She seeks not to bewilder youth,
But all is true she gives for truth:
And, till to analyze you're able,
Fable is safe while given as fable;
As mere invention you receive it,
You know 'tis false, and disbelieve it.
Unlike that chemistry which brings,
And tries to mix incongruous things,
With genuine fact invention blending,
As if true history wanted mending;
And seasons, to mislead our youth,
Mere fable with a dash of truth.
In all these heterogeneous tales
The injudicious project fails;
Of truth you do not get your measure,
And of pure fiction lose the pleasure.
But Mother Bunch rejects such arts,
A sounder taste her work imparts.
Then, if for prosperous turns you look,
There's no such other history book.
Old authors show, nor do I wrong 'em,
How tyrants shar'd the world among 'em ;
And all we learn of ancient times
Are human woes and human crimes.
They tell us nought but dismal tales,
How virtue sinks and vice prevails;
And all their labours but declare
The miseries of the good and fair :
How one brave captive in a quarrel
Was tumbled down hill in a barrel!
In fiery flames how some did fry,
Only because they dar'd not lie !
How female victims meet their doom,
At Aulis one, and more at Rome!
How ease the hero's laurels stain'd,
How CAPUA lost what CANNE gain'd!
How he, whom long success attends,
Is kill'd at home among his friends! *
How ATHENS, him who serv'd so well,
Rewarded with an oyster shell!
How NERO stabb'd a mother's breast!
Ah, barbarous CLIO, spare the rest;
Conceal these horrors, if thou'rt able,
If these be truths, Oh give me fable!
Till real deeds are fit to mention,
Regale my feelings with invention.
But Mother Bunch's morals tell
How blest all were who acted well!
How the good little girl's regarded,
And boy who learns his book rewarded!
How loss of favour follows rudeness,
While sugar-plums repay all goodness!
How she who learns to read or write
Will get a coach or chariot by't;
And not a faggot-maker's daughter
But has it at her christening taught her,
By some invited fairy guest,
That she shall wed a prince at least ;
And through the whole this truth's pursu'd,
That to be happy's to be good.
If these to life be contradictions,
Mark the morality of fictions;
Axioms more popular they teach,
That to be good is to be rich!
For all the misses marry kings,
And diamonds are but common things;
While dames in history hardly get 'em,
Our heroines ope their mouths and spit 'em.
Ob, this is profitable learning,
Past cold Historians' dull discerning;
Who, while their annals they impart,
Expose, but seldom mend the heart.
I grant, they teach to know mankind,
To learn we're wretched, weak, and blind:
But till the heart from vice is clear,
Who wants to know what passes there?
Till Hercules to cleanse was able,
No doubt they shut th' Augean stable.
Here too in high emphatic tone
The power of female worth is shown;
Ev'n enterprising Joan of Arc
Falls short of true heroic mark;
THALESTRIS was a mere home-keeper,
And swift CAMILLA but a creeper.
Here deeds of valour are as common
As song or dance to real woman;
And meekest damsels find it facile
To storm a Giant's moated castle;
Where draw-bridges all open fly
If Virgin foot approaches nigh;
And brazen gates with twenty locks,
At which an army vainly knocks,
Fly ope, nor on their hinges linger,
At touch of Virgin's little finger.
Then slow attacks, and tiresome sieges,
Which history makes the work of ages,
Are here by means of fairy power,
Achiev'd with ease in half an hour.
Tactics! they prove, there's nothing in it,
Who conquer kingdoms in a minute:
They never hear of ten years' jars,
(For TROY's the average length of wars.)
And diplomatic form and rule
Might learn from Mother Bunch's school,
How rapidly are State intrigues
Convey'd with boots of seven long leagues.
Here farther too, our great Commanders,
Who conquer'd France, and rescued Flanders,
From Mother Bunch's Tales might hear
Some secrets worth a General's ear;
How armies need not stop to bait,
And heroes never drink or eat;
Wrapt in sublimer occupation
They scorn such vulgar renovation.
Your British Generals cannot keep
Themselves or followers half so cheap;
For men and horses, out of books,
Call, one for corn, and one for cooks;
And dull historic nags must stay
For provender of oats and hay:
While these bold Heroes wing their flight
Through twenty kingdoms in a night;
Of silvery dew they snatch a cup,
Or on a slice of moon-shine sup;
And while they fly to meet their Queen,
With half the convex world between,
Their milk-white palfreys, scorning grass,
Just crop a rose-leaf as they pass.
Then Mother Bunch's morals strike,
By praising friend and foe alike.
What virtue to the world is lost,
Because on thy ill-fated coast,
O CARTHAGE! sung alone by foes,
The sun of history never rose !
Fertile in heroes, didst thou own
The muse that makes those heroes known;
Then had the bright reverse appear'd,
And Carthaginian truth been clear'd:
On Punic faith, so long revil'd,
The wily African had smil❜d:
And possibly, not much had err'd,
If we of Roman fraud had heard.
Then leave your ROBERTSONS and BRYANTS For JOHN THE MURDERER OF GIANTS;
Since all mythology profane
Is quite as doubtful, quite as vain.
Though BRYANT, learned friend of youth,
His fable consecrates to truth;
And ROBERTSON with just applause
His finish'd portraits fairly draws.
Yet history, great RALEIGH knew,
And knowing, griev'd, may not be true;
For how the facts are we to know
Which pass'd a thousand years ago;
When he no just account could get
Of quarrel in the adjacent street?
Though from his chair the noise he heard,
The tale of each relater err'd.
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