(All of the true Imperial size),

And there, in rows, stood black and burnish'd, Ready, where'er a gleam but shone

Of light or fire, to be clapp'd 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,
Plac'd 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,

Th' Extinguishers themselves on fire!!*

*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

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-turn'd 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. So run he did; while to their grounds, The banish'd Ghebers blest return'd; And, though their Fire had broke its bounds, And all abroad now wildly burn'd,

Yet well could they, who lov'd the flame,

Its wand'ring, its excess reclaim;

And soon another, fairer Dome

Arose to be its sacred home,

contains some of the happiest specimens of playful poetry that have appeared in this or any age.

Where, cherish'd, guarded, not confin'd,
The living glory dwelt inshrin'd,
And, shedding lustre strong, but even,
Though born of earth, grew worthy heav'n.

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 rais'd-the army ready-
Drums beating, and the Royal Neddy
Valiantly braying in the van,

To the old tune " Eh, eh, Sire Âne!”*
Nought wanting, but some coup dramatic,
To make French sentiment explode,

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,

* 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 Âne, eh, eh, eh, Sire Âne."- WARTON'S Essay on Pope.

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 propos'd by each,
Lord Chateaubriand 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 Nôtre Dame,

In which the Duke (who, bless his Highness!

Had by his hilt acquir'd such fame,

'Twas hop'd that he as little shyness

Would show, when to the point he came,)