Volume I Part 2 (1/2)
V
Let not old Rome boast Fabius' fate; He sav'd his country by delays, But you by peace.[1]
You bought it at a cheaper rate; Nor has it left the usual b.l.o.o.d.y scar, To show it cost its price in war; War, that mad game the world so loves to play, And for it does so dearly pay; For, though with loss, or victory, a while Fortune the gamesters does beguile, Yet at the last the box sweeps all away.
VI
Only the laurel got by peace No thunder e'er can blast: Th'artillery of the skies Shoots to the earth and dies: And ever green and flouris.h.i.+ng 'twill last, Nor dipt in blood, nor widows' tears, nor orphans' cries.
About the head crown'd with these bays, Like lambent fire, the lightning plays; Nor, its triumphal cavalcade to grace, Makes up its solemn train with death; It melts the sword of war, yet keeps it in the sheath.
VII
The wily shafts of state, those jugglers' tricks, Which we call deep designs and politics, (As in a theatre the ignorant fry, Because the cords escape their eye, Wonder to see the motions fly,) Methinks, when you expose the scene, Down the ill-organ'd engines fall; Off fly the vizards, and discover all: How plain I see through the deceit!
How shallow, and how gross, the cheat!
Look where the pulley's tied above!
Great G.o.d! (said I) what have I seen!
On what poor engines move The thoughts of monarchs and designs of states!
What petty motives rule their fates!
How the mouse makes the mighty mountains shake!
The mighty mountain labours with its birth, Away the frighten'd peasants fly, Scared at the unheard-of prodigy, Expect some great gigantic son of earth; Lo! it appears!
See how they tremble! how they quake!
Out starts the little beast, and mocks their idle fears.
VIII
Then tell, dear favourite Muse!
What serpent's that which still resorts, Still lurks in palaces and courts?
Take thy unwonted flight, And on the terrace light.
See where she lies!
See how she rears her head, And rolls about her dreadful eyes, To drive all virtue out, or look it dead!
'Twas sure this basilisk sent Temple thence, And though as some ('tis said) for their defence Have worn a cas.e.m.e.nt o'er their skin, So wore he his within, Made up of virtue and transparent innocence; And though he oft renew'd the fight, And almost got priority of sight, He ne'er could overcome her quite, In pieces cut, the viper still did reunite; Till, at last, tired with loss of time and ease, Resolved to give himself, as well as country, peace.
IX
Sing, beloved Muse! the pleasures of retreat, And in some untouch'd virgin strain, Show the delights thy sister Nature yields; Sing of thy vales, sing of thy woods, sing of thy fields; Go, publish o'er the plain How mighty a proselyte you gain!
How n.o.ble a reprisal on the great!
How is the Muse luxuriant grown!
Whene'er she takes this flight, She soars clear out of sight.
These are the paradises of her own: Thy Pegasus, like an unruly horse, Though ne'er so gently led, To the loved pastures where he used to feed, Runs violent o'er his usual course.