The Power Of Fables.

To M. De Barillon.[1]      Can diplomatic dignity      To simple fables condescend?      Can I your famed benignity      Invoke, my muse an ear to lend?      If once she dares a high intent,      Will you esteem her impudent?      Your cares are weightier, indeed,      Than listening to the sage debates      Of rabbit or of weasel states:      So, as it pleases, burn or read;      But save us from the woful harms      Of Europe roused in hostile arms.      That from a thousand other places      Our enemies should show their faces,      May well be granted with a smile,      But not that England's Isle      Our friendly kings should set      Their fatal blades to whet.      Comes not the time for Louis to repose?      What Hercules, against these hydra foes,      Would not grow weary? Must new heads oppose      His ever-waxing energy of blows?      Now, if your gentle, soul-persuasive powers,      As sweet as mighty in this world of ours,      Can soften hearts, and lull this war to sleep,[2]      I'll pile your altars with a hundred sheep;      And this is not a small affair      For a Parnassian mountaineer.      Meantime, (if you have time to spare,)      Accept a little incense-cheer.      A homely, but an ardent prayer,      And tale in verse, I give you here.      I'll only say, the theme is fit for you.      With praise, which envy must confess      To worth like yours is justly due,      No man on earth needs propping less.      In Athens, once, that city fickle,      An orator,[3] awake to feel      His country in a dangerous pickle,      Would sway the proud republic's heart,      Discoursing of the common weal,      As taught by his tyrannic art.      The people listen'd - not a word.      Meanwhile the orator recurr'd      To bolder tropes - enough to rouse      The dullest blocks that e'er did drowse;      He clothed in life the very dead,      And thunder'd all that could be said.      The wind received his breath,      As to the ear of death.      That beast of many heads and light,[4]      The crowd, accustom'd to the sound      Was all intent upon a sight -      A brace of lads in mimic fight.      A new resource the speaker found.      'Ceres,' in lower tone said he,      'Went forth her harvest fields to see:      An eel, as such a fish might he,      And swallow, were her company.      A river check'd the travellers three.      Two cross'd it soon without ado;      The smooth eel swam, the swallow flew. - '      Outcried the crowd      With voices loud -      'And Ceres - what did she?'      'Why, what she pleased; but first      Yourselves she justly cursed -      A people puzzling aye your brains      With children's tales and children's play,      While Greece puts on her steel array,      To save her limbs from, tyrant chains!      Why ask you not what Philip[5] does?'      At this reproach the idle buzz      Fell to the silence of the grave,      Or moonstruck sea without a wave,      And every eye and ear awoke      To drink the words the patriot spoke.      This feather stick in Fable's cap.      We're all Athenians, mayhap;      And I, for one, confess the sin;      For, while I write this moral here,      If one should tell that tale so queer      Ycleped, I think, "The Ass's Skin,"[6]      I should not mind my work a pin.      The world is old, they say; I don't deny it; -      But, infant still      In taste and will,      Whoe'er would teach, must gratify it.