  The traveller whose undaunted soul Sails o'er the seas from pole to pole Sees many wonders, which become So wonderful they strike one dumb, When we in their description view Monsters which Adam never knew. Yet, on the other hand, the sceptic Supplies his moral antiseptic; Denying unto truths belief, With groans which give his ears relief: But truth is stranger far than fiction, And outlives sceptic contradiction. Read Pliny or old Aldrovandus, If—they would say—you understand us. Let other monsters stand avaunt, And read we of the elephant. As one of these, in days of yore, Rummaged a stall of antique lore Of parchment rolls—not modern binding— He found a roll; the which unwinding, He saw all birds and beasts portrayed Which Nature's bounteous hand had made, With forms and sentiments, to wit— All by the hand of man down writ. The elephant, with great attention, Remarked upon that great invention: "Man is endowed with reason; beasts Allowed their instinct—that at least: But here's an author owning neither— No reason and no instinct either: He thinks he has all natures known, And yet he does not know his own. Now here's the spaniel—who is drawn The master spirit sprung to fawn. Pooh, pooh! a courtier in his calling Must fawn more deeply for enthralling. Now there's the fox—his attribute To plunder—as we say, 'to loot.' Pooh, pooh! a lawyer at that vice Would outfox Reynard in a trice. Then come the wolf and tiger's brood; He bans them for their gust of blood. Pooh, pooh! he bloodier is than they; They slay for hunger—he for pay." A publisher, who heard him speak, And saw him read Parsee and Greek, Thought he had found a prize: "Dear sir, If you against mankind will stir, And write upon the wrongs of Siam, No man is better pay than I am; Or, since 'tis plain that you know true Greek, To make an onslaught on the rubrick." Twisting his trunk up like a wipsy, "Friend," said the elephant, "you're tipsy: Put up your purse again—be wise; Leave man mankind to criticise. Be sure you ne'er will lack a pen Amidst the bustling sons of men; For, like to game cocks and such cattle, Authors run unprovoked to battle, And never cease to fight and fray them Whilst there's a publisher to pay them. |
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