So run he did; while to their grounds,
The banisht Ghebers blest returned;
And, tho' 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, cherisht, guarded, not confined,
The living glory dwelt inshrined,
And, shedding lustre strong, but even,
Tho' 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.
[1] 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.
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_!"[1]--
Naught wanting, but some _coup_ dramatic,
To make French _sentiment_ explode,
Bring in, at once, the _gout_ fanatic,
And make the war "_la derniere 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 she had sworn 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.
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