Thus far the Sow had preach'd by rule,
She preach'd, alas! but to a fool;
For this same Peacock, you must know,
Had he been man, had been a beau:
And spoke, like them, but mighty little
That to the point could tend a tittle:
And with an air that testify'd
He'd got at least his share of pride,
He thus began: "Why, truly now,
You're very civil, Mrs Sow:
But I am very clean, d'ye see;
Your sty is not a place for me.
Should I go through that narrow door,
My feathers might be soil'd or tore;
Or scented with unsav'ry fumes:
And what am I without my plumes?
The much offended Sow replies,
And turns asquint her narrow eyes,
"Sir, you 're incorrigibly vain,
To value thus a shining train;
For when the northern wind shall blow,
And send us hail, and sleet, and snow,
How will you save from such keen weathers,
Your merit-sir, I mean your feathers?
As for myself,-to think that I
Should lead an idiot to my sty,
Or strive to make an oaf my friend,
Makes all my bristles stand on end:
But for the future, when I see
A bird that much resembles thee,
I'll ever make it as a rule,
The shining case contains a fool."
With Nero's power would act the same;
And few in humble spheres can know
How much to want of pow'r they owe-
The passions sleep unrous'd by might,
As objects lie forgot in night;
Tho' unregarded till they're seen,
They both exist beneath the screen,
And Sol returning, grandeur near,
The passions rise, and shapes appear:
And e'en a dove, the Fable tells,
Begirt with pow'r a tyrant swells-
Thus runs the tale-Between the Kite
And Doves there chanc'd a fatal fight,
Before his force their numbers fled,
The victor on the captives fed-
What can be done?-they pine, they grieve,
The spar'd can scarce be said to live.—
At last, their king Columbo's call Commands the senate to the hall: Columbo, best of doves and kings, Up-rising clapt his painted wings, Then thus harangu'd 'em from above, And spake the monarch, and the Dove—
My suff'ring friends, with grief and pain I fear we meet but to complain;
Yet my fond bosom fain would know
Your thoughts of our relentless foe-
If any, blest with skill to save,
Have plann'd the proud oppressor's grave,
Whatever perils shall attend
A scheme to save one bleeding friend,
I'll meet, I'll vanquish, or no more
Return to this opprobrious shore:
For oh to steal the tyrant's breath,
I'd perch upon the dart of death."
He ceas'd, and soft applauses sprung
From ev'ry heart to ev'ry tongue:
Then one arose among the rest,
And mov'd,-That Jove might be addrest,
Arms on their monarch to bestow,
Like those so dreadful on their foe.
The rest consent, the pray'r is made,
Jove will'd, and Nature straight obey'd
Columbo feels his form distend,
His beak grow crook'd, claws extend;
On his increasing strength presumes,
And pleas'd he shakes his alter'd plumes,
To single combat dares the foe,
And deep imprints the fatal blow.
The Kite expires,-and peace again
Reviv'd to bless Columbo's reign.
But flush'd with conquest, proud in arms,
He longs, he pants, for fresh alarms,
And to himself elated thought-
"Had I these gifts of Jove for nought?"
Now swelling high with proud disdain,
He scorns his meek, his peaceful train;
A thousand wives the monarch claims,
And seizes all their fairest dames;
A thousand slaves attend his will,
A thousand nests his treasures fill;
None for themselves eat, sleep, or love,
'Tis all the King's-imperial Dove!
Too noble grown for common food,
He longs to taste of pigeon's blood;
Nor long the appetite withstood.
With treble anguish now they moan
A wide destroyer on their throne,
Despairing drag the galling chain,
And vainly curse Columbo's reign.
This fatal change let man informed pursue,
Catch rising truths from every fabled view,
And learn from hence no dang'rous pow'r to trust,
E'en with the wise, the gentle, and the just.
Since e'en that pow'r less prompts to good than ill,
And bends to vice vain man's unequal will-
Wrongs to redress ne'er arm alone your friend,
But, cloth'd in equal might, his steps attend;
Let equal arms your injur'd rights maintain,
Divide the strength, the labours, honours, gain:
Still on a level, tho' with conquest bright,
No traitor thoughts shall rise from matchless might:
Peace with her genuine charms shall either bless,
And just dependencies prevent excess.
FT has it been my lot to mark
A proud, conceited, talking spark,
With eyes, that hardly serv'd at most
To guard their master 'gainst a post,
Yet round the world the blade has been
To see whatever could be seen.
Returning from his finish'd tour,
Grown ten times perter than before,
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