Classic Poem

IN THE MANNER OF HOMER. A FRAGMENT

In ancient times, ere traps were fram'd,
Or cats in Britain's isle were known;
A mouse, for pow'r and valour fam'd,
Possess'd in peace the regal throne.

A farmer's house he nightly storm'd,
(In vain were bolts, in vain were keys;)
The milk's fair surface he deform'd,
And digg'd entrenchments in the cheese.

In vain the farmer watch'd by night,
In vain he spread the poison'd bacon;
The mouse was wise as well as wight,
Nor could by force or fraud be taken.

His subjects follow'd where he led,
And dealt destruction all around;
His people, shepherd-like, he fed;
Such mice are rarely to be found!

But evil fortune had decreed,
(The foe of mice as well as men,)
The royal mouse at last should bleed,
Should fall — ne'er to arise again.

Upon a night, as authors say,
A luckless scent our hero drew,
Upon forbidden ground to stray,
And pass a narrow cranny through.

That night a feast the farmer made,
And joy unbounded fill'd the house;
The fragments in the pantry spread
Afforded business to the mouse.

He ate his fill, and back again
Return'd; but access was deny'd.
He search'd each corner, but in vain;
He found it close on every side.

Let none our hero's fears deride;
He roar'd (ten mice of modern days,
As mice are dwindl'd and decay'd,
So great a voice could scarcely raise).

Rous'd at the voice, the farmer ran,
And seiz'd upon his hapless prey.
With entreaties the mouse began,
And pray'rs, his anger to allay.

" O spare my life, " he trembling cries;
" My subjects will a ransom give,
Large as thy wishes can devise,
Soon as it shall be heard I live. "

" No, wretch! " the farmer says in wrath,
" Thou dy'st; no ransom I'll receive. "
" My subjects will revenge my death, "
He said; " this dying charge I leave. "

The farmer lifts his armed hand,
And on the mouse inflicts a wound.
What mouse could such a blow withstand?
He fell, and dying bit the ground.

Thus Lambris fell, who flourish'd long,
(I half forgot to tell his name;)
But his renown lives in the song,
And future times shall speak his fame.

A mouse, who walk'd about at large
In safety, heard his mournful cries;
He heard him give his dying charge,
And to the rest he frantic flies.

Thrice he essay'd to speak, and thrice
Tears, such as mice may shed, fell down.
" Revenge your monarch's death, " he cries,
His voice half-stifl'd with a groan.

But having re-assum'd his senses,
And reason, such as mice may have,
He told out all the circumstances
With many a strain and broken heave.

Chill'd with sad grief, th' assembly heard;
Each dropp'd a tear, and bow'd the head:
But symptoms soon of rage appear'd,
And vengeance for their royal dead.

Long sat they mute: at last up rose
The great Hypenor, blameless sage!
A hero born to many woes;
His head was silver'd o'er with age.

His bulk so large, his joints so strong,
Though worn with grief, and past his prime,
Few rats could equal him, 'tis sung,
As rats are in these dregs of time.

Two sons, in battle brave, he had,
Sprung from fair Lalage's embrace;
Short time they grac'd his nuptial bed,
By dogs destroy'd in cruel chase.

Their timeless fate the mother wail'd,
And pined with heart-corroding grief:
O'er every comfort it prevail'd,
Till death advancing brought relief.

Now he's the last of all his race,
A prey to wo: he inly pin'd;
Grief pictur'd sat upon his face;
Upon his breast his head reclin'd.

And, " O my fellow-mice! " he said,
" These eyes ne'er saw a day so dire,
Save when my gallant children bled.
O wretched sons! O wretched sire!

" But now a gen'ral cause demands
Our grief, and claims our tears alone;
Our monarch, slain by wicked hands,
No issue left to fill the throne.

" Yet, tho' by hostile man much wrong'd,
My counsel is, from arms forbear,
That so your days may be prolong'd;
For man is Heav'n's peculiar care. "