Though the dog is a dog of the kind they call "sad",
'Tis a puppy that much to good breeding pretends;
And few dogs have such opportunities had
Of knowing how lions behave--among friends.
How that animal eats, how he moves, how he drinks,
Is all noted down by this Boswell so small;
And 'tis plain, from each sentence, the puppy-dog thinks
That the lion was no such great things after all.
Though he roar'd pretty well--this the puppy allows--
It was all, he says, borrow'd--all second-hand roar;
And he vastly prefers his own little bow-wows
To the loftiest war-note the lion could pour.
'Tis indeed as good fun as a cynic could ask,
To see how this cockney-bred setter of rabbits
Takes gravely the lord of the forest to task,
And judges of lions by puppy-dog habits.
Nay, fed as he was (and this makes it a dark case)
With sops every day from the lion's own pan,
He lifts up his leg at the noble beast's carcase,
And--does all a dog, so diminutive, can.
However the book's a good book, being rich in
Examples and warnings to lions high-bred,
How they suffer small mongrelly curs in their kitchen,
Who'll feed on them living, and foul them when dead.
GEORGE CANNING.
(1770-1827.)
L. EPISTLE FROM LORD BORINGDON TO LORD GRANVILLE.
Published in _Fugitive Verses_, and thence included among Canning's
works.
Oft you have ask'd me, Granville, why
Of late I heave the frequent sigh?
Why, moping, melancholy, low,
From supper, commons, wine, I go?
Why bows my mind, by care oppress'd,
By day no peace, by night no rest?
Hear, then, my friend, and ne'er you knew
A tale so tender, and so true--
Hear what, tho' shame my tongue restrain,
My pen with freedom shall explain.
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