Carolyn Wells - A Satire Anthology стр 2.

PRODUCE the urn that Hannibal contains,
And weigh the mighty dust that yet remains.
And this is all? Yet this was once the bold,
The aspiring chief, whom Attic could not hold.
Afric, outstretched from where the Atlantic roars
To Nilus; from the Line to Libyas shores.
Spain conquered, oer the Pyrenees he bounds.
Nature opposed her everlasting mounds,
Her Alps and snows. Oer these with torrent force
He pours, and rends through rocks his dreadful course.
Yet thundering on, Think nothing done, he cries,
Till oer Romes prostrate walls I lead my powers,
And plant my standard on her hated towers!
Big words? But view his figure, view his face!
Ah, for some master hand the lines to trace,
As through the Etrurian swamps, by floods increased,
The one-eyed chief urged his Getulian beast!
But what ensued? Illusive glory, say:
Subdued on Zamas memorable day,
He flies in exile to a petty state,
With headlong haste, and at a despots gate
Sits, mighty suppliant of his life in doubt,
Till the Bithynians morning nap be out.
Nor swords, nor spears, nor stones from engines hurled,
Shall quell the man whose frowns alarmed the world.
The vengeance due to Cannæs fatal field,
And floods of human gore, a ring shall yield!
Go, madman, go! at toil and danger mock,
Pierce the deep snow, and scale the eternal rock,
To please the rhetoricians, and become
A declamation for the boys of Rome.

A  PRIEST there was, in times of old,
Fond of his church, but fonder of his gold,
Who spent his days, and all his thought,
In getting what he preached was naught.
His chests were full of robes and stuff;
Corn filled his garners to the roof,
Stored up against the fair-times gay
From St. Rémy to Easter day.

An ass he had within his stable,
A beast most sound and valuable;
For twenty years he lent his strength
For the priest, his master, till at length,
Worn out with work and age, he died.
The priest, who loved him, wept and cried;
And, for his service long and hard,
Buried him in his own churchyard.

Now turn we to another thing:
Tis of a bishop that I sing.
No greedy miser he, I ween;
Prelate so generous neer was seen.
Full well he loved in company
Of all good Christians still to be;
When he was well, his pleasure still;
His medicine best when he was ill.

Always his hall was full, and there
His guests had ever best of fare.
Whateer the bishop lacked or lost,
Was bought at once, despite the cost.
And so, in spite of vent and score,
The bishops debts grew more and more.
For true it is this neer forget
Who spends too much gets into debt.
One day his friends all with him sat,
The bishop talking this and that,
Till the discourse on rich clerks ran,
Of greedy priests, and how their plan
Was all good bishops still to grieve,
And of their dues their lords deceive.

And then the priest of whom Ive told
Was mentioned how he loved his gold.
And, because men do often use
More freedom than the truth would choose,
They gave him wealth, and wealth so much,
As those like him could scarcely touch.
And then, besides, a thing hes done
By which great profit might be won,
Could it be only spoken here.
Quoth the bishop, Tell it without fear.
Hes worse, my lord, than Bedouin,
Because his own dead ass, Baldwin,
He buried in the sacred ground.
If this is truth, as shall be found,
The bishop cried, a forfeit high
Will on his worldly riches lie.
Summon this wicked priest to me;
I will myself in this case be
The judge. If Roberts word be true,
Mine are the fine, and forfeit too.

Disloyal! Gods enemy and mine,
Prepare to pay a heavy fine.
Thy ass thou buriest in the place
Sacred by church. Now, by Gods grace,
I never heard of crime more great.
What! Christian men with asses wait!
Now, if this thing be proven, know
Surely to prison thou wilt go.
Sir, said the priest, thy patience grant;
A short delay is all I want.
Not that I fear to answer now,
But give me what the laws allow.
And so the bishop leaves the priest,
Who does not feel as if at feast;
But still, because one friend remains,
He trembles not at prison pains.
His purse it is which never fails
For tax or forfeit, fine or vails.

The term arrived, the priest appeared,
And met the bishop, nothing feared;
For neath his girdle safe there hung
A leathern purse, well stocked and strung
With twenty pieces fresh and bright,
Good money all, none clipped or light.
Priest, said the bishop, if thou have
Answer to give to charge so grave,
Tis now the time.
Sir, grant me leave
My answer secretly to give.
Let me confess to you alone,
And, if needs be, my sins atone.
The bishop bent his head to hear;
The priest he whispered in his ear:
Sir, spare a tedious tale to tell.
My poor ass served me long and well.
For twenty years my faithful slave;
Each year his work a saving gave
Of twenty sous, so that, in all,
To twenty livres the sum will fall;
And, for the safety of his soul,
To you, my lord, he left the whole.
Twas rightly done, the bishop said.
And gravely shook his godly head;
And that his soul to heaven may go,
My absolution I bestow.

Now have you heard a truthful lay,
How with rich priests the bishops play;
And Rutebœuf the moral draws
That, spite of kings and bishops laws,
No evil times has he to dread
Who still has silver at his need.

TELL me, where, in what land of shade,
Hides fair Flora of Rome? and where
Are Thaìs and Archipiade,
Cousins-german in beauty rare?
And Echo, more than mortal fair,
That when one calls by river flow,
Or marish, answers out of the air?
But what has become of last years snow?

Where did the learnd Héloïsa vade,
For whose sake Abelard did not spare
(Such dole for love on him was laid)
Manhood to lose and a cowl to wear?
And where is the queen who willd whilere
That Buridan, tied in a sack, should go
Floating down Seine from the turret-stair?
But what has become of last years snow?

Blanche, too, the lily-white queen, that made
Sweet music as if she a siren were?
Broad-foot Bertha? and Joan, the maid,
The good Lorrainer the English bare
Captive to Rouen, and burnd her there?
Beatrix, Eremburge, Alys lo!
Where are they, virgins debonair?
But what has become of last years snow?

Prince, you may question how they fare,
This week, or liefer this year, I trow:
Still shall this burden the answer bear
But what has become of last years snow?