crew,—
For Monkeys there abound,—
But naked every one:
As no other style they knew
In the land of Tetuan.
Now the naked Monkeys crowd
An admiring glance to snatch;
Homage to pay they press;
And readily allowed,
To the brainless little wretch,
Wisdom and wit to match
The splendors of her dress.
And forthwith it was decided,
By general accord,
That to her should be confided,
As ruler of the horde,
A meditated foray
Far and wide about the land,
A stock of food to gather
To feed the hungry band.
So the leader new set forth
With all her subject host,
And, not alone her road,
But her wits as well, she lost.
Over mountain, moor and valley,
Forest, and ridge, and plain,
Deserts, rivers and morasses,
She dragged her wearied train.
When the day's work was over
They could scarcely move a limb;
And each exhausted rover
Decided—if again,
Through his life, in such excursion
It should be his luck to join—
That he would choose a captain
More skilled, if not so fine.
From toil and from vexation,
They learned a lesson bitter—
That fine clothing is not wisdom,
Not all things gold that glitter.

Now, far this side of Tetuan,
We many a Monkey see,
Who, though he wear the student's
Will still a blockhead be.

FABLE XXVIII.

THE ASS AND HIS MASTER.

"On good and bad an equal value sets
The stupid mob. From me the worst it gets,
And never fails to praise," With vile pretence,
The scurrilous author thus his trash excused.
A poet shrewd, hearing the lame defence,
Indignant, thus exposed the argument abused.

A Donkey's master said unto his beast,
While doling out to him his lock of straw,
"Here, take it—since such diet suits your taste,
And much good may it do your vulgar maw!"
Often the slighting speech the man repeated.
The Ass—his quiet mood by insult heated—
Replies: "Just what you choose to give, I take,
Master unjust! but not because I choose it.
Think you I nothing like but straw? Then make
The experiment. Bring corn, and see if I refuse it."

Ye caterers for the public, hence take heed
How your defaults by false excuse you cover!
Fed upon straw—straw it may eat, indeed:
Try it with generous fare—'t will scorn the other.

FABLE XXIX.

THE TURNSPIT AND THE MULE OF THE WELL.

In inn or convent kitchen,
The reader oft, no doubt,
Turning the spit about,
A contrivance shrewd has seen.

A wheel of wood is it,
With steps on outer rim,
Where a Dog, ceaseless clambering,
Turns it beneath his feet.

A Dog, who every day,
In such wheel, performed his stint,
Thus expressed his discontent:
"Hard work and paltry pay!

Here I may climb and sweat;
And, when my task is done,
They throw me out a bone,—
While they eat all the meat.

Wearily, wearily on,
Day passes after day.
In the house I will not stay,
Nor in the hated town."

The first chance of flight improving,
He slily off did steal;
Till he found, in a field, a wheel
Of a well, which a Mule kept moving.

As his eyes he on it set,
He cried,—"What have we here?
By this it would appear
Here, too, they're roasting meat."

"No meat I roast, but pump
Water," replied the Mule.—
"Let me, now, try a pull;
I'm light, but up I'll jump.

Ah! pretty heavy, is it?
Something harder I must work.
What then? I will not shirk;
'T isn't turning the old spit.

I shall better rations earn,
And more respect compel."—
Here the laborer at the well
Interrupted, in his turn.

"To the spit and kitchen fire
I advise you to go back.
A turnspit strength would lack
For the task to which you aspire."

Now hear the Mule sagacious!
Wisely, sure, he counsels thus;
And one Horatius Flaccus
This same matter does discuss.

How idly doth an author yearn
To undertake, where he must fail!
The little Dog cannot avail
The huge well-wheel to turn.

FABLE XXX.

THE AUTHOR AND THE RAT.

In study of a scholar, sage and mellow,
There dwelt a Rat,—a devil of a fellow,—
Who on naught else his hunger would assuage
But prose and verse of many a learned page.
In vain the Cat watched for him night and day;
Her paws she ne'er could put upon a whisker.
Of cunning traps no shrewd device,
No arsenic hid in sweet confection,
Nor any other bait or mixture,
Ever prepared for rats or mice,
For learned scrolls could cure his predilection;
But with whole pages nightly he made way.

The rascal gnawed, moreover, nothing less,
What our poor Author furnished to the presses,—
His works of eloquence and poesy.
And, as the manuscripts the accursed beast
Had eaten once before, made he
Of printed page still more luxurious feast.

"Ah, what hard luck is mine!" the Author cried.
"I've had enough of writing for these gnawers.
Since all experiments in vain I've tried,
Blank paper now I'll keep within my drawers,—
And nothing else. This mischief must be stayed."
But, lo! too faithful to his wasteful trade,
In pure white paper, without stop or stint,
As heretofore with manuscript and print,
The villanous vermin like destruction made.

At his wit's end, as last resort,
Into his ink he pours, in copious dose,
Corrosive sublimate, and writes
Something; I know not whether verse or prose.
'Tis eaten by the animal perverse,
And quickly ends his sport.
"Happy receipt which mischief sure requites!"
Sarcastic said the Poet, thus relieved.
"Let him, who gnaws too freely, have a care
Lest his malicious insult prove a snare;
And the impatient wight he seeks to bait,
Should write him in corrosive sublimate."

Be moderate, critic,—for unjust abuse
Severe retaliation will excuse;
Silence to keep, beneath invective froward,
Argues an author either dunce or coward.

FABLE XXXI.

THE SQUIRREL AND THE HORSE.

A Steed,—a noble sorrel,—
Docile to spur and rein,
Before a little Squirrel
Went dashing round a plain.

Watching awhile his motions,
So swift, yet regular,
The Squirrel brisk bespeaks him
As follows: "My dear sir,
No great merit
All this deftness,
Grace and lightness—
Such I've often seen before.
With equal spirit,
Just such gambols
I can do, and even more.
I am sprightly,
I am active;
Always lightly
Moving round,
From ground to tree,
And tree to ground,
I am never quiet found."

Checking his pace a moment,
The good colt his gallop stayed,
And in grave tone, as follows,