"Too great a wrong us twain divide; Nor can I think he'll smother hate, Who heathenishly speaks of Fate. But whether it be Providence Or Fate that rules our lives, I'm sure That I will never move from hence Till tempted by some wood secure. I know that in a kingly breast Vengeance for a time may rest; But kings are also like the gods, And, soon or late, you feel their rods. I can scarcely trust you far, Though sincere you think you are; But you are losing time below, For with my will I'll never go. And trust me, hate, like love, is best By absence lullabied to rest." FABLE CCIV. THE PEASANT OF THE DANUBE. To judge by appearances only is wrong, The maxim is true, if not very new, And by means of a mouse I have taught it in song; But to prove it at present I'll change my note, And with Æsop and Socrates, also, I'll quote A boor whom Marcus Aurelius drew, And left us a portrait both faithful and true. The first are old friends; but the other, unknown, Is sufficiently well in this miniature shown. His chin was clothed with a mighty beard, And all his body so thickly furred, That much he resembled a grizzly bear-- One that had never known mother's care; [Illustration: THE PEASANT OF THE DANUBE.] 'Neath eyebrows shaggy, two piercing eyes Glared in a way more fierce than wise; Whilst ill-shaped lips and a crooked nose, The sum of his facial beauties close. A girdle of goat-skin formed his dress, With small shells studded for comeliness. This sturdy youth, at a time when Rome Spoiled many a race of its native home, Was sent as a sort of deputation, By Danubian towns, to the Roman nation. Arriving after toilsome travels, The rustic thus his tale unravels: "O Romans! and you, reverend sires, Who sit to list to my desires, First, let me pray the gods, that they May teach me what I ought to say, And so direct my ignorant tongue, That it may utter nothing wrong! Without their intervention must Be all things evil, all unjust. Unless through them we plead our cause, 'Tis sure we violate their laws. In witness of this truth perceive How Roman avarice makes us grieve; For 'tis not by its arms that Rome Has robbed us both of peace and home; 'Tis we ourselves, ill ways pursuing, Have worked at length our own undoing. Then, Romans, fear that Heaven, in time, To <i>you</i> may send the wage of crime, And justice, in <i>our</i> vengeful hands Placing its destructive brands, Hurl swift o'er you the endless waves Of war, and make you fettered slaves! Why, why should we be slaves to you? What is't that you can better do Than the poor tribes you scourge with war?