The patriot lords' advice, though late,
Was put at last in execution,
The Parliament of Thibet met-

The little Lama, called before it,
Did, then and there, his whipping get,
And (as the Nursery Gazette

Assures us) like a hero bore it.

And though, 'mong Thibet Tories, some
Lament that Royal martyrdom
(Please to observe, the letter D

In this last word's pronounced like B),
Yet to the example of that Prince

So much is Thibet's land a debtor,
That her long line of Lamas, since,

Have all behaved themselves much better.

FABLE VII.

THE EXTINGUISHERS.

PROEM.

THOUGH Soldiers are the true supports,
The natural allies of Courts,

Woe to the Monarch, who depends
Too much on his red-coated friends;
For even soldiers sometimes think-

Nay, Colonels have been known to reason,And reasoners, whether clad in pink,

Or red, or blue, are on the brink

(Nine cases out of ten) of treason.

Not many soldiers, I believe, are
As fond of liberty as Mina;

Else-woe to kings, when Freedom's fever
Once turns into a Scarletina!

For then-but hold 'tis best to veil

My meaning in the following tale :

FABLE.

A Lord of Persia, rich and great,

Just come into a large estate,

Was shocked to find he had, for neighbours,

Close to his gate, some rascal Ghebers,

Whose fires, beneath his very nose,

In heretic combustion rose.

But Lords of Persia can, no doubt,

Do what they will-so, one fine morning,

He turned the rascal Ghebers out,

First giving a few kicks for warning.
Then, thanking Heaven most piously,
He knocked their Temple to the ground,

Blessing himself for joy to see

Such Pagan ruins strewed around.
But much it vexed my Lord to find,
That, while all else obeyed his will,
The fire those Ghebers left behind,

Do what he would, kept burning still.
Fiercely he stormed, as if his frown
Could scare the bright insurgent down;
But, no-such fires are headstrong things,
And care not much for Lords or Kings.
Scarce could his Lordship well contrive

The flashes in one place to smother
Before-hey presto!-all alive,

They sprung up freshly in another.

At length when, spite of prayers and damns,
'Twas found the sturdy flame defied him,
His stewards came, with low salams,

Offering by contract, to provide him
Some large Extinguishers, (a plan,
Much used, they said, at Ispahan,
Vienna, Petersburgh-in short,
Wherever Light's forbid at court,)
Machines no Lord should be without,
Which would, at once, put promptly out
All kinds of fires,-from staring, stark
Volcanos to the tiniest spark;

Till all things slept as dull and dark,
As, in a great Lord's neighbourhood,
'Twas right and fitting all things should.

Accordingly, some large supplies

Of these Extinguishers were furnished (All of the true Imperial size),

And there, in rows, stood black and burnished,

Ready, where'er a gleam but shone

Of light or fire, to be clapped on.

But, ah, how lordly wisdom errs,
In trusting to extinguishers!
One day, when he had left all sure,
(At least, believèd so) dark, secure-
The flame, at all its exits, entries,

Obstructed to his heart's content,
And black extinguishers, like sentries,
Placed over every dangerous vent―
Ye Gods, imagine his amaze,

His wrath, his rage, when, on returning, He found not only the old blaze,

Brisk as before, crackling and burning, Not only new, young conflagrations, Popping up round in various stations

But, still more awful, strange, and dire,
The Extinguishers themselves on fire!!*
They, they-those trusty, blind machines
His Lordship had so long been praising,
As, under Providence, the means

Of keeping down all lawless blazing,
Were now, themselves-alas, too true
The shameful fact-turned blazers too,
And, by a change as odd as cruel,
Instead of dampers, served for fuel!

Thus, of his only hope bereft,

must be done?"

"What," said the great man,
All that, in scrapes like this, is left

To great men is-to cut and run.
So run he did; while to their grounds,

The banished Ghebers blest returned;

And, though their Fire had broke its bounds,
And all abroad now wildly burned,

Yet well could they, who loved the flame,
Its wandering, its excess reclaim;

And soon another, fairer Dome
Arose to be its sacred home,

Where, cherished, guarded, not confined,

The living glory dwelt enshrined,
And, shedding lustre strong, but even,
Though born of earth, grew worthy heaven.

MORAL.

The moral hence my Muse infers

Is, that such Lords are simple elves,

In trusting to Extinguishers,

That are combustible themselves.

FABLE VIII.

LOUIS FOURTEENTH'S WIG.

THE money raised-the army ready-
Drums beating, and the Royal Neddy
Valiantly braying in the van,

To the old tune "Eh, eh, Sire Ane!"+-
Nought wanting, but some coup dramatic,
To make French sentiment explode,

The idea of this Fable was caught from one of those brilliant mots which abound in the conversation of my friend, the author of the "Letters to Julia," -a production which contains some of the happiest specimens of playful poetry that have appeared in this or any age.

They celebrated in the dark ages, at many churches, particularly at Rouen, what was called the Feast of the Ass. On this occasion the Ass, finely drest, was brought before the altar, and they sung before him this elegant anthem, "Eh, eh, eh, Sire Ane, eh, eh, en, Sire Ane."-Warton's Essay on Pope.

Bring in, at once, the goût fanatic,

And make the war "la dernière mode
Instantly, at the Pavillon Marsan,

Is held an Ultra consultation--
What's to be done, to help the farce on?
What stage-effect, what decoration,
To make this beauteous France forget,
In one grand, glorious pirouette,
All that she swore to but last week,
And, with a cry of "Magnifique!"
Rush forth to this, or any war,
Without inquiring once-"What for?"

After some plans proposed by each,
Lord Châteaubriand made a speech,
(Quoting, to show what men's rights are,
Or rather what men's rights should be,
From Hobbes, Lord Castlereagh, the Czar,
And other friends to Liberty,)
Wherein he having first protested
'Gainst humouring the mob-suggested
(As the most high-bred plan he saw
For giving the new War éclat)

A grand, Baptismal Melo-drame,
To be got up at Notre-Dame,

In which the Duke (who, bless his Highness!
Had by his hilt acquired such fame,

'Twas hoped that he as little shyness

Would show, when to the point he came,)
Should, for his deeds so lion-hearted,
Be christened Hero, ere he started;
With power, by Royal Ordonnance,
To bear that name-at least in France.
Himself the Viscount Châteaubriand-
(To help the affair with more esprit on)
Offering, for this baptismal rite,

Some of his own famed Jordan water'

(Marie Louise not having quite

Used all that, for young Nap, he brought her,)

The baptism, in this case, to be

Applied to that extremity,

Which Bourbon heroes most expose;

And which (as well all Europe knows)
Happens to be, in this Defender

Of the true Faith, extremely tender.+

Or if (the Viscount said) this scheme
Too rash and premature should seem-

Brought from the river Jordan by M. Châteaubriand, and presented to the French Empress for the christening of young Napoleon.

See the Duke's celebrated letter to Madame, written during his campaign in 1815, in which he says, "J'ai le postérieur légèrement endommagé."

If thus discounting heroes, on tick-
This glory, by anticipation,
Was too much in the genre romantique
For such a highly classic nation,
He begged to say, the Abyssinians
A practice had in their dominions,
Which, if at Paris got up well,
In full costume, was sure to tell.
At all great epochs, good or ill,

They have, says Bruce (and Bruce ne'er budges
From the strict truth), a grand Quadrille

In public danced by the Twelve Judges *-
And, he assures us, the grimaces,

The entre-chats, the airs and graces
Of dancers, so profound and stately,
Divert the Abyssinians greatly.

"Now (said the Viscount), there's but few
Great Empires, where this plan would do:
For instance, England;-let them take

What pains they would-'twere vain to strive-
The twelve stiff Judges there would make
The worst Quadrille-set now alive.

One must have seen them, ere one could
Imagine properly Judge Wood,
Performing, in his wig, so gaily,
A queue-de-chat with Justice Bailey!
French Judges, though, are, by no means,
This sort of stiff, be-wigged machines !
And we, who've seen them at Saumur,
And Poitiers lately, may be sure
They'd dance quadrilles, or anything,
That would be pleasing to the King-
Nay, stand upon their heads, and more do,
To please the little Duke de Bordeaux !”

After these several schemes there came
Some others-needless now to name,
Since that, which Monsieur planned, himself,
Soon doomed all others to the shelf,
And was received par acclamation,
As truly worthy the Grande Nation.

It seems (as Monsieur told the story)
That Louis the Fourteenth,-that glory,
That Coryphée of all crowned pates,—
That pink of the Legitimates-

Had, when, with many a pious prayer, he
Bequeathed unto the Virgin Mary

* "On certain great occasions, the twelve Judges (who are generally between sixty and seventy years of age) sing the song and dance the figure-dance," &c.

-Book v.