OR, THE PUPPET-SHEW.
Translated from the Latin of Addison.
To trivial wonders is my song confined,
A slender crew, and folks without a mind;
Whose futile forms no impious hand inspires
With warmth unhallowed, or Promethean fires.
Where gaping throngs admire the mimic feat,
And sleight of face enchants the grinning street,
All whom the pleasure or the wonder bring,
Intent on mirth, fill the allotted ring.
Nor reigns disorder ; but precedence fit
Marshals the crowd, and as they pay they sit.
At last the curtain slides, and straight all eyes
Fix on the box, where thread in many plies
Crosses the window, lest the pervious space
Betrayed the guile. And now a shrill-tongued race
Enter their lackered hall and much-daubed home.
Here, pent in narrow scene and lowly dome,
Plots, wars, and pomps, and all man's busy day,
On their small boards, the little people play.
A blustering manny struts above the rest,
With breadth of buckle on his ampler vest ;
Whose wandering eye-balls roll with living light ;
Immoderate swells his paunch, and to huge height
Rises his back. The pigmy tribe askance
Ponder his frightful step and giant glance,