40
Confined: the Bois de Boulogne and St. James’.
But ah! I see in soul, how o’er my fancies
Like snow-white butterfly that flits o’er roses
Too oft a tender hand o’er lips reposes—
Lips whose light ennui e’en their charm enhances.
And hear the sigh that flutters o’er my mystery,
“Instead of rose and tender nightingale,”
He limns us grinning monkey masks and fails
E’en thus to keep the slight thread of his history.
Ah, me! I feel the weight of your just anger,
But peace! the coming Canto shall work wonders,
There, like a tempest, roars the battle’s clangour
And in a cataract the action thunders.
VII.
Long time in peace the ape empire bloomed, progressing,
His work’s success the king with pleasure filled,
Only at times the parrot plague distilled
A drop of wormwood in his cup of blessing.
These spottled dolts we all know have the failing
To mimic what they hear with dismal wailing.
Thus it befel one graceless bird kept screeching
“Humanity,” here “Culture” one went preaching,
Here “Progress,” “Freedom,” through the leaf-wove thatch whirred,
There “Ideal” the fools squalled on and on,
And clumps of parrots pealed their favourite catchword
In chorus: “Ci—Civilization.”
These words exalted in those idiot echoes
Rang as in scorn around the breeched makakoes
And stung them all day long, nor could the king
