(From the French of La Fontaine.)

T IR'D of the noisy joys of life,
Where hope and fear are still at strife,
A Rat, within a Cheshire cheese,
Retir'd to mortify at ease;
Deep wrapt in Solitude profound,
By walls of plenty mur'd around,
More comely, fat, and sleek he grows;
" For, Heaven, (he says,) its gifts bestows
On those who tir'd of earthly cares,
Just live enough to say their pray'rs; "
That is, to those, (if right expounded,
And good and evil not confounded)
Who with no heart, and little brain,
Fly from the sight of other's pain;
And, wrapt in ignorance and sloth,
Forsake the world that gave them growth.

Well far'd our Rat, and time flew light,
Till some poor beggars gaining sight
Of this his Hermitage devout,
Came to the door, and call'd him out;
The Commonwealth of Rats they said,
With fear were half destroy'd or fled,
E'en in Ratopolis itself,
The seat and storehouse of their pelf,
They saw, and trembled for its fall,
The Cat's grim whiskers on the wall;
Now near with war and famine spent,
To him their latest hope they sent;
" Look then with pity on our grief,
" And grant, (they said,) some small relief."
— " My friends," the rev'rend Hermit cried,
" Look bold, nor fear to be denied,
" To you my charity I owe,
" And will with liberal heart bestow,
" Yes, for a month to come at least,
" For you my pray'rs shall be increas'd;
" Nay, if you choose this moment, I'll,
" As you are standing here the while,
" 'Gainst all the perjur'd race of Cats,
" Vile murderers of us harmless Rats,
" A loud anathema pronounce,
" And with such force their guilt denounce,
" I'll call the thunder from its bed,
" To burst on their heretic head."

So spoke the Sage, and quick as light,
Unthank'd, retreated from their sight;
Whilst his compatriots saw the door
Fast clos'd, to ope to them no more.
Then, weary with the long oration,
His charity had given the nation,
The Hermit on his couch of cheese
Retir'd to eat and sleep at ease.

Reader, perhaps you'll wisely ask,
Is this a Christian Father? —
Take you the moral of my task,
And say a Dervise rather —

The Fable ended — tell me, pray,
Would not a moral grace it?
Then make one, I shall only say,
Qui capit ille facit.