The people laughed--oh, nation blessed with ease, When will the French have time for toils like these? Mars brings us glory's harvests; still the foe Shrinks down before us, dreading every blow; 'Tis we who seek them, sure that victory, Slave to our Louis, follows ceaselessly His flag; his laurels render us renowned: Yet memory has not left this mortal round. We wish for peace--for peace alone we sigh; Charles tastes the joys of rest: he would in war Display his valour, and his flag bear far, To reach the tranquil joy that now he shares. Would he could end our quarrels and our cares! What incense would be his, what endless fame! Did not Augustus win a glorious name, Equal to Cæsar's in its majesty, And worthy of like reverence, may be? Oh, happy people, when will Peace come down, To dower our nation with her olive-crown? FABLE CXL. THE FORTUNE-TELLER. Opinion is the child of Chance, And this Opinion forms our taste. Against all people I advance These words. I find the world all haste-- Infatuation; justice gone; A torrent towards a goal unseen. We only know things will be done In their own way, as they have been. In Paris lived a Sorceress, Who told the people of their fate. All sought her:--men; girls loverless; A husband whom his wife thought late In dying; many a jealous woman. Ill-natured mothers, by the score, Came--for they all were simply human-- To hear what Fortune had in store. Her tricks of trade were hardihood, Some terms of art, a neat address. Sometimes a prophecy proved good, And then they thought her nothing less Than Delphi's Pythoness of yore: Though ignorance itself was she; And made her wretched garret floor Highway for gullibility. Grown rich, she took a house, and bought A place of profit for her lord. The witch's garret soon was sought By a young girl, who never soared To witchery, save by eyes and voice. But yet they all came, as of old-- The lucky, who in wealth rejoice, And poor--to have their fortunes told. [Illustration: THE FORTUNE-TELLER.] The regulation had been made For this poor place, by her who late Had been its tenant; and the shade Sybillic hovered o'er its state. In vain the maiden said, "You mock. Read Fate!--I scarcely know my letters!" But though such words, of course, might shock, They never could convince "her betters." "Predict--divine;--here's gold in pay, More than the learned get together." What wonder if the maid gave way, Despite herself, such gold to gather? For fortune-telling seemed the place All tumble-down, and weird, and broken: A broomstick, for the witches' chase, And many another mystic token;