'Tis now full time my ode should end:
And now I tell thee like a friend,
Howe'er the world may scout thee;
Thy ways are all so wond'rous winning,
And folks so very fond of sinning,
They can not do without thee.
THE KING OF SPAIN AND THE HORSE.
IN seventeen hundred seventy-eight,
The rich, the proud, the potent King of Spain,
Whose ancestors sent forth their troops to smite
The peaceful natives of the western main,
With faggots and the blood-delighting sword,
To play the devil, to oblige the Lord!
For hunting, roasting heretics, and boiling,
Baking and barbecuing, frying, broiling,
Was thought Heaven's cause amazingly to further;
For which most pious reason, hard to work,
They went, with gun and dagger, knife and fork,
To charm the God of mercy with their murther!
I say, this King, in seventy-eight surveyed,
In tapestry so rich, portrayed,
A horse with stirrups, crupper, bridle, saddle: Within the stirrup, lo, the monarch tried
To fix his foot the palfry to bestride;
In vain !—he could not o'er the palfry straddle !
Stiff as a Turk, the beast of yarn remained,
And every effort of the King disdained,
Who, 'midst his labors, to the ground was tumbled,
And greatly mortified, as well as humbled.
Prodigious was the struggle of the day,
The horse attempted not to run away;
At which the poor-chafed monarch now 'gan grin,
And swore by every saint and holy martyr,
He would not yield the traitor quarter,
Until he got possession of his skin.
Not fiercer famed La Mancha's knight,
Hight Quixote, at a puppet-show,
Did with more valor stoutly fight,
And terrify each little squeaking foe;
When bold he pierced the lines, immortal fray!
And broke their pasteboard bones, and stabbed their hearts
Not with more energy and fury
The beauteous street-walker of Drury
Attacks a sister of the smuggling trade,
Whose winks, and nods, and sweet resistless smile,
Ah, me! her paramour beguile,
And to her bed of healthy straw persuade;
Where mice with music charm, and vermin crawl,
And snails with silver traces deck the wall.
And now a cane, and now a whip he used,
And now he kicked, and sore the palfry bruised;
Yet, lo, the horse seemed patient at each kick,
And bore with Christian spirit whip and stick ;
And what excessively provoked this prince,
The horse so stubborn scorned even once to wince.
Now rushed the monarch for a bow and arrow
To shoot the rebel like a sparrow;
And, lo, with shafts well steeled, with all his force,
Just like a pincushion, he stuck the horse!
Now with the fury of the chafed wild boar,
With nails and teeth the wounded horse he tore,
Now to the floor he brought the stubborn beast;
Now o'er the vanquish'd horse that dared rebel,
Most Indian-like the monarch gave a yell,
Pleased on the quadruped his eyes to feast;
Blessed as Achilles when with fatal wound
He brought the mighty Hector to the ground.
Yet more to gratify his godlike ire,
He vengeful flung the palfry in the fire!
Showing his pages round, poor trembling things,
How dangerous to resist the will of kings.
Lo, to the cruel hand of fate,
My poor dear Grizzle, meek-souled mate,
Resigns her tuneful breath—
Though dropped her jaw, her lip though pale,
And blue each harmless finger-nail,
She's beautiful in death.
As o'er her lovely limbs I weep,
I scarce can think her but asleep-
How wonderfully tame!
And yet her voice is really gone,
And dim those eyes that lately shone
With all the lightning's flame.
Death was, indeed, a daring wight,
To take it in his head to smite-
To lift his dart to hit her;
For as she was so great a woman,
And cared a single fig for no man,
I thought he feared to meet her.
Still is that voice of late so strong,
That many a sweet capriccio sung,
And beat in sounds the spheres;
No longer must those fingers play
"Britons strike home," that many a day
Hath soothed my ravished ears.
Ah me! indeed I'm much inclined
To think how I may speak my mind,
Nor hurt her dear repose;
Nor think I now with rage she'd roar,
Were I to put my fingers o'er,
And touch her precious nose.
Here let me philosophic pause—
How wonderful are nature's laws,
When ladies' breath retires,
Its fate the flaming passions share,
Supported by a little air,
Like culinary fires.
Whene'er I hear the bagpipe's note,
Shall fancy fix on Grizzle's throat,
And loud instructive lungs;
O Death, in her, though only one,
Are lost a thousand charms unknown,
At least a thousand tongues.
Soon as I heard her last sweet sigh,
And saw her gently-closing eye,
How great was my surprise!
Yet have I not, with impious breath,
Accused the hard decrees of death,
Nor blamed the righteous skies.
Why do I groan in deep despair,
Since she'll be soon an angel fair?
Ah! why my bosom smite?
Could grief my Grizzle's life restore!—
But let me give such ravings o'er-
Whatever is, is right.
O doctor! you are come too late;
No more of physic's virtues prate,
That could not save my lamb:
Not one more bolus shall be given—
You shall not ope her mouth by heaven,
And Grizzle's gullet cram.
Enough of boluses, poor heart,
And pills, she took, to load a cart,
Before she closed her eyes:
But now my word is here a law,
Zounds! with a bolus in her jaw,
She shall not seek the skies.
Good sir, good doctor, go away;
To hear my sighs you must not stay,
For this my poor lost treasure:
I thank you for your pains and skill;
When next you come, pray bring your bill;
I'll pay it, sir, with pleasure.
Ye friends who come to mourn her doom,
For God's sake gently tread the room,
Nor call her from the blessed-
In softest silence drop the tear,
In whispers breathe the fervent prayer,
To bid her spirit rest.
Repress the sad, the wounding scream;
I can not bear a grief extreme—
Enough one little sigh-
Besides, the loud alarm of grief,
In many a mind may start belief,
Our noise is all a lie.
Good nurses, shroud my lamb with care
Her limbs, with gentlest fingers, spare,
Her mouth, ah! slowly close;
Her mouth a magic tongue that held-
Whose softest tone, at times, compelled
To peace my loudest woes.
And, carpenter, for my sad sake,"
Of stoutest oak her coffin make-
I'd not be stingy, sure-
Procure of steel the strongest screws;
For who could paltry pence refuse
To lodge his wife secure?
Ye people who the corpse convey,
With caution tread the doleful way,
Nor shake her precious head;
Since Fame reports a coffin tossed,
With careless swing against a post,
Did once disturb the dead.
Farewell, my love, forever lost!
Ne'er troubled be thy gentle ghost,
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