I Find in no one race or nation Of men what I call moderation; Both animals and plants do err In this respect, I must aver. Nature's great Master wished that we Should guard the golden mean, you see; But do we?--No; and once more, No! Whether to good or ill we go. The corn that Ceres from her hand Spreads lavish o'er the fertile land, Too richly grows, and drains the ground, Luxuriant, and without a bound; So that from rank and crowded grain All nourishment the deep roots drain; The trees spread likewise heedlessly To check the corn. God graciously Gives us the sheep to check ill growth; Amid the corn they, nothing loath, Plunge headlong, and so, ruthless, spoil The slow result of peasants' toil. Then Heaven sends the wolf to thin The sheep--they gobble kith and kin-- If they spare one 'tis not their fault, They're but too ready to assault; Then man the speedy punishment Unto the cruel wolves is sent. Next man--far worst of all abuses-- The power Divine he rashly uses. Man, of all animals yet known, Is more disposed to this, I own; Little or great, unto excess We carry all things, I confess; No soul that lives but errs, I see, In this respect continually, The good text, "Not too much," is met Often, but never practised yet.
Iris, it were easy, quite, Verses in your praise to write, Were't not that, scornful, you refuse The plaintive homage of my muse, In that unlike your sisters fair, Who any weight of praise can bear: Most women doat on flattery's lies, Nor are they, on this point, unwise; For, if it be a crime, 'tis one That gods and monarchs fail to shun. That nectar which, the poets say, Is quaffed by him who holds the sway O'er thunders, and which kings on earth Get drunk on, from their earliest birth, Is flattery, Iris, flattery--such As you 'll not even deign to touch. No, Iris! you have rich resources In genuine wit, and wise discourses,-- Sometimes half earnest, sometimes gay; The world believes it not, they say: Let the poor world think what it may. In conversation, I maintain That truth and jokes are equal gain. Pure science well may be the stay Of friendly converse; but the ray Of mirth should, ever and anon, Electric, light friends' union. Discourse, when rightly comprehended, Is with a thousand graces blended, And much resembles gardens sweet, Where Flora's various beauties meet; And where the bees search every bloom, And from each bush bring honey home. Allowing this to be so, let Some theories in my tales be met: Theories philosophic, new, Engaging, subtle; have not you Heard speak of them? Their holders say That animals are mere machines, And move but by mechanic means; That, move or gambol as they may, They move but blindly, have no soul, No feeling heart, no self-control; But are like watches, which, set going, Work on, without their object knowing. If we should open one of these, What is't the eye within them sees? A score of tiny wheels we find; The first is moved, then, close behind, A second follows, then a third, And so on, till the hour is heard. To hark to these philosophers, The heart is such; some object stirs A certain nerve, and straight, again, A fellow-nerve endures the strain; And so on, till the sense it reaches, And some deep vital lesson teaches. "But how's it done?" These theorists cry, 'Tis done by pure necessity; That neither will nor even passion Assist in it, in any fashion. That, moved by some inherent force, The beast is sent to run the course Of love and grief, joy, pain, and hate, Or any other varied state. A watch may be a watch, and go, Compelled by springs; but 'tis not so With us;--and here 'twere wise to ask Descartes to aid us in our task,-- Descartes, who, in the times of eld, Had for a deity been held; And who, between mere men and spirits, Holds such a place, by special merits, As 'twixt man and oyster has That patient animal, the ass. He reasons thus, and boldly says, "Of all the animals that dwell On this round world, I know, full well, My brain alone has reason's rays." Now, Iris, you will recollect, 'Twas taught us by that older science, On which we used to have reliance, That when beasts think, they don't reflect. Descartes goes farther, and maintains That beasts are quite devoid of brains. This you believe with ease, and so Can I, until to woods I go, Just when, perchance, some motley crew, With dogs and horns, a stag pursue. In vain it doubles, and confounds. With many a devious turn, the hounds.