Decides at once that she'll withdraw.

"My friends," said she, "take my advice,

This land is not so very nice.

To reach it we must cross the slough,

And that my coat would ruin so,

That I should die.

Some other country let us try."

"Have patience, dear," the beaver said;

"These things require a little head.

We need not always get a stain,

In coming at the point we'd gain.

As I'm a mason, I can throw,

In fifteen days o'er this foul slough

A bridge by which we can pass o'er,

And harmless reach the farther shore."

"In fifteen days!" exclaim'd the boar;

"The thing much sooner can be done;

I'll show you how in less than one."

Then in he leaps into the slime,

Amidst the lizards, toads, and snakes;

Most lustily his way he makes,

And flounders over in short time.

Arriv'd upon the other side,

He shook the mud off from his hide,

And then with pompous, proud display,

Back to his friends this scorn he hurl'd:—

"If you would prosper in this world,

You must, as I've done, push your way."

FABLE XLVI. THE PERSECUTED POODLE.

A shaggy poodle being shorn

So as to have a lion's mane,

Could hardly longer well be borne,

He so conceited was and vain;

For vanity will sure deceive

All who her flattery receive.

We on this head a story know.

It came to pass, not long ago.

That after long and bloody strife,

Where many a lion lost his life,

The elephant the victor was,

Who thereupon decreed these laws:—

That brawls and blood-shed to prevent,

All into exile must be sent

Who civil war and strife foment;

And never more should lions come

Within his realms to make their home.

The lions, overcome, subdu'd,

And by their enemies pursu'd,

Were hunted down on ev'ry hand,

And forc'd to fly and leave the land.

Their fate admitted no relief;

But still they made the best of it.

They kept their courage with their grief,

And learn'd in patience to submit.

But with our poodle 'twas not so:

The dread decree fill'd him with woe.

"Oh, am I then," he moaning cried,

"No longer suffer'd here to dwell?

Must I in other lands reside,

Far from the scenes I've lov'd so well?

And in my old age too!

Oh barb'rous king to drive me forth

From this dear spot that gave me birth,

Which I no more shall view!

I go unaided and in gloom,

In foreign lands to seek a tomb;

And even that may be denied!

And all to please this tyrant's pride,

Who only thus is satisfied!"

A spaniel heard the pug complain,

And touch'd at heart with so much pain,

Ask'd why he felt obliged to fly.

"Why?" said the pug, "do you ask why?

Just look and see that hard decree,

How cruel and severe on me!"

The spaniel cried:—

"That law with lions has to do;

But what concern is that to you?"

The pug replied:—

"Why, am not I a lion too?"

FABLE XLVII. THE DOVE AND THE MAGPIE.

Once on a time a dove had built

Her nest near where a magpie dwelt.

It must be own'd the neighborhood

Could not be reckon'd very good.

But that is neither here nor there;

We simply state things as they were.

In the dwelling of the dove.

Ev'rything was peace and love,

While in t'other all was strife—

Husband fighting with the wife,

Broken eggs and wretched life.

Twas one day after being beat,

The magpie sought the dove's retreat,

Where she chatter'd, scolded, cried

Told all she knew and more beside,

And with her clamor fill'd the house

About the failings of her spouse.

"He is exacting, hard, and proud,"

She shriek'd aloud,

"And passionate and jealous too;

And yet he goes

To see the crows,

As I can well attest to you."

And in her anger she gave vent

To many things of like intent.

"But you," the gentle dove replied,

"Have you no faults on your side?"

"I have, the pie resum'd, "'tis true;

And I may say, between us two,

In my behavior I've been light,

And sometimes shown a deal of spite.

I've often, too, play'd the coquette,

Merely to see him writhe and fret."

(Pies hardly would this fault admit

If they thought doves would credit it.)

"But what of that? I'd like to know,

Don't other birds do even so?"

"Oh no, indeed," the dove rejoined;

"You'll never peace in that way find.

If thus you irritate your mate,

You give him cause for all his hate."

"I give him cause!" the pie exclaim'd,

With anger at the dove inflam'd,

"That's very bright, upon my word!

Such impudence who ever heard?

When I come here for sympathy,

You set about abusing me!

Keep your advice at home, say I,

And so, impertinence, good bye!"

Quite too indignant to say more,

She flung impatient from the door,

Enraged to find herself oppos'd,

By her own faults which she'd disclos'd.

FABLE XLVIII. THE SQUIRREL, THE DOG, AND THE FOX.

A dog and squirrel hand in hand,

Where one time trav'ling through the land,

When they were caught as night came down,

In a large forest far from town.

No friendly inn was there t'afford

Its hospitable bed and board.

So in an old and hollow tree,

The dog for shelter search'd,

While his good friend, the squirrel, he

Among the branches perch'd.

Towards midnight, at that solemn hour

When to their crimes sly murd'rers creep,

When somnolence asserts its power,

And our two friends were sunk in sleep,

Lo! an old fox athirst for blood,

Came prowling through the silent wood.

He saw the squirrel on a limb,

And thus accosted him:—

"My friend, I pray you pardon me,

I would not so intrusive be

As to disturb your sweet repose,

But that I'm dying to disclose

My true heart-felt felicity

To find that you and I

In blood relationship are nigh:

We're cousins of the first degree!

For your good mother, I've heard said,

Was sister to my worthy sire,

Who bade me, on his dying bed,

For you, his nephew, to inquire,

And give you half the legacy

He left for me.

So haste, my friend, come down I pray,

And have your portion right away.

I burn to meet you face to face,

More fully to explain the case.

If I, like you, could climb a tree,

Indeed, you well may credit me,

I had been with you long ere this,

To show how great my pleasure is."

Now squirrels though not bred in schools.

Are not by any means all fools;

And ours was shrewd enough to see

Quite through the fox's knavery.

So he replied in tones most kind:—

"I am delighted, friend, to find

That we so near related are.

Your happiness I fully share;

And I shall hurry to descend.

But ere I come I have a friend

That I would introduce to you.

He is a near relation too:

One who is all in all to me,

Whom you'll be glad, perhaps, to see;

He's sleeping in that hole below;

Knock at the door and call him out:

He'll warmly welcome you, I know,

On learning what you've come about."

Old Reynard hurries to the door,

Hoping to get one squirrel more;

But on the instant that he knocks,

The dog, awak'd from slumbers sound,

Springs out, and at a single bound,

Upon the spot kills Mister Fox.

The offices of a true friend

May not alone our life defend;

No greater blessing can there be,

Than solace from his sympathy.

FABLE XLIX. KING ALPHONSO.

A certain king who held his reign

Where Tagus mingles with the main,

Alphonso called, surnam'd The Wise—

(Not so surnam'd because discreet,

But just because he thought it meet

To scan the skies)—

Knew much of all phenomena,

And was a great astronomer.

More of the heavens he came to know,

Than of his kingdom here below;

For when to council call'd, he'd soon

Run off to view the sun or moon.

At length one day when going to

His telescope to take a view,

The gentry round him he address'd:—

"Messieurs! I am at last possess'd

Of instruments, by which, to-night,

I hope to see the wond'rous sight

Of men within our satellite!"

"No doubt you will," a courtier cried,

"And many other things beside."

Meantime a poor street-beggar bow'd,

And ask'd for pennies from the crowd.

The king could neither hear nor see

The man's appeal for charity;

But all absorb'd pursu'd his way,

Unheeding what the man might say.

Yet still the beggar humbly pray'd;

Beseeching held his hand for aid,

And much the king did importune.

But still the king with thoughts on high,

Made ever still this same reply:—

"I shall see men within the moon."

At last the poor man in distress,

Seiz'd on the monarch's royal dress,

And gravely said:—

"You'll find men here, men who need bread:

You need not look for them up there;

They're here, around you, ev'rywhere.

This realm God gave you for a boon,

Not one up yonder in the moon."

FABLE L. DEATH'S CHOICE OF PRIME MINISTER.

Once on a time there was a king

Who wish'd his state more flourishing.

In hell he rear'd his awful throne,

(As King of Terrors he is known)

And, as the case did much import,

He call'd together his whole court.

The question was what plague should be

The chief aid to his majesty.

First, from the lowest hell there came

Three spirits of most dreadful fame,

Fever, Gout, and War.

Death gave them welcome; for, of all

The ills that plague our earthly ball,

These most dreaded are.

Then Pest steps forward—all agree

That he too, has great potency.

Then comes a Doctor, at whose name

'Twas evident he had a claim,

Which caused e'en Death himself to doubt

How his selection must turn out.

But when the Vices all advance,

Death could no longer hesitate

Which most his service would enhance,

Or which was his true candidate:

Vice of all vice—Intemperance—

He chose prime minister of state.

FABLE LI. THE JOURNEY.

To set out ere the dawn of day,

Groping in darkness for the way,

Caring for naught, nor making quest

If going North, South, East, or West;—

From fall to fall to stumble on

Till near one-third the course be run:

Then, as the dark clouds gather round,

To enter on unstable ground,

Yet pushing onwards, though quite lost,

'Midst thick'ning doubts, and tempest tost,

With no sure aim, no end in view,

And seldom knowing what to do;—

Driven, forc'd on, and in great stress,

Seeking some spot, some safe recess,

Where to arrive all out of breath,

And there to creep

To the last sleep—

Such then is Birth, and Life, and Death;

This is the way we journey on:—

God's will be done!

CLOSING LINES.

'Tis done: the lyre is mute;

My labors here must have an end;

Though still the Muse might wrongs impute,

That should perchance our manners mend,

(If she but had an abler friend).

But no; her work would prove in vain;

For the world's folly, int'rest, pride,

Will e'er bring trouble in their train,

However much they be decried.

'Tis vain that philosophic sects

May censure man for his defects;

They waste their wisdom and their rhymes.

Let the world wag! Go with the times!

Or live retir'd, content and free,

In some deep-hid obscurity.

There, what could fail us that might bless

Our lives with perfect happiness?

Save gentle peace, a tranquil lot;

Our only wish to be forgot;

Our sole endeavor how to shun

The ills by which we're prey'd upon;

With wealth enough with friends to share,

But not to waken envy there.

THE END