In snows they build their houses high, And pass o'er pools on bridges dry: Such is their prudence, art, and skill; Whilst men like us around them, still, If they, perchance, should have the whim A distant shore to reach, must swim. Now, spite of all, this evidence Convinces me of beavers' sense. But still, my point to make more clear, I will a story here relate, Which but lately met my ear From lips of one who rules in state: A king, I mean, and one whose glory Soars high on wings of victory-- The Polish prince, whose name alone Spreads terror round the Turkish throne. That kings can lie not is well known: He says, then, that his frontiers wide Are edged by wilds where beasts reside, Who warfare wage inveterate, And to their sons transmit their hate. "These beasts are fox-like," says the king, And to their wars such arts they bring, That neither this nor any age Has seen men with like skill engage. All pickets, sentinels, and spies, With ambuscades and treacheries, That she who from Styx's entrails came, And unto heroes gives their fame, Invented has, for man's perdition, These beasts employ, with erudition. To sing their battles we should have Homer restored us, from the grave; And, oh! that he who Epicurus Rivals once more could re-assure us That, whatever beasts may do, Is to mechanic means but due; That all their minds corporeal are; That building houses, making war, They are but agents, weak and blind, Of some mere watchspring in the mind. The object which their sense attacks, Returning, fills its former tracks, And straightway, in their bestial pates, The image seen before creates, Without that thought, or sense, or soul Have o'er the thing the least control. But men a different station fill, And, scorning instinct, use their will. I speak, I walk, and feel within Something to God-like power akin. Distinct from all my flesh and bone, It lives a life that's all its own, Yet o'er my flesh it rules alone. But how can soul be understood By what is merely flesh and blood? There lies the point. The tool by hand is guided; Who guides the hand has not yet been decided. Ah! what is that strange power which wings The planets on their heavenly way? Doth each some angel lord obey? And are my spirit's secret springs Moved and controlled the selfsame way? My soul obeys some influence; I know not what it is, nor whence. That secret must for ever lie Hid by God's awful majesty. Descartes knew just as much as I: In other things he may supplant All men; he's here as ignorant. But, Iris, this, at least, I know,-- That no such lofty souls endow The beasts of whom I've made example:-- Of soul, man only is the temple. Yet must we to the beasts accord