herald, the Macaw,Screams out the hest from hill to haugh,And from a thousand delled densRun forth his frighten’d denizens,To share the Council, or to knowWhat makes the Monarch bellow so.And, as they gather, to and froHe paces, and his red eyes flashEnough to turn them all to ash.Arranged before him in a rowThey take their places, high and low.The Wicked Wolf between his guards,Two grave and stalwart Leopards,Stands tip-toe, snarling, and repeatingIt was not he who did the eating;And, with his tail between his legs,For justice, justice only, begs.‘You or another,’ roar’d the King,‘I’ll find the one who did the thing—But first, Sir Premier, please reply(A Constitutional Monarch I)Why do you let my people die?’At this, with deference, said the Bear,’Twas not his fault—he was not there.Still lab’ring in affairs of stateTo make the kingdom good and great(Altho’ the wicked OppositionDid ever thwart him in his mission),A sleepless eye he always castUpon the future and the pastTo frustrate—hard for anyone—What the Last Government had done.At present he’d in contemplationSome mighty measures for the nation—To bring the Butterflies to termsBy giving franchise to the Worms;To teach the Gnats to carry logs;To give self-government to HogsBecause they had resolved to shirk,With noble Scorn, ignoble Work;To succour Wildcats, and to keepThe Wolves secure against the Sheep.And here he thought he smelt a plot:This trivial matter, was it notA little juggle to discreditThis last great measure?—There, he’d said it.But still his heart bled at the woeOccasion’d by his Party’s foe.At this the Tiger shriek’d with rage(The while his Secret’ry the Fox,Took papers from his office box),‘Unhappy land! accursed age!’He cried, ‘You seek to murder meWith weight of brute Majority;And me not only, but the causeOf Pity, Justice, and the Laws!Take back the charges you impute;It is not me but you who do’t.When we controll’d the Sov’reign’s landThe sun was bright, the breeze was bland.The roving Heifer, free from care,Scarce needed sniff th’ untainted airFor danger, and the young GazelleDrank heedless at the hidden well;And even I with happy smileWould lay me down to slumber, whileThe careless Lambkins gambol’d round,And Peace and Plenty blest the ground!With this fine eloquence inflamedThe rival factions loudly namedEach other Brute, and (it is said)Would soon have killed each other dead:But now the Boar with growl and gruntAnd bristling juba leapt to front.‘Accursed both!’ he cried. ‘What, what!Think you, ye fools, we know you not?Each canting, lying partisan,Who prates of Mercy and the LawWith merciless and murd’rous maw,Will always eat us when he can—Us, who with boon and bloodless toilSeek but the acorns for our spoil—Were not our eyes and tushes brightTo quell such bandits of the night.Why, e’en the Monarch—’Here a roarFrom all the Council check’d the Boar;And soon the King with pensive mienSaid, ‘This is not the way, I weenTo reach the truth—more difficultThan we supposed. Let us consultOur learned Judge, Lord Elephant.’So he advances, complaisantWith rocky brow, and at his earA pen as long as any spear;Small eyes that saw behind the TruthConvenience; and, as if to sootheDissention, with a swaying motionFrom side to side. ‘Sire, I’ve a notion,’He said, ‘there is no case at all.The plaintiff can no witness call,And hers the only evidence,Which, rightly sifted, has no sense.For in the night she says he tookHer first, her second in the brook.How could she see him in the dark?And for the second, pray you mark,Perhaps it was more likely drown’d.As for the third, when she look’d round,He’d gone: how did she know him then?This is of fancy, not of ken.Moreover, in th’ alternative,Sir Wolf can plead he could not liveBecause the din the lambkins madeAbout him slumb’ring in the shade.As for the much-bereaved Dame,With whom I deeply sympathise—Such sorrow wets my foolish eyes—I fear she may be thought to blameBecause she troubled MajestyBefore she had instructed me(Of course I ridicule the fee);And I should be prepared, in short,To hear it argued in the CourtWhether she did not bring the chargeIn order merely to dischargeAn ancient grudge against her foe—’‘Enough! and let the prisoner go!’The Sov’reign said. ‘And as for you,Dishonest and malignant Ewe,We do not order you to death(Whate’er your conduct meriteth)Only because it pleaseth usTo show we are magnanimous.’(He was indeed much praised for that,And more because the Sheep was fat).‘Break up the Court. Enough of worry,It’s time to dine, so let’s be merry.’With that they shifted in a hurry;But in the scramble no one knew(So says the Saga that is true)What happen’d to the Piteous Ewe.

‘Sire,’ said the Mouse, ‘with much adoThro’ wicked guards I bring to youThis much wrong’d creature to imploreJustice against the evil doer.’At this, no rhetorician,The shiv’ring Mutton then beganOf how three lovely Lambkins lostThe Wolf had taken to his den,Deep-delved in a dreadful glen—And ah! to her the bitter cost!One from her side when day was deadThe monster stole. Another tookAt gambol in the glassing brook.The third, the Mother’s last delight,When now the many-lamped NightNo more, with mystic moon aloft,Gave shudd’ring shadows to the flowersAnd stars of wan irradiance softTo every dewdrop; but the hoursOf Dawn and Daybreak, Sister Hours,Twin Lovelinesses, lit the world,And the confident buds unfurl’d,He seized with mangling tushes, tillThe innocent flower-eyes of the wood,That wont with early dew to fill,Grew piteous-wet with tears of blood;The mother helpless. So he rush’dWith shaggy flanks, and snarling gnash’dThe gripping teeth that gleam’d betweenHis cruel red lips scarcely seen,While springing branches clash’d behind,And left her weeping to the wind.

‘Ho!’ roar’d the Monarch, ‘call the Court!With this black ruffian I’ll be short.How often have I giv’n commandThe young shall not be taken’—andHis thunder rang across the land,Until the forest flowers for fearShut up their petals not to hear.

Then his gay Herald, the Macaw,Screams out the hest from hill to haugh,And from a thousand delled densRun forth his frighten’d denizens,To share the Council, or to knowWhat makes the Monarch bellow so.And, as they gather, to and froHe paces, and his red eyes flashEnough to turn them all to ash.Arranged before him in a rowThey take their places, high and low.The Wicked Wolf between his guards,Two grave and stalwart Leopards,Stands tip-toe, snarling, and repeatingIt was not he who did the eating;And, with his tail between his legs,For justice, justice only, begs.‘You or another,’ roar’d the King,‘I’ll find the one who did the thing—But first, Sir Premier, please reply(A Constitutional Monarch I)Why do you let my people die?’At this, with deference, said the Bear,’Twas not his fault—he was not there.Still lab’ring in affairs of stateTo make the kingdom good and great(Altho’ the wicked OppositionDid ever thwart him in his mission),A sleepless eye he always castUpon the future and the pastTo frustrate—hard for anyone—What the Last Government had done.At present he’d in contemplationSome mighty measures for the nation—To bring the Butterflies to termsBy giving franchise to the Worms;To teach the Gnats to carry logs;To give self-government to HogsBecause they had resolved to shirk,With noble Scorn, ignoble Work;To succour Wildcats, and to keepThe Wolves secure against the Sheep.And here he thought he smelt a plot:This trivial matter, was it notA little juggle to discreditThis last great measure?—There, he’d said it.But still his heart bled at the woeOccasion’d by his Party’s foe.

At this the Tiger shriek’d with rage(The while his Secret’ry the Fox,Took papers from his office box),‘Unhappy land! accursed age!’He cried, ‘You seek to murder meWith weight of brute Majority;And me not only, but the causeOf Pity, Justice, and the Laws!Take back the charges you impute;It is not me but you who do’t.When we controll’d the Sov’reign’s landThe sun was bright, the breeze was bland.The roving Heifer, free from care,Scarce needed sniff th’ untainted airFor danger, and the young GazelleDrank heedless at the hidden well;And even I with happy smileWould lay me down to slumber, whileThe careless Lambkins gambol’d round,And Peace and Plenty blest the ground!

With this fine eloquence inflamedThe rival factions loudly namedEach other Brute, and (it is said)Would soon have killed each other dead:But now the Boar with growl and gruntAnd bristling juba leapt to front.‘Accursed both!’ he cried. ‘What, what!Think you, ye fools, we know you not?Each canting, lying partisan,Who prates of Mercy and the LawWith merciless and murd’rous maw,Will always eat us when he can—Us, who with boon and bloodless toilSeek but the acorns for our spoil—Were not our eyes and tushes brightTo quell such bandits of the night.Why, e’en the Monarch—’Here a roarFrom all the Council check’d the Boar;And soon the King with pensive mienSaid, ‘This is not the way, I weenTo reach the truth—more difficultThan we supposed. Let us consultOur learned Judge, Lord Elephant.’

So he advances, complaisantWith rocky brow, and at his earA pen as long as any spear;Small eyes that saw behind the TruthConvenience; and, as if to sootheDissention, with a swaying motionFrom side to side. ‘Sire, I’ve a notion,’He said, ‘there is no case at all.The plaintiff can no witness call,And hers the only evidence,Which, rightly sifted, has no sense.For in the night she says he tookHer first, her second in the brook.How could she see him in the dark?And for the second, pray you mark,Perhaps it was more likely drown’d.As for the third, when she look’d round,He’d gone: how did she know him then?This is of fancy, not of ken.Moreover, in th’ alternative,Sir Wolf can plead he could not liveBecause the din the lambkins madeAbout him slumb’ring in the shade.As for the much-bereaved Dame,With whom I deeply sympathise—Such sorrow wets my foolish eyes—I fear she may be thought to blameBecause she troubled MajestyBefore she had instructed me(Of course I ridicule the fee);And I should be prepared, in short,To hear it argued in the CourtWhether she did not bring the chargeIn order merely to dischargeAn ancient grudge against her foe—’‘Enough! and let the prisoner go!’The Sov’reign said. ‘And as for you,Dishonest and malignant Ewe,We do not order you to death(Whate’er your conduct meriteth)Only because it pleaseth usTo show we are magnanimous.’(He was indeed much praised for that,And more because the Sheep was fat).‘Break up the Court. Enough of worry,It’s time to dine, so let’s be merry.’

With that they shifted in a hurry;But in the scramble no one knew(So says the Saga that is true)What happen’d to the Piteous Ewe.

The Eagle which at Jove’s right handWas wont to take imperial stand,Proud of his perch, and with fond beakThe Thund’rer’s fondling finger tweak,Or blinking in sage thought t’ assumeHalf sov’reignty and weigh the doom,Was sick; for the World he sigh’d,His Mountains and his Forests wide;So true it is, not Jove’s right handIs worth to us our Native Land,And that the Little we have notCan make the Much we have forgot.Therefore to earth with arching vans,Released a while, the sky he spansIn flight; sinks thro’ the tempest; takesThe feather-fretting aid of wind;And now, new born with pleasure, breaksUpon a beauteous Vale confined.Now it is said that on that dayAll Birds that are had ceased their play,And question’d, each with heat and brawl,Which was the noblest of them all:Who when they saw the Eagle standAmidst them (now unused to standUpon the dull, flat, level earth)Burst into loud contemptuous mirth.‘It seems,’ exclaimed a civil Crow,‘You come here, friend, quite apropos.For we discuss’d the noblest here,And you are truly the most queer.Your wings and tail, excuse me friend,Seem too long for your other end.Pray change your—if I may suggest—Your tailor and be better dress’d.Look at myself how neat I go,And in the latest fashion too.’‘Or were your plumes, my friend, more brightWe could excuse your homely plight,’The Peacock said: ‘pray just admireMy plumes of azure, gold and fire.My dames about me ever moveIn wonder, and confess their love.Whene’er I show myself,’ said he,‘The Gods look down from Heaven to see.’‘Base virtues of the body!’ criedThe Parrot. ‘Is the soul denied?Know friend that beauteous words are worthMore than these qualities of earth.How wise I am admire, and knowIt is by study I am so.Still lost in contemplation IQuite understand the earth and sky;Can talk of wonders without end,More e’en than I can comprehend;Or say the wisest words, I ween,Although I don’t know what they mean.’‘Pshaw!’ said the Vulture, ‘fair or wise,You shall some day become my prize.Your merits shall be mine, ’od shake ’em,Whenever I may choose to take ’em;And when I have digested youYour virtues shall become mine too.As for our friend the new arrival,If he contend to be my rival,Let’s fight it out in heaven’s name!’‘What base arbitrement! for shame!’Exclaimed the mincing Nightingale.‘If he aspire let him prevailAgainst me in the test of songWhere he who triumphs is most strong.’‘Beware of pride,’ the Dodo said;‘I see that all of you are ledAstray by arrogance. For me,I glory in humility.I am so humble I confessMy utter wicked worthlessness.I say with tears’—and here he blowsThe part that should have been his nose—‘I say with tears I dote uponBeing beaten, bruised and trampled on.I love to be reminded stillOf all my faults and treated ill.So ’tis, I think, confess’d by allMy virtue’s not equivocal.’‘To me,’ the lofty Stork aver’d,‘This seems a most plebeian bird.With nails so long and legs so short,He cannot be of noble sort;Tho’ in his nose, I must confess,I see some sign of gentleness.I cannot really stoop so far(Whom all the Frogs and Mice in warAlready have confess’d their king)As rival this uncrowned thing.My subjects would at once repineNor let me eat ’em, I opine,As all contented subjects should,Did I disgrace my royal blood.’Which heard, the fiery Eagle’s eyesWith noble anger and surpriseFlash’d out. ‘Still dear what is most cheapYe little woodland creatures keep,’He cried; and flung aloft his head,Gazed up to heaven, his pinions spread(The wind of which made timorous stirAmong the things that round him were)And leaping on the air begunAscent, and vanish’d in the sun.

Therefore to earth with arching vans,Released a while, the sky he spansIn flight; sinks thro’ the tempest; takesThe feather-fretting aid of wind;And now, new born with pleasure, breaksUpon a beauteous Vale confined.

Now it is said that on that dayAll Birds that are had ceased their play,And question’d, each with heat and brawl,Which was the noblest of them all:Who when they saw the Eagle standAmidst them (now unused to standUpon the dull, flat, level earth)Burst into loud contemptuous mirth.‘It seems,’ exclaimed a civil Crow,‘You come here, friend, quite apropos.For we discuss’d the noblest here,And you are truly the most queer.Your wings and tail, excuse me friend,Seem too long for your other end.Pray change your—if I may suggest—Your tailor and be better dress’d.Look at myself how neat I go,And in the latest fashion too.’‘Or were your plumes, my friend, more brightWe could excuse your homely plight,’The Peacock said: ‘pray just admireMy plumes of azure, gold and fire.My dames about me ever moveIn wonder, and confess their love.Whene’er I show myself,’ said he,‘The Gods look down from Heaven to see.’‘Base virtues of the body!’ criedThe Parrot. ‘Is the soul denied?Know friend that beauteous words are worthMore than these qualities of earth.How wise I am admire, and knowIt is by study I am so.Still lost in contemplation IQuite understand the earth and sky;Can talk of wonders without end,More e’en than I can comprehend;Or say the wisest words, I ween,Although I don’t know what they mean.’‘Pshaw!’ said the Vulture, ‘fair or wise,You shall some day become my prize.Your merits shall be mine, ’od shake ’em,Whenever I may choose to take ’em;And when I have digested youYour virtues shall become mine too.As for our friend the new arrival,If he contend to be my rival,Let’s fight it out in heaven’s name!’‘What base arbitrement! for shame!’Exclaimed the mincing Nightingale.‘If he aspire let him prevailAgainst me in the test of songWhere he who triumphs is most strong.’‘Beware of pride,’ the Dodo said;‘I see that all of you are ledAstray by arrogance. For me,I glory in humility.I am so humble I confessMy utter wicked worthlessness.I say with tears’—and here he blowsThe part that should have been his nose—‘I say with tears I dote uponBeing beaten, bruised and trampled on.I love to be reminded stillOf all my faults and treated ill.So ’tis, I think, confess’d by allMy virtue’s not equivocal.’‘To me,’ the lofty Stork aver’d,‘This seems a most plebeian bird.With nails so long and legs so short,He cannot be of noble sort;Tho’ in his nose, I must confess,I see some sign of gentleness.I cannot really stoop so far(Whom all the Frogs and Mice in warAlready have confess’d their king)As rival this uncrowned thing.My subjects would at once repineNor let me eat ’em, I opine,As all contented subjects should,Did I disgrace my royal blood.’

Which heard, the fiery Eagle’s eyesWith noble anger and surpriseFlash’d out. ‘Still dear what is most cheapYe little woodland creatures keep,’He cried; and flung aloft his head,Gazed up to heaven, his pinions spread(The wind of which made timorous stirAmong the things that round him were)And leaping on the air begunAscent, and vanish’d in the sun.

’Tis said that a noble Youth of oldWas to his native village lostAnd to his home and aged sire;For he had wander’d (it is told)Where, pinnacled in eternal Frost,Apollo leads his awful Choir.Awful, for nought of human warmsThe agony of Their Song sublime,Which like the breath of Ice is given,Ascending in vapour from all forms,Where Gods in clear alternate chimeReveal Their mystery-thoughts to Heaven.Nor in those regions of windless ColdIs fiery the Sun tho’ fierce in light;But frozen-pale the numbed MoonWanders along the ridges that foldEnormous Peaks, what time the NightRivals with all her stars the Noon.For there, not dimly as here, the Stars,But globed and azure and crimson tinct,Climb up the windless wastes of Snow,Gold-footed, or thro’ the long-drawn barsOf mountain Mist with eyes unblink’dAnd scorn, gaze down on the world below;Or high on the topmost Peak and endOf ranges stand with sudden blaze,Like Angels born in spontaneous birth;Or wrap themselves in flame and descendBetween black foreheads of Rock in haze,Slowly like grieved gods to earth.And there for ever the patient WindRakes up the crystals of dry Snow,And mourns for ever her work undone;And there for ever, like Titans blindTheir countenance lifting to Heaven’s glow,The sightless Mountains yearn for the Sun.There nightly the numbed Eagle quells(Full-feathered to his feet of horn)His swooning eye, his eyrie won,And slumbers, frozen by frosty spellsFast to the pinnacle; but at MornUnfettered, leaps toward the Sun.He heard, he saw. Not to the airDared breathe a breath; but with his sightWreak’d on Immortals mortal wrong,And dared to see them as they were—The black Peaks blacken’d in Their light,The white Stars flashing with Their song.So fled. But when revealing MornShow’d him descended, Giant grown,Men ant-like, petty, mean and weak,He rush’d returning. Then in scornTh’ Immortals smote him to a StoneThat aches for ever on the Peak.

’Tis said that a noble Youth of oldWas to his native village lostAnd to his home and aged sire;For he had wander’d (it is told)Where, pinnacled in eternal Frost,Apollo leads his awful Choir.

Awful, for nought of human warmsThe agony of Their Song sublime,Which like the breath of Ice is given,Ascending in vapour from all forms,Where Gods in clear alternate chimeReveal Their mystery-thoughts to Heaven.

Nor in those regions of windless ColdIs fiery the Sun tho’ fierce in light;But frozen-pale the numbed MoonWanders along the ridges that foldEnormous Peaks, what time the NightRivals with all her stars the Noon.

For there, not dimly as here, the Stars,But globed and azure and crimson tinct,Climb up the windless wastes of Snow,Gold-footed, or thro’ the long-drawn barsOf mountain Mist with eyes unblink’dAnd scorn, gaze down on the world below;

Or high on the topmost Peak and endOf ranges stand with sudden blaze,Like Angels born in spontaneous birth;Or wrap themselves in flame and descendBetween black foreheads of Rock in haze,Slowly like grieved gods to earth.

And there for ever the patient WindRakes up the crystals of dry Snow,And mourns for ever her work undone;And there for ever, like Titans blindTheir countenance lifting to Heaven’s glow,The sightless Mountains yearn for the Sun.

There nightly the numbed Eagle quells(Full-feathered to his feet of horn)His swooning eye, his eyrie won,And slumbers, frozen by frosty spellsFast to the pinnacle; but at MornUnfettered, leaps toward the Sun.

He heard, he saw. Not to the airDared breathe a breath; but with his sightWreak’d on Immortals mortal wrong,And dared to see them as they were—The black Peaks blacken’d in Their light,The white Stars flashing with Their song.

So fled. But when revealing MornShow’d him descended, Giant grown,Men ant-like, petty, mean and weak,He rush’d returning. Then in scornTh’ Immortals smote him to a StoneThat aches for ever on the Peak.

The Rock.Cease, O rude and raging Sea,Thus to waste thy war on me.Hast thou not enough assail’dAll these ages, Fool, and fail’d?The Ocean.Gaunt and ghastly Skeleton,Remnant of a time that’s gone,Tott’ring in thy last decayDurst thou still to darken day?The Rock.Empty Brawler brawl no more;Cease to waste thy watery warOn my bastion’d Bases broad,Sanctified by Time and God.The Ocean.Thou that beëst but to be,Scornest thou my Energy?Not much longer lasts the strife.I am Labour, I am Life.The Rock.Roar then, roar, and vent thy Surge;Thou not now shalt drone my dirge.Dost imagine to dismayThis my iron breast with Spray?The Ocean.Relic of primaeval slime,I shall whelm thee in my time.Changeless thou dost ever die;Changing but immortal, I.

The Rock.Cease, O rude and raging Sea,Thus to waste thy war on me.Hast thou not enough assail’dAll these ages, Fool, and fail’d?

The Ocean.Gaunt and ghastly Skeleton,Remnant of a time that’s gone,Tott’ring in thy last decayDurst thou still to darken day?

The Rock.Empty Brawler brawl no more;Cease to waste thy watery warOn my bastion’d Bases broad,Sanctified by Time and God.

The Ocean.Thou that beëst but to be,Scornest thou my Energy?Not much longer lasts the strife.I am Labour, I am Life.

The Rock.Roar then, roar, and vent thy Surge;Thou not now shalt drone my dirge.Dost imagine to dismayThis my iron breast with Spray?

The Ocean.Relic of primaeval slime,I shall whelm thee in my time.Changeless thou dost ever die;Changing but immortal, I.

Death, pacing between a ghastly MoonDying low down on the western HillsAnd the Star, bright usher of the Morn,The clear Dawn cryophor,Trod frosty footprints in the dewUpon a ridge; and beholding thereA lovely Lady lain belowHis tingling Arrow sped—A Barb with a burning icicle tip’d,Torn from the frore beard of the Northern StarThat stares on the shuddering pyramidsOf crumbling Arctic ice.With his Arrow he smote her and cried,‘Come not here!Not here will I bear thee. This is My world—The world of Death where Beauty dies,And I, I Death am god.’She sobbing arose, and sobbing sank;And would have perish’d, but Love that wayFell like a flame, and supported herAnd warm’d her dying hands;And said to him, ‘Fool, the touch of thy barbIs poison that I can poison with Love;For as thou art Death unto all the world,Even so am I Death to thee.’

Death, pacing between a ghastly MoonDying low down on the western HillsAnd the Star, bright usher of the Morn,The clear Dawn cryophor,

Trod frosty footprints in the dewUpon a ridge; and beholding thereA lovely Lady lain belowHis tingling Arrow sped—

A Barb with a burning icicle tip’d,Torn from the frore beard of the Northern StarThat stares on the shuddering pyramidsOf crumbling Arctic ice.

With his Arrow he smote her and cried,‘Come not here!Not here will I bear thee. This is My world—The world of Death where Beauty dies,And I, I Death am god.’

She sobbing arose, and sobbing sank;And would have perish’d, but Love that wayFell like a flame, and supported herAnd warm’d her dying hands;

And said to him, ‘Fool, the touch of thy barbIs poison that I can poison with Love;For as thou art Death unto all the world,Even so am I Death to thee.’

’ ’’’ ’’’ ’’’’ ’’’ ’’’ ’’Go, go from me sorrowful Wanderer—Go, go from me, tho’ no Man dearerThan thou art. The Stars will revisit me,And Thou not forget me O Ocean.Alone here, alone in my SolitudeI’ll sit by the Ocean for ever,And mourn for the Hero so lost to me—So loved by me, Lost, and no omen.Monotonous Waters shall sing to me;Shall sigh to me, sing of my Hero.Immortal like me is my Misery,And when will my Sorrow grow older.Immortal like me is my Love for thee;But mortal like thee, alas, thine is.I have no enchantment to quicken thee,Nor thou to console me with Death.

’ ’’’ ’’’ ’’’’ ’’’ ’’’ ’’

Go, go from me sorrowful Wanderer—Go, go from me, tho’ no Man dearerThan thou art. The Stars will revisit me,And Thou not forget me O Ocean.

Alone here, alone in my SolitudeI’ll sit by the Ocean for ever,And mourn for the Hero so lost to me—So loved by me, Lost, and no omen.

Monotonous Waters shall sing to me;Shall sigh to me, sing of my Hero.Immortal like me is my Misery,And when will my Sorrow grow older.

Immortal like me is my Love for thee;But mortal like thee, alas, thine is.I have no enchantment to quicken thee,Nor thou to console me with Death.

In Darkness and pacing the thunder-beat ShoreBy many Waves,No sound being near to me there but the hoarseCicala’s cry,While that unseen Sword, the Zodiacal Light,Falchion of Dawn,Made clear all the Orient and wanner the Silvery Stars,I heard the fine flute of the Fast Fading Fire,The Morning Star,Pipe thus to the Glimmering Glories of Night,And sing, ‘O World,If I even leave thee then Who can remain?’But from the DeepThe Thundering Sun upsprang, and replied, ‘Even I.’

I heard the fine flute of the Fast Fading Fire,The Morning Star,Pipe thus to the Glimmering Glories of Night,And sing, ‘O World,If I even leave thee then Who can remain?’But from the DeepThe Thundering Sun upsprang, and replied, ‘Even I.’

Down from that blithe Idalian HillWhere Violets drink of dew their fill,And wading thro’ wet eastern FlowersWith wash’d feet Eos and the HoursCome laughing down, I laughing came.The Morn had now her threads of flameInlaid to Earth’s green tapestries,Gold-inwoven; and to their kneesIn chilly baths of thridding rillsAt tremble stood luce Daffodils;When lo I mark’d toward me moveThose Maidens Three whom poets love.‘O whither away, rash Youth,’ they cried,‘Singing thro’ daffodils dost thou stride?’‘Ladies, I wander for a while’—And here I duck’d and doff’d in style—‘I wander by Bourn, I wander by Byre,By Cape and Cote and Castle Spire,And sometime stick in puddled Mire;Or where the shrieking moon-drawn TidesDrench dripping jags on Mountain sides;Or twanging strings sound gay reprieveTo smoky Villages at eve,The while toward their wattled homeThe baaing Sheep do go, I roam,And when the paddock’d Ass careersMirthful, with high prick’d tail and ears.And I have left behind me thereMy Hippocrate teaching the air;And Learning prim; and Venus tooNow whipping Cupid with her shoe.’Then, of those slipper’d Maidens, SheRobed in flush rose red answer’d me,Who brightly gazing with mild lookHeld still a finger-parted book.‘Come then,’ she cried, ‘with me and dwellIn my Valley of Asphodel,Which is a land of laughing rillsAnd hung about with dazzling hills,Where oft the Swain with garter’d legsPiping for love in music begsNor Thisbe turns her petulant ear.There large-eyed Plato thou may’st herePersuade, or, if not idly awed,Masters a Master’s theme applaud.Or if the Thunder more inviteThan silver-threaded rain’s delightAnd sloping seats of knolled moss,Come where some thwarted Torrent tossThro’ his black gorges, mad to breakThe shining levels of the Lake.Or, if engross’d with human Fate,On ranged boards mark Love and HateEgg on to midnight-living crime,And glaring Horrors of dead timeCreep in behind. Or, restive still,Unlock’d from Hell soar Heaven’s hillThro’ sun-outstaring Cherubim.’‘Not so,’ cried one, a Virgin slim,Plumed, wrap’d and robed in such gold-greenAs thro’ woods sunset-dazed is seen,Who half upon her dinted breastApollo sculpt in little press’d.‘Come to my House of all delights,Whose marble Stairs with merged flightsAre shallow’d in the viewless Lake;Whose overpeering Turrets takeThe peep of Dawn, or flashing turnTo Eve departing golden scorn.There fairy-fluted pillars soarTo cloudy Roofs of limned lore,And Walls are window’d with rare scapesAnd rich designs: of blazon’d CapesPawing the sunset-burnish’d flood;Of rib-railed reaches of Solitude;Of rounded World and globed Skies,And Stars between, and faint Moonrise;Of black Tarns set mid mountain peaksAnd spouting silver-foamed leaks;Of Gods reclined, and Maids who move,Unlidding lustrous eyes of love;Of War; of Wisdom with a skull.And in the high aisles Fountains fullDisperse a stream of coolness thereFor frosted fern and maidenhair,And sculptured beauty hold the way.So thither go with me to-day.’Then She who all in purple dight,Brow-starr’d with orbed ruby light,Lifted from under rich deep locksLooks wrapt on Heaven, to earthly shocksDescending, thus replied: ‘Not theseFlat hapless lands of Towers and TreesMay past the morn your spirit please.But to some cold Crag, doffing drifts,His cleared brow that Heavenward lifts,And turns beneath the mistless Stars,Come. There no dew distilled marsThe many hued Sidereal blaze,And mooned Venus in white rageStares down the Dawn. Come; for that GlowThere solves to unpolluted flowThe crumbling crystals of the Snow;And windworn Cataracts wavering plungeTo lightless pine-valleys. Come, O come!Lest those faint Harmonies be unheardWhich, as from silver and gold strings stir’dBy the light fingers of the Wind,Run from the poised orbs swiftly spin’d.’She ceased, and with her finger tipMade sound the lyre upon her hip,And would have sung; but I replied,‘To be unchosen is descried;And we shall be made mad in HeavenBy need of choice of good things given.I love all Three so passing wellWhich I love best I cannot tell.Alas!’—I cried, but checked the word,For close behind a footstep heardCompel’d me turn; when lo that Maid,Dress’d in black velvet, who bewray’dPlump Popes and Pastors once to fear,Came up and took me by the ear.‘Is this the way,’ she cried, ‘you wasteTime should be spent in huddling hasteTo harry Ignorance to her den,Or pink fat Folly with the pen?Small unobserved things to use,Each with its little mite of news,To build that sheer hypothesisWhose base on righteous Reason is,Whose point among the Stars. For shame!Enough the seeming-serious game.But search the Depths; and for thy meed,A place among the men indeed.’

Down from that blithe Idalian HillWhere Violets drink of dew their fill,And wading thro’ wet eastern FlowersWith wash’d feet Eos and the HoursCome laughing down, I laughing came.

The Morn had now her threads of flameInlaid to Earth’s green tapestries,Gold-inwoven; and to their kneesIn chilly baths of thridding rillsAt tremble stood luce Daffodils;When lo I mark’d toward me moveThose Maidens Three whom poets love.‘O whither away, rash Youth,’ they cried,‘Singing thro’ daffodils dost thou stride?’‘Ladies, I wander for a while’—And here I duck’d and doff’d in style—‘I wander by Bourn, I wander by Byre,By Cape and Cote and Castle Spire,And sometime stick in puddled Mire;Or where the shrieking moon-drawn TidesDrench dripping jags on Mountain sides;Or twanging strings sound gay reprieveTo smoky Villages at eve,The while toward their wattled homeThe baaing Sheep do go, I roam,And when the paddock’d Ass careersMirthful, with high prick’d tail and ears.And I have left behind me thereMy Hippocrate teaching the air;And Learning prim; and Venus tooNow whipping Cupid with her shoe.’Then, of those slipper’d Maidens, SheRobed in flush rose red answer’d me,Who brightly gazing with mild lookHeld still a finger-parted book.‘Come then,’ she cried, ‘with me and dwellIn my Valley of Asphodel,Which is a land of laughing rillsAnd hung about with dazzling hills,Where oft the Swain with garter’d legsPiping for love in music begsNor Thisbe turns her petulant ear.There large-eyed Plato thou may’st herePersuade, or, if not idly awed,Masters a Master’s theme applaud.Or if the Thunder more inviteThan silver-threaded rain’s delightAnd sloping seats of knolled moss,Come where some thwarted Torrent tossThro’ his black gorges, mad to breakThe shining levels of the Lake.Or, if engross’d with human Fate,On ranged boards mark Love and HateEgg on to midnight-living crime,And glaring Horrors of dead timeCreep in behind. Or, restive still,Unlock’d from Hell soar Heaven’s hillThro’ sun-outstaring Cherubim.’

‘Not so,’ cried one, a Virgin slim,Plumed, wrap’d and robed in such gold-greenAs thro’ woods sunset-dazed is seen,Who half upon her dinted breastApollo sculpt in little press’d.‘Come to my House of all delights,Whose marble Stairs with merged flightsAre shallow’d in the viewless Lake;Whose overpeering Turrets takeThe peep of Dawn, or flashing turnTo Eve departing golden scorn.There fairy-fluted pillars soarTo cloudy Roofs of limned lore,And Walls are window’d with rare scapesAnd rich designs: of blazon’d CapesPawing the sunset-burnish’d flood;Of rib-railed reaches of Solitude;Of rounded World and globed Skies,And Stars between, and faint Moonrise;Of black Tarns set mid mountain peaksAnd spouting silver-foamed leaks;Of Gods reclined, and Maids who move,Unlidding lustrous eyes of love;Of War; of Wisdom with a skull.And in the high aisles Fountains fullDisperse a stream of coolness thereFor frosted fern and maidenhair,And sculptured beauty hold the way.So thither go with me to-day.’

Then She who all in purple dight,Brow-starr’d with orbed ruby light,Lifted from under rich deep locksLooks wrapt on Heaven, to earthly shocksDescending, thus replied: ‘Not theseFlat hapless lands of Towers and TreesMay past the morn your spirit please.But to some cold Crag, doffing drifts,His cleared brow that Heavenward lifts,And turns beneath the mistless Stars,Come. There no dew distilled marsThe many hued Sidereal blaze,And mooned Venus in white rageStares down the Dawn. Come; for that GlowThere solves to unpolluted flowThe crumbling crystals of the Snow;And windworn Cataracts wavering plungeTo lightless pine-valleys. Come, O come!Lest those faint Harmonies be unheardWhich, as from silver and gold strings stir’dBy the light fingers of the Wind,Run from the poised orbs swiftly spin’d.’She ceased, and with her finger tipMade sound the lyre upon her hip,And would have sung; but I replied,‘To be unchosen is descried;And we shall be made mad in HeavenBy need of choice of good things given.I love all Three so passing wellWhich I love best I cannot tell.Alas!’—I cried, but checked the word,For close behind a footstep heardCompel’d me turn; when lo that Maid,Dress’d in black velvet, who bewray’dPlump Popes and Pastors once to fear,Came up and took me by the ear.‘Is this the way,’ she cried, ‘you wasteTime should be spent in huddling hasteTo harry Ignorance to her den,Or pink fat Folly with the pen?Small unobserved things to use,Each with its little mite of news,To build that sheer hypothesisWhose base on righteous Reason is,Whose point among the Stars. For shame!Enough the seeming-serious game.But search the Depths; and for thy meed,A place among the men indeed.’

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