The Rabbits.

[1]     An Address To The Duke De La Rochefoucauld.[2]      While watching man in all his phases,      And seeing that, in many cases,      He acts just like the brute creation, -      I've thought the lord of all these races      Of no less failings show'd the traces      Than do his lieges in relation;      And that, in making it, Dame Nature      Hath put a spice in every creature      From off the self-same spirit-stuff -      Not from the immaterial,      But what we call ethereal,      Refined from matter rough.      An illustration please to hear.      Just on the still frontier      Of either day or night, -      Or when the lord of light      Reclines his radiant head      Upon his watery bed,      Or when he dons the gear,      To drive a new career, -      While yet with doubtful sway      The hour is ruled 'twixt night and day, -      Some border forest-tree I climb;      And, acting Jove, from height sublime      My fatal bolt at will directing,      I kill some rabbit unsuspecting.      The rest that frolick'd on the heath,      Or browsed the thyme with dainty teeth,      With open eye and watchful ear,      Behold, all scampering from beneath,      Instinct with mortal fear.      All, frighten'd simply by the sound,      Hie to their city underground.      But soon the danger is forgot,      And just as soon the fear lives not:      The rabbits, gayer than before,      I see beneath my hand once more!      Are not mankind well pictured here?      By storms asunder driven,      They scarcely reach their haven,      And cast their anchor, ere      They tempt the same dread shocks      Of tempests, waves, and rocks.      True rabbits, back they frisk      To meet the self-same risk!      I add another common case.      When dogs pass through a place      Beyond their customary bounds,      And meet with others, curs or hounds,      Imagine what a holiday!      The native dogs, whose interests centre      In one great organ, term'd the venter,      The strangers rush at, bite, and bay;      With cynic pertness tease and worry,      And chase them off their territory.      So, too, do men. Wealth, grandeur, glory,      To men of office or profession,      Of every sort, in every nation,      As tempting are, and sweet,      As is to dogs the refuse meat.      With us, it is a general fact,      One sees the latest-come attack'd,      And plunder'd to the skin.      Coquettes and authors we may view,      As samples of the sin;      For woe to belle or writer new!      The fewer eaters round the cake,      The fewer players for the stake,      The surer each one's self to take.      A hundred facts my truth might test;      But shortest works are always best.      In this I but pursue the chart      Laid down by masters of the art;      And, on the best of themes, I hold,      The truth should never all be told.      Hence, here my sermon ought to close.      O thou, to whom my fable owes      Whate'er it has of solid worth, -      Who, great by modesty as well as birth,      Hast ever counted praise a pain, -      Whose leave I could so ill obtain      That here your name, receiving homage,      Should save from every sort of damage      My slender works - which name, well known      To nations, and to ancient Time,      All France delights to own;      Herself more rich in names sublime      Than any other earthly clime; -      Permit me here the world to teach      That you have given my simple rhyme      The text from which it dares to preach.