With violent and flaming zeal, Each takes his own chimera's part; Pygmalion[6] doth a passion feel For Venus chisel'd by his art. All men, as far as in them lies, Create realities of dreams. To truth our nature proves but ice; To falsehood, fire it seems. [6] _Pygmalion_.--The poet here takes an erroneous view of the story of Pygmalion. That sculptor fell in love with his statue of the nymph Galatea, to which Venus gave life at his request. See Ovid, _Metam_. Book X. VII.--THE MOUSE METAMORPHOSED INTO A MAID.[7] A mouse once from an owl's beak fell; I'd not have pick'd it up, I wis; A Brahmin did it: very well; Each country has its prejudice. The mouse, indeed, was sadly bruised. Although, as neighbours, we are used To be more kind to many others, The Brahmins treat the mice as brothers. The notion haunts their heads, that when The soul goes forth from dying men, It enters worm, or bird, or beast, As Providence or Fate is pleased; And on this mystery rests their law, Which from Pythagoras they're said to draw. And hence the Brahmin kindly pray'd To one who knew the wizard's trade, To give the creature, wounded sore, The form in which it lodged before. Forthwith the mouse became a maid, Of years about fifteen; A lovelier was never seen. She would have waked, I ween, In Priam's son, a fiercer flame Than did the beauteous Grecian dame. Surprised at such a novelty, The Brahmin to the damsel cried, 'Your choice is free; For every he Will seek you for his bride.' Said she, 'Am I to have a voice? The strongest, then, shall be my choice.' 'O sun!' the Brahmin cried, 'this maid is thine, And thou shalt be a son-in-law of mine.' 'No,' said the sun, 'this murky cloud, it seems, In strength exceeds me, since he hides my beams; And him I counsel you to take.' Again the reverend Brahmin spake-- 'O cloud, on-flying with thy stores of water, Pray wast thou born to wed my daughter?' 'Ah, no, alas! for, you may see, The wind is far too strong for me. My claims with Boreas' to compare, I must confess, I do not dare.' 'O wind,' then cried the Brahmin, vex'd, And wondering what would hinder next,-- 'Approach, and, with thy sweetest air, Embrace--possess--the fairest fair.' The wind, enraptured, thither blew;-- A mountain stopp'd him as he flew, To him now pass'd the tennis-ball, And from him to a creature small. Said he, 'I'd wed the maid, but that I've had a quarrel with the rat. A fool were I to take the bride From one so sure to pierce my side.' The rat! It thrill'd the damsel's ear; To name at once seem'd sweet and dear. The rat! 'Twas one of Cupid's blows; The like full many a maiden knows;