Accordingly, some large supplies
Of these Extinguishers were furnisht
(All of the true Imperial size),
And there, in rows, stood black and burnisht,
Ready, where'er a gleam but shone
Of light or fire, to be clapt on.
But ah! how lordly wisdom errs,
In trusting to extinguishers!
One day, when he had left all sure,
(At least, so thought he) 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!![1]
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,
"What," said the great man, "must be done?"--
All that, in scrapes like this, is left
To great men is--to cut and run.
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