Book X: The Rabbits

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 racesOf no less failings show'd the tracesThan do his lieges in relation;And that, in making it, Dame NatureHath put a spice in every creatureFrom 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 frontierOf either day or night,--Or when the lord of lightReclines his radiant headUpon his watery bed,Or when he dons the gear,To drive a new career,--While yet with doubtful swayThe hour is ruled 'twixt night and day,--Some border forest-tree I climb;And, acting Jove, from height sublimeMy 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, ereThey tempt the same dread shocksOf tempests, waves, and rocks.True rabbits, back they friskTo meet the self-same risk!

I add another common case.When dogs pass through a placeBeyond their customary bounds,And meet with others, curs or hounds,Imagine what a holiday!The native dogs, whose interests centreIn 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 chartLaid 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 owesWhate'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 obtainThat here your name, receiving homage,Should save from every sort of damageMy slender works--which name, well knownTo nations, and to ancient Time,All France delights to own;Herself more rich in names sublimeThan any other earthly clime;--Permit me here the world to teachThat you have given my simple rhymeThe text from which it dares to preach.