The Sun look'd down with smiles upon the Fowl,

Supposing it at first an Owl;

And thus with gravity replied: "Sir, know, That though unluckily my Worship's face Seems far beneath your tail in splendid grace,

66

Still to my face that glittering tail you owe."—

'Poh," quoth the Peacock, "Master Sun! Your Highness loves a bit of fun."—

"I beg your pardon," answer'd Sol again: "And, if you please, I'll condescend to show How much to me you every moment owe

The boasted beauties of your waving train.”—

'Agreed, with all my soul," the Bird replied, In all the full-blown insolence of pride;

"To credit such a tale I'm not the noddy: Prove that the glorious plumage I display Owes all its happy colours to thy ray,

Dam'me I'll tear my Feathers from my body."

The challenged Sun in clouds withdrew

His flaming beams from every view,

And o'er the World a depth of darkness spread: The bats their churches left, to wing the air; The cocks and hens and cows began to stare,

And sulky went all supperless to bed;

For not an almanac had oped its lips
About so very wondrous an eclipse.

The Peacock too, among the rest
Of marvelling fowl and staring beast,
Turn'd to his feathers with some doubt,
Amazed to find his hundred eyes put out;
Indeed all nature did appear as black
As if old Sol had popp'd into a Sack.

Pleased with his triumph, from a cloud,
The Sun, still hiding, call'd aloud,

"Well! can ye merit to my face allow? What's now your colour? where your hundred eyes, The mingled radiance of a thousand dyes?

Speak, Master Peacock, what's your colour now?"

"What colour!" quoth the Bird, as much ashamed As Courtiers high by loss of office tamed: "To own the truth, much-injured Phoebus, know, I'm not one atom better than a Crow.

I see my folly pity my poor train,

And let thy goodness bid it shine again."

Tyrants of Eastern Realms, whose Subjects' noses,
Like a Smith's Vice, your iron Power encloses;

Who treat your People just like Dogs or Swine; The meaning of my tale can ye divine?—

If not, go try to find it, I beseech ye;

And do not let your angry Subjects teach ye.

CELEBRATION;

OR,

THE ACADEMIC PROCESSION

ΤΟ

ST. JAMES'S.

AN ODE.

RARE Band, whom wide-mouth'd Mob with shouts shall hail;

West at the head, and Wilton at the tail!