Original Fables.

]>Original Fables.A Lady.Leigh Rios,creation of electronic text.Electronic edition196 KbBritish Women Romantic Poets ProjectShields Library, University of California, Davis, California 956162001LadyAOrigi

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series81Nancy Kushigian,General EditorCharlotte Payne,Managing EditorOriginal fablesby a LadyPrinted by W. Calvert, Shire Lane, Lincoln's Inn, for B. Crosby and Co.London, 1810[This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler ID no. ISuppl:678. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler ISuppl:678mf.]

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[Frontispiece]

Reason, to profit and to pleasure youth, In Fiction's varied garment dresses Truth;Who scorning falshood, to remove the doubt,Holds to the Infant Throng her mirror out.

[Title Page] ORIGINALFABLES.BY A LADY.DEDICATED TOHER ROYAL HIGHNESSTHE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES.EMBELLISHED WITH FIFTY‐FOUR ELEGANTEngravings on Wood.LONDON:Printed by W. CALVERT, Shire Lane, Lincoln's Inn;FOR B. CROSBY AND CO. STATIONERS' COURT,PATERNOSTER ROW;AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.1810.DEDICATION.TO HERROYAL HIGHNESSTHEPrincess Charlotte of Wales.

To your Royal Highness the following Fables are dedicated, with a wish that in an interval of leisure some transient amusement may be obtained.

Your Royal Highness must necessarily draw information from the richest mines of knowledge, and amusement from the brightest sources of pleasure.

To contribute to the first I cannot have the smallest pretensions; but should this publication be so fortunate, from mere novelty, as to gain your attention, the youthful part of society, whose minds it is intended to enlighten and expand, will peruse with increased pleasure a work which your Royal Highness has honored with observation.

I flatter myself a Dedication to your Royal Highness will not be considered as presumption. Your affable demeanor has given me encouragement, and the example of gracious condescension which your Royal Highness constantly receives from every branch of your illustrious family, induces me to rely on the generosity of your Royal Highness.

May this offering be considered as a testimony of my respect and regard for a Princess, who, at so early an age, gives the most flattering hopes to every heart, lulled in peaceful expectation by the judgment already formed of your Royal High‐ness's merit and abilities. Although mine is a proud attempt to gain your Royal Highness's favour, it is with the utmost humility I beg to be forgiven, and to subscribe myself

YourROYAL HIGHNESS'SMost faithfuland devoted Servant,THE AUTHOR.PREFACE.

NATURE gives hints for observation in her minutest works, and the whimsicality of forming conversations for creatures that never spoke, and ideas for things that never thought, create a transient amusement. It has been allowed, that the most studious mind, by unbending, is rendered capable of more vigorous exertions. From the remotest times, Fables and Parables have been esteemed a proper vehicle to convey instruction blended with amusement. They are Truth and Fiction going hand in hand to point out the path of Error, which to Ignorance often appears the smoothest; and the Juvenile Mind, by a careful and attentive perusal, may have a light cast thereon, so as to enable it more clearly to distinguish right from wrong, good from evil, and virtue from vice. Fame and success have their charms, but often carry with them a lure which dazzles our imaginations, and sometimes a snare from which we can never get free.

May every reader of mine avoid such misfortunes; and as early impressions are not easily forgotten, may the moral of some of these Fables, at a future period, not unsea‐sonably occur to check pride, envy, avarice, or tyranny, in the struggling uncorrected heart of some, and as seasonably encourage moderation, justice, and benevolence, in others, to the total expulsion of cruelty and revenge.

CONTENTS.THE Pigeon Carriers, an introductory Fable1I. The inconstant Dove7II. The two Asses11III. The dying Swan and the Owls15IV. The three Mice19V. The Myrtle, the Laurel, and the Vine23VI. The Ploughman and the Thrush29VII. The Goose and the Farmer33VIII. The Birds and the Gardener37IX. The Philosopher, the Snail, and the Glow‐worm41X. The Hawthorn and Forest Trees49XI. The Spider and the Bailiff53XII. The Tiger, the Wolf, and the Fox57XIII. The Beggar's Cur and the Spaniel61XIV. The Oxen and the Grazier67XV. The Butterfly and the Bee73XVI. The Robins revenged79XVII. The Magpie and the Peacock85XVIII. The Zebra and the Lion91XIX. The Owls and the Sparrows97XX. The Sheep and the Wolf103XXI. Winter, April, and May 109XXII. The Soldier, the Picture, and the Wooden Leg113XXIII. Clara and the Sky‐lark119XXIV. The Magpie turned Preacher123XXV. The old Wolf and her Cubs127XXVI. The Rose and the Rose‐bud133XXVII. The Lion and the Fox137XXVIII. The Magpie and the Raven141XXIX. The two cunning Foxes145XXX. The Owl and the Cuckow149XXXI. The Bear turned Doctor153XXXII. The Swallow and the Linnet157XXXIII. The Horses and the Grooms163XXXIV. The Mare and her Colt167XXXV. The wounded Soldier and the Mice171XXXVI. The Ass and the Goose177XXXVII. Ceres, Avarice, and the Villagers181XXXVIII. The Owl, the Nightingale, and the Eagle185XXXIX. The Woodmen and the Grasshopper191XL. The Fox and neglected Friends195XLI. The Lion and his Cub199XLII. The Hares and the Stag203XLIII. The Cow and the Bear207XLIV. The Man and the Pointer211XLV. The sick Lady, Nature, and the Doctor215XLVI. The Snake and the Toad219XLVII. The half‐reclaimed Fox223XLVIII. The Children and the Bees227XLIX. The Poet and the Horses231The Author's Conclusion235THEPIGEON CARRIERS.An introductory Fable.WHEN we correctly place the glass,And view things truly as they pass,By seeing in a proper light,Our conduct may be just and right:But many, who to sense pretend,Gazing thro' the improper end,With pompous arrogance declareThe thing they see is round or square,Is great or small, is dark or pale,Then act, and wonder when they fail.Two Pigeons, by aerial flights,Set things most difficult to rights;They pass'd large tracts of land and seasWith most important messages;Beneath their wings they safely boreIntelligence to distant shore,Whether to load the heart with grief,Or soothe the mind and give relief,On rapid wings the tidings flew,Success and disappointment too.These mounting once the azure sky,Their destination to descry,Neither could clearly make appear,The course direct they ought to steer,Or how far northward, or to west,But each pronounced his judgment best.Thus asserting and denying,His own opinion justifying,Indignant spread his wings in scorn,So by an adverse route were borne;The air with well‐formed pinions ply'd,And Observation was the guide.Time, which ne'er faileth to discloseEven what's done beneath the rose,Reveal'd the fate of one poor bird,Whose course was right, as he aver'd,Who to his point had truly steer'd,Howe'er the wind had chang'd and veer'd.The wish'd‐for signal met his sight,His eye surveyed, and knew 't was right!Chear'd by the view, he onward strain'd,But transient was the bliss obtain'd.Spies who were set to interceptHis way as through the air he swept,When his weary task was ending,Saw him gracefully descending,An arrow from a bow so wellWas aimed, that the Pigeon fell;It struck him deeply thro' the heart,And thus was finished his part.The bird who steer'd a random course,Surely could not have fared worse.—But let whatever ills betide,Be Right considered our true guide.—He reach'd the port the second morn,And safe were his credentials borne.The spies, who thought their duty o'erWere all departed from the shore;The few to whom the news pertain'd,The only persons that remain'd;With tenderness they kindly usedThe Pigeon that was self‐accus'd,Because he deign'd not to pursueThe track in which his comrade flew."Poor bird," said he, "I mourn your lot,"Nor be it e'er by me forgot,"How true and well you did your part,"With an unerring eye and heart;"Whilst arrogant, and full of pride,"I your opinion dar'd deride."There's nought but right can bear the test,"Tho' wrong hath now succeeded best."Let no one then false airs assume,"Or ever on his luck presume:"He that doth right may not succeed ;"He that doth wrong, be wrong indeed;"And in himself will feel contempt,"From which the other is exempt."THOSE who this simple fable read,May kindly wish me to succeed;'Tis hop'd none will condemn me quite,Whose aim is ever to act right,And please those readers that peruseThe fictions of my sportive muse,That makes the brute creation talk,Birds reason, and the forests walk.Could I but boast my wolves and bearsAmuse grown people or their heirs,I then should fancy I am right,And shew things in their truest light:But if I fail in my design,The disappointment will be mine;For praises few I should obtain,To compensate my labours vain,Haply, should these my efforts tendOne head t'enrich, or heart to mend,If they one folly but correct,Or one flagitious vice detect,A pleasure will from thence accrue,Tho' neither gain or praise ensue,Proudly I'll select the story,And resign the fame and glory.

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FABLE I.The inconstant Dove.TWO Doves, more constant in their kindThan any creatures that we find,Freely conversing mate with mate,On their own truly happy state;Pluming his neck, the male bird cry'd—"Thou my delight and only pride!"Without thee, could I pass thro' life,"My friend, my comforter, my wife!"Ah no!—such happiness to miss,"Long had I dy'd—ah! long ere this!""Perhaps ere long," the mate reply'd,"My place had not been ill supplied:"Suppose I leave you, just to try"Who is the truest, you or I:"For three days only I'll be gone,"Then freely own the truth anon."If wretched, as you now suppose,"We will renew our constant vows;"From doubts of constancy releas'd,"Our love renew'd, shall be increas'd."Thus was given no denial,Sure that he could stand the trial:Cooing tenderly, they parted,Nor was either much faint‐hearted.The three days o'er, return'd the Dove,Hoping her solitary loveWould rejoice the trial ended,On which happiness depended.But how can we her feelings state,When she beheld another matePerch'd near her false inconstant spouseListening to his perjur'd vows.Stagger'd by doubts, she said, in brief,"I find you would not die with grief:—"Wish your companion a good night,"And then confess that I am right."Being so happy, love of mine,"Let the confession pray be thine,"Said the once constant tender bird,And then the simple case referr'dTo her, who sitting by his side,Own'd he was free to chuse a bride,And leave his own misjudging mate,Who knew her happiness too late.Flying to the adjacent grove,Forlorn the poor forsaken DoveRepented, while she liv'd, her folly,Died a prey to melancholy.MORAL.Since happiness is found so rare,Much it behoves us to beware,Being blest in the possession,'Tis not lost by our transgression;Foolish experiments, 'tis known,Are ever better let alone.

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FABLE II.The two Asses.WHO, from benevolence and zeal,Doth kindness for another feel,Will pleasure find in his own heart,More than interest can impart.Two Asses met upon the road,One bore a heavy cumbrous load,The other free, and light as air,His saddle only had to bear.'Tis scarcely fair to beg a friend,For your reliefs, his back to lend;Still more bold to ask a stranger,—Of refusal greater danger;Yet, the loaded Ass appealingTo the other's sense of feeling,Bid him reflect what he endur'dFrom mis'ry, which might soon be cur'd;And bid him recollect the gainWhich all good services obtain;The pleasure of a kindly act,Had interest annexed, in fact.A passing stranger thought it fair,That each by turns should take his share.Thus the simple beast submitted,And to his back the load was fitted.Jogging on quiet, side by side,The laden'd beast with sorrow cry'd—"My friend, your burthen I would share,"But all is more than I can bear;"I am too weak by far, alack!"So take it quickly from my back."The other, on his word, assur'dThe weight might easy be endur'd."Give us a proof what you can do,"And your reward remember too."Adding—"Friend, I thought you stronger;"Carry it on a little longer."The panting beast, with pain oppress'd,Reply'd—"The truth must be confess'd;"And if I gain, or if I loose,"I tell you that I must refuse.—"Who'll put another's burthen on?"Why, many a fool, and you are one,"Cry'd the relieved ungrateful beast;"Some knowledge you have gain'd at least:"Creep you on, you'll meet my master;"I shall move a little faster."Turning his back, he ran away,While Grizzle brayed to make him stay.Fatigued, and fretted at his state,His legs bent down beneath his weight:While curious passengers survey'd,Chance led his master to his aid;Recognis'd was the Ass that minute,But the load, or what was in it,Was not so clearly understood,Altho' it augur'd something good.Grizzle's weak shoulders being eased,He bray'd, poor fellow, seeming pleas'd;Released from his weight and pain,He envy'd not his master's gain,Nor car'd how they divide the spoil;As all he wanted for his toil,To make a profitable day,Was one good mouthful more of hay;Which poor pittance being granted,He laid him down, nor more he wanted.MORAL.He that doth good himself to serve,Will claim much more than he deserve;Who on interest is not bent,Will scarcely fail to be content;But Virtue, disregarding pelf,Should have compassion on itself,And not a cumbrous burthen bear,For one that's treacherous and unfair.

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FABLE III.The dying Swan and the Owls.THE moon first rising cast a gleamAcross a dear meand'ring stream,On which an aged Swan, in state,Sat close by his majestic mate:The pure, but gently rippling wave,Rose just their snowy breasts to lave.The aged bird—unusual thing—In solemn notes began to sing.Two Owls were seated on a tow'r,And list'ning from their ivy bow'r,Wonder'd, in a tone of spleen,What could disturb the solemn scene;That priv'lege they thought their own,Belonging to themselves alone.Thus hooting screams were sent around,Echo repeating the shrill sound.The dying Swan cry'd—"Cruel maid!"Dost thou unkindly lend thy aid?"I never rais'd a note before,"Nor shall I trouble you much more."The Owls flew forth, the Swan they reach'd,And hooted round his head, and screech'd:Infirm, he no resistance made,Yet glanc'd his watchful mate for aid;Who, trembling for the stroke of fate,Rose on the stream in mournful state.But now with rage and vengeance fraught,She soon the noisy pedants taught,A clamorous and weak pretence,Without the aid of strength and sense,Could ne'er their foolish wrath support,Which did their punishment but court;So rushing on them in the wave,She plunged them to their wat'ry grave.Now unmolested was the strain,The Swan, expiring, pour'd again,Only that Echo, as subdued,Return'd the mournful notes less rude,Gave plaint for plaint, till sound no moreWas heard upon the silent shore;The waves' inhabitant releas'd,The dying strain at length had ceas'd.MORAL.Pert interference, and conceit,Are evils which we often meet.Those who're attack'd are much annoy'd,While those offending are destroy'd,Public examples they are made,Their plans expos'd, as ill portray'd.

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FABLE IV.The three Mice.A SHEPHERD, 'midst the smiles of May,When all was chearful, blithe, and gay,Lay languid stretch'd beside the path;His nerveless hand had drop'd his staff;His hair was floating to the wind,Wild as the thoughts within his mind.A Hermit pass'd—"Say, friend, what grief?"Let not reserve preclude relief.""There's none for me," reply'd the Swain:"Vainetta's false, and mocks my pain.""That," said the Hermit, "straight implies,"Nay, proves she's neither good nor wise."Your gentle soul, if form'd for love,"Should find an object far above"One who, from vanity, disdain"Receiving pleasure, gives back pain."Then cease your fond, your fruitless care,"And seek some kind, more gentle fair.""This to prove am I unable—"Elucidate it by a fable."A DORMOUSE wrapp'd in cotton, layIn painted box, and slept awayHer time, till hunger's grand appealMade her comply with ready zeal;Slumber from her eyes was shaken,By alluring bits of bacon.Invigorated by her meal, She ventured from her box to steal,Just o'er the carpet's rim to creep,Before she gave herself to sleep.Her skin was as the ermine white;No wonder then it should delightA tawny Mouse, whose sparkling eyeSurvey'd her just while running by:Forth from his hiding he crept out,And chas'd the little thing about,Practis'd all art, that they might meetJust at the brink of his retreat,Where, granting Fortune stood his friend,They both might luckily descend.Whether some sylph, who guards the fair,As many tell you some there are,Or whether Coyness stood her friend,As all its advocates pretend,She safely gained the painted box, As cunning as a little fox.Another female in the houseWatch'd about strict the tawny Mouse;And witnessing the flirting scene,In wrath cried out— "What can he mean?""Such an insipid thing as her,"He cannot possibly prefer;"Sleep engrossing half her life—"A pretty creature for a wife!"I'll go direct, and let him know"The folly of his thinking so."To seek him, therefore, forth she went,Convinc'd him to her heart's content;For soon united, both declar'dTwo Mice were never better pair'd.MORAL.True happiness we often findNot in the object, but the mind;And missing that for which we strove,Doth sometimes happiness improve.Then ardent seek not to obtainThe wish, wherein may lurk a pain.

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FABLE V.The Myrtle, the Laurel, and the Vine.A MYRTLE in her highest bloom,Spread thro' the air a rich perfume;And, wanting sense, extremely vain,Her neighbours treated with disdain;Conceiving beauty all compris'd,She every other shrub despis'd.A Vine experienced first her scorn—"Surely," she said, "there ne'er was born"A more insipid creeping thing,"To all you meet you hang and cling;"Even unto that dirty wall,"As if without its aid you'd fall."Still resolving for to quarrel,Pertly she attack'd the Laurel."And you, dull Evergreen," said she,"Why don't you learn to bloom of me?"I think a sombre thing like thee"Might join the Yew and Cypress tree,"Grace a church‐yard, and nigh some tomb,"With plants of death, increase the gloom."The Vine, who having courage gain'd,Reply'd—"Each circumstance explain'd,"I think we are as good as you,"Perhaps you'll find more useful too;"Men love the grape, and gods divine;"Great Bacchus is the god of wine:"And nectar, which they quaff above,"Springs from the grape approv'd by Jove."The Laurel felt his spirit hurt,So would his privilege assert."My wreaths," cry'd he, "confer renown,"And form the conqueror a crown."Poets exchange their leaves for mine,"And I immortalize each line."Therefore your vanity may cease,"And not disturb your neighbour's peace.""Really, good folks," the Myrtle said,"Your arguments might some persuade:"You talk of heroes, poets, gods,"That one would think you had the odds;"Furnishing the grape for nectar;"Crowning your country's protector."But know you, Rose with Myrtle twin'd,"Make the happiest wreath combin'd;"And Venus, whom you can't deny"Surpasseth all on earth, in sky,"Deigns to let it deck her brow:"Thus I'm superior, you'll allow.""My purple grapes," the Vine reply'd,"For beauty need not be decry'd,"And set aside their use and pow'rs,"Are more than equal to your flow'rs.""To make men tipsy," she exclaim'd,"And sometimes mad, your grapes are fam'd:—"Ask the first stranger passing by,"Which has the pref'rence—you or I?"The Vine was happy to see passA friend who dearly lov'd his glass,Jovial, hearty, honest, free,A votary to Bacchus he.A long lash'd whip, inspiring awe,He held, and smack'd at all he saw.The Myrtle tree attracts his eye;Placing himself conveniently,He cuts until no flowers remain,Then cried—"Old Grannum, bloom again."The Vine, delighted at the sight,Laughed with some degree of spite.The Laurel saw it, too, with glee,Smiled, 't was thought, contemptuously.A look expressive oft affordsA satire keener than in words,Thus all description would but mock,How much the Myrtle felt the shock:Nought could relieve her wounded pride,Drooping, she languish'd till she died.MORAL.Those most conspicuous for their charms,Furnish their enemies with arms.Beauty is lost, unless 'tis join'dWith modesty and strength of mind.

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FABLE VI.The Ploughman and the Thrush.THE birds were warbling in the trees,The pure and healthy morning breezeShed fragrance as it lightly flew,Stol'n from the floweret tipt with dew.A Ploughman sullenly pass'd by,With heavy step and languid eye:"Alas!" said he, "how shrill the sound"Those noisy songsters pour around."Hush, hush!" impatiently he cry'd."Pray, friend, for what?" a Thrush reply'd:"Why dost thou silence thus impose?"Why knit thy brows, with look morose?"What is your cause for discontent?""I want two pounds to pay my rent,"The Ploughman earnestly reply'd."How happy you, who well supply'd,"Have choice of food, and choice of trees,"And build and warble where you please."Then do not bid me be content,"While I have nought to pay my rent."Assembled now the feather'd crew,Some this way, some the other flew;All were astonished to findA being of superior kind,So discontented at his state;And thinking theirs a better fate,"How hard," they cry'd," this mortal's lot,"Oblig'd to give what he has not;"Better we are, in truth, than he,"And happy surely birds should be,"Who unmolested live so gay,"And sing, and frolic where they may."A Morn or two was scarcely by,When came the Ploughman merrily,Not like the man of discontent,He sang, and whistled as he went.The birds all in a flutter seem'd,They really almost thought they dream'd:The Thrush beg'd eagerly to knowThe reason he was alter'd so.Pleas'd at the happy turn of fate,The Ploughman told his change of state:"Providence," said he, "has granted"That assistance which I wanted;"For digging up my bit of ground,"A little 'bacco box I found,"In it, as I am here alive,"Two guineas were, and shillings five;"So off I ran, and paid my rent,"And here you see me quite content.""Then," cry'd the Thrush, "you ne'er again"Must be so hasty to complain:"The birds you envy'd in despair,"Don't always breathe a pleasant air:"Whilst thou, froward and uneasy,"When things happen not to please thee,"Betray a discontented mind,"Forgetting Providence is kind."MORAL.He who reflects how much is granted,Will not regret the trifle wanted,

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FABLE VII.The Goose and the Farmer.A BROOD of Geese was rambling o'erA damp low green by cottage door;They plump and fit were, all but one,Who, wretched bird! of flesh had none,Scarce had strength enough to hobble,Voice to cry out, gobble, gobble.Day after day, and weeks went by,Till Michaelmas at last drew nigh.To fair the plump and hearty went,But the poor lean one was not sent.The Farmer knew it was no use,To carry there a sick lame Goose,When some weeks of rich dry stubbleJust would make her value double.So from the barn door to the field,She found what health and plenty yield.But with these gifts, tho' rich the store,She felt she wanted something more;She sought her mates, who, fat and rude,Did often on her peace obtrude.And now grown hearty, plump, and strong,She gabbled as she pass'd along,With ardour wishing to renewAcquaintance with the happy crew.Society by man is sought;She sought it too, by nature taught;'Tis a gift, by heaven design'dTo harmonize the restless mind.While thoughts like these her heart imprest,She stately stood, and rear'd her crest;Seeing the Farmer at his gate,She waddled off in solemn state;And being clear that her demandWas what he ought not to withstand,Exclaimed, in a haughty tone—''Why am I doom'd to live alone?"Time seemeth for to have no end:"Give me companions, and a friend;"For friendship I would fain renew"With that same happy brood I knew;"Which I suppose are at their ease,"Roving, wandering, where they please.""Yes, in Elysian fields," he cry'd,Laughing almost to split his side,"Where you shall go;—but no matter,—"Try to get a little fatter."Elated was the Goose, to findThe Farmer prove so very kind;And elated was the Farmer,Who knew fretting much would harm her."Those fields," said she, "pray are they near?"I'd fatten there, as well as here.""Silence, fool," the Farmer cried,"Your wants will soon be all supply'd;"March along to yonder stubble,"For the future, take no trouble,"As in a market day or two,"Of those same fields you'll have a view."MORAL.Fate concealeth what is certain,And in kindness holds the curtain.

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FABLE VIII.The Birds and the Gardener.A CHERRY‐TREE the Birds allur'd;The evil could not be endur'd;So something, under veil of night,Was plac'd, well fitted to affright:Nor did the scheme of terror fail,Silence pervaded all the vale;Music, that strikes the list'ning ear,Seem'd now to be o'ercome by fear,All harmony dispell'd and fled,Music herself appearing dead.Thus not a Bird could raise a note,To swell with joy his little throat,And, as of Tantalus we read,Were doom'd to look, but not to feed;So where they tempted with the viewOf fruit, that daily riper grew.Attentively they all beganTo mark the figure, looking man.Not any, with the keenest eye,The smallest motion could descry,Except a rag, that here and thereJust lightly flutter'd in the air.When, perceiving the deception,Wond'ring at their misconception,All in a chirping joyful shoutExclaim'd—"The secret is found out—" 'Tis wood, 'tis straw, a hat, and wig."So flying nearer on a twig,Finding safety now, and pleasure,Near ally'd, and move in measure,All resolving to be merry,Each began to pick his cherry;But moderation none possest,And short the moments they were blest.The Gard'ner, when he next return'd,With rage and indignation burn'd,Few cherries seen upon the tree,"Confound the cunning Birds," said he.So in resentment lime he got,And smear'd it all about the spot,The ground, the trees, the leaves, and all;Birds caught he plenty, great and small.And being captur'd all alive,Some much enrag'd, for freedom strive;While those most tame and humble, thought'Twas wrong to aggravate their fault.The Blackbird and the Thrush implore,And promise ne'er to rob him more;While the impatient find it vain,Their struggles but increase their pain;So joining notes, all cry'd—"Alack!"We never, never, will come back.""No pity in my breast is found,"The Gard'ner said: "you knew no bound;"Gluttony has you degraded,"Nor can judgment be evaded;"Justice awhile may sometimes wait,"But still she cometh, tho' 'tis late."With comfort, some degree of praise," 'Twas in your pow'r to end your days;"But he who's guilty of excess,"Must ever suffer, more or less."MORAL.Happy are those who don't abusePleasures, but moderation use.

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FABLE IX.The Philosopher, the Snail, and theGlow‐worm.A GLOW‐WORM sparkling on the ground,Cast a faint lustre all around.A Snail, who feasted at his ease,First on the blossoms, then the pease,Observing an uncommon light,Was rather startled at the sight;But drawing near, rejoic'd to seeAn insect still more small than he.A gleam of courage fill'd his breast,An thus the Glow‐worm he addrest—"Who dares think I come to plunder,"Some mistake must labour under,"Must bear suspicion in his mind,"And not be very well inclin'd;"Thus I'm astonish'd at the sight,"To see an insect bearing light.""And pray why not?" the Glow‐worm said:"Suppose I light you home to bed;"You are not sober, friend, I trow,"For Glow‐worms you must surely know.""I know you not," return'd the Snail,"Nor will impertinence avail;"You have a light, 'tis very true—"I may destroy both it and you."So on he march'd, with horns shot out;The Glow‐worm wisely turn'd about,And all was dark. The angry Snail,Perceiving he could not prevail,Crawling off, exclaim'd—"To‐morrow"You'll behold me, to your sorrow."The morning rose, the Snail in spleenAdvanc'd, no Glow‐worm could be seen.The ground the owner came to view—A philosophic man, 'twas true—But when such ravages he found,His anger overleap'd its bound."I wish, in vengeance, I could see"The Snail that maul'd this crop," cry'd he.Beneath a shrub there timid layThe Worm, out glitter'd by the day;But eager on the luckless SnailA cruel mischief to entail,—Urged by keen revenge, no doubt,—His adversary pointed out.The accusation heard, the ManSmiled, observing nature's plan,Where each contrives his faults to skreen,By testimony false and mean.For failings if we can but smother,None scruples 't accuse the other."Why," cries he, "this sly informer!"Hides he meanly in a corner?"I meant not what I said, in troth,"I am not so extreme in wrath,"A hapless Snail to wish to kill,"Because the creature ate his fill:"They're surely insects that annoy;"Aye, could I the whole race destroy—"There I'm wrong, and impious too—"What Nature doth, shall man undo?—"Much I admire the wond'rous pow'r,"In insect shewn, bird, brute, and flow'r;"And own it as a great neglect,"Never a Glow‐worm to inspect."Methinks I have a strong desire,"To see what 'tis resembles fire;"And why these gems, of darkest night,"Appear so luminous and bright."So spoke the Man, when drawing near."Last eve," the Snail exclaim'd, "just here,"Appear'd the thing you want to see—"The oddest insect that can be—"Insolent—I did not mind him—"If we search, I think we'll find him."Scandalous it was t' abuse me;"Then this morning to accuse me."The Man reply'd—"Your tale don't move;"I shall find reason to reprove:"I'll seek the Glow‐worm." So he sought,And soon unto the light was broughtA grub, extremely dark and mean,For nothing luminous was seen."Now," said he, "explain your story;"When night cometh, I'll explore ye,"Remark on your uncommon light,"Then freedom give to him who's right;"But the malignant I'll forsake,"And kill him for example's sake."The facts explain'd against the Snail, His condemnation could not fail; For surely will an upright heart,Justice unprejudic'd impart.Now the bright Glow‐worm was observ'dAccurately, as deserved;Yet not illumin'd was the causeHow operated nature's laws:The lustre, like sun, moon, and star,All see, but none knows what they are;Ev'ry object round they brighten,Yet our minds do not enlighten;Their splendour, more or less we mark,But still we wander in the dark.Serious thoughts flow'd unforbidden,As the Glow‐worm had been chiddenFor the malignity of heart,In acting the informer's part."Go hence," he cry'd, "and if bold zeal"Direct thee vices to reveal,"Pronounce them candidly and fair,"So let the world know what you are."MORAL.For slight affront and private pique,Be cautious t' accuse or speak.Slander at first may credit gain,But truth is eager to explain.Then state your grievance true and fair,And place it in the light 't will bear.

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FABLE X.The Hawthorn and Forest Trees.WHERE Forest Trees their foliage spread,A low born Hawthorn rear'd its head;But still, tho' lowly, it is true,Its shape, and shade, and blosoms too,In fair conjunction, made it vieWith shrubs in estimation high;To share attention with the rest,Pleas'd not—it would be thought the best.It grew so wide, so proud, so tall,That soon it overtop'd them all.Observing which, the Gard'ner said—"My shrubs droop here beneath this shade;"And to admit both sun and air,"I'll fell this Hawthorn, tho' so fair."The axe close by the root was laid,The Gar'dner's foot upon the spade;He paus'd—"Why let it stand," said he;"I'll only lop this spreading Tree."'Twas done. The Hawthorn, once elate,Now patiently submits to fate;Access gives free to air and light,And much abash'd shrinks from the sight.The lofty Trees that grac'd the boundOf this well decorated ground,In triumph wav'd their branches tallAt the poor humbled Hawthorn's fall.But, ah! what things will come to pass,When Time has turned up his glass.Fortune, we see, her fav'rites shun—The lord of the domain was one;Who, to appease her angry frown,Cut his loftiest timber down.Each Tree in falling sadly moan'd;At ev'ry stroke the Dryads groan'd;While their last look they cast about,And saw the Hawthorn sprouting out,Who since the last reverse of fate,More modestly had borne her state;With proper dignity, she cry'd—"It does not gratify my pride;"I triumph not at what I see,"Nor exultations found in me:"With that reproof which he'ven has sent,"I rest, both humbled and content."A modest sprig each year brought outBlossoms, the fairest that could sprout;Whilst scatter'd on the fields aroundLay Trees and barks all o'er the ground.Convincing proof, Trees, Pride, and all,With their great master had a fall.MORAL.Those who in time their faults correct,May reasonably good expect.And who exults in such a case,Will scarce escape from worse disgrace.

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FABLE XI.The Spider and the Bailiff.A SPIDER, that had lost his loomBy some too well directed broom,Sat in a corner, dull and sad,Well knowing nothing could be hadWithout a web:—and yet to grieveWas folly,—so began to weave.He quickly ran from nich to nook,For some secluded spot to look,Where careful Betty's prying eyeHis labour'd work could not descry:Then to a thread securely hung,From side to side again he slung;Circles in circles nicely draws,Uniting with his artful clawsEach interstice, till cunning rareMade the work seem to hang in air.In ambush sat the speckled thing,To watch whatever chance might bring.A Man who saw the whole affair,With indignation seem'd to stare;And as discreetest, wisest, best,The wary Spider thus addrest—"Well, sly, insidious, artful wretch,"What do you now expect to catch?"Who to your prison would you draw,"And crush beneath your harpy claw?"I'll watch; and whatsoe'er it be,"Depend on't I will set it free."Benevolent to an excess!Who in the world could ever guessA Bailiff was the man who spoke?The Spider thought it all a joke;For he in prison oft had seenThis very man drag pris'ners in."You're very merciful," rejoin'dThe Spider; "but not quite so kind,"When men you in a dungeon throw,"For what to you they do not owe;"Misfortunes turning to a trade,"It is not comfort, is not aid"You offer to the wretch whom you"With cruelty and wrath pursue:"Yet you would aid, you know not why,"A little paltry flut'ring fly,"Which, perhaps, for my subsistence,"Nature call'd into existence."Pleas'd with the pow'rs that he'ven bestows,"I spread my nets, as instinct shows,"And cannot any other way"My small abilities display."Were I a man, indeed, like you,"Another track I would pursue,"A nobler use for talents find,"And be of service to mankind;"Not Spider like, watch day by day,"To make unhappy men my prey."MORAL.A base and sordid mind is known,By marking all faults but its own.

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FABLE XII.The Tiger, the Wolf, and the Fox.A WOLF and Fox were in discourse,When a starv'd Tiger seiz'd a Horse,Whose milk‐white sides were stain'd with goreLong ere the tragic scene was o'er.Oppression, on so great a scale,Made Renard and his friend look pale,And moralize in sage debate,On the poor Horse's cruel fate.Exclaim'd the Wolf—"A tyrant mind"Has tyrant appetites subjoin'd."How the fierce beast doth tear his prey!"I finish mine a gentler way."More soften'd still, he thought the mealWas too enormous a great deal:Rank'd him as an hungry glutton,Who might well have fed on mutton.Some curb'd their passions with much ease;A lamb his hunger would appease.The Fox was highly pleas'd, to boastHis moderation was the most;"For only sometimes, now and then,"Cry'd he, "I eat a goose, or hen."And as an orator of weightWill ev'ry argument debate,Continued—"Strange 'tis men pursue"Wild animals and tame ones too."We, like wild beasts, fly fast from man,"Who surely kill us if he can:"Horses and dogs are all he spares;"For he kills sheep, cows, deer, and hares."Therefore a Tiger only can,"In cruelty, exceed a man.""Friend," quoth the Wolf, with sneering grin,"Pray have a care how you begin"Talking freely of your betters—"Adverse fate may forge you fetters:"Words like yours amount to treason.""Argument, and truth, and reason?"Return'd the Fox: "and so I'll say,"Undaunted, to my dying day.""Sir," said the Wolf, "you need not scoff;"That day, perhaps, is not far off."Your sentiments are truly fine;"But doth your strength, pray, equal mine?"Thus, to shew the effects of pow'r,"Thou shall not live another hour."The Fox ran off—it would not do—The Wolf both stopt and kill'd him too.The Tiger, from his ambuscade,Beheld them busy at his trade;So forth he rush'd, cry'd—"Wolf, you're right,"Justice must ever yield to might."Then fixing fast his treach'rous claws,Bore Fox and Wolf off in his jaws.MORAL.Not only in the forest paleDo arguments like these prevail:Yet tyrant to his proper raceIs man alone, when high in place.

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FABLE XIII.The Beggar's Cur and the Spaniel.VALLIES the painter sketches fair;Draws rocks still rougher than they are;Making the contrast thereby strong,To captivate the wond'ring throng.So venal authors rarely failTo gild a plain unvarnish'd tale,And, to raise a childish wonder,Try to roll terrific thunder.What is observ'd in our short view,Must universally be true:Whereas the half we hear and seeIs false, in a supreme degree.A Dog, most wretched of his kind,Led an old beggar, who was blind.Misery and famine blended,Made him wish his days were ended.Another Dog, devoid of spleen,With visage open and serene,Well fed, caress'd, and seldom teaz'd,Who freely rov'd where'er he pleas'd,Trembling, observ'd the starv'd Cur's fate:And wishing to emancipateA fellow brute with care oppress'd,Forlornly wretched and distress'd—"What meaneth, friend, that string?" said he;"Leave the old man, and follow me."Our race is surely greatly blest,"Short our fatigues, and long our rest."The Dog of sorrow, by a sigh,Proffer'd a short, but full reply.The advocate for pleasure cry'd—"I homage neither wealth nor pride."Friend, yours can be no common case;"Distress and grief are in your face:"By long experience, well I know"What I assert is truly so."Nor would I change my race and birth"With any creature on the earth."Men, who promised joys await,"Oft prove the patient dupes of Fate;"Look forward with a doubtful eye,"And give a retrospective sigh"On many scenes that's past and o'er,"Which fancy fed on, pleas'd before."Man faileth in his fav'rite scheme;"Those seeming happy, only seem."Then, o'ercome by such disaster"As inherits your old master,"What misery, what grief has he;"Famish'd, poor, and cannot see."Dogs may be happy when they please;"Men only when their hearts' at ease."The Beggar's Cur, with freedom, said—"Mistaken notions fill your head;"Your argument is very new,"I cannot say 'tis quite so true."I from my natal hour have been"As poor a brute as can be seen,"Condemn'd to pace the flinty street,"With scarce a morsel for to eat."My master, whom you wretched deem,"Breakfasts on rolls, with tea and cream,"Dineth on mutton, beef, or veal;"While I that lead him starve or steal."You're pamper'd; what you want, you get;"But quite unknowing are you yet—"I hang my tail, 'tho' yours is curl'd;"But, Dog, I better know the world."Your master, whom you deem unblest,"Perhaps finds joy in his own breast."Tho' retrospection gives men pain,"Hope yet enlivens them again:"And disappointment may produce"Something not quite devoid of use."Good luck, or bad, may be the theme,"But things are seldom what they seem."The man I lead, 'tis true, is blind,"But he can peace and comfort find;"Fears he has none, and cares but few."Thus, promiscuously we view,"In ev'ry race, in ev'ry state,"One part depress'd, and one elate."Remember, tho' our turn we take,"My heart may leap, while yours may ach;"At least, the adage old doth say,"That ev'ry Dog must have his day."MORAL.The ways of Providence are such,That when man speculates too much,Like ramb'ling in a tangled maze,He knows not when, nor where he strays.Judgment pass not, on case unknown,'Tis wond'rous if we trace our own.

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FABLE XIV.The Oxen and the Grazier.AN Ox that in rich pasture fed,Daily saw beasts to slaughter led,His quiet peace became disturb'd,And all his passions where perturb'd;Struggling with grief, and sore opprest,Thus he a fellow brute addrest—"Is man," said he, "a friend or foe?—"That he supports us, all must know—"But can it be substantial good,"To grant us pasture for our food,"To let us breath the vital air,"Merely for market, or for fair?"The thought so much destroys repose,"I seldom can my eyelids close."His comrade cry'd—" 'Tis surely vain,"Futile, and useless to complain;"For should we never cease to weep,"And rob faint nature of her sleep,"We should grow restless, wan, and pale;"But what would suffering avail?"Who anxious lies all night awake,"Daylight may shew him his mistake."For where's the creature that can know"What's really good or bad below?"But then the mournful Ox rejoin'd—" 'Tis not alone distress of mind:"Lameness, and humour in my blood,"Render my spirits not so good.""That's nothing, nothing," cry'd the friend,"Advantages may ills attend:"Were your blood better, mine the worst,"To market you would go the first,"Supposing you the nicest meat,"Lieu of not being fit to eat."The Grazier came, their ribs to feel;Their dread they scarcely could conceal;For fear all have when danger's nigh,Let them look bold, or let them sigh.The beast least daunted, as 'fore told,Was fattest, and of course was sold.But when from pasture he was led,The other cry'd—"What truths he said!"Let me no more for health entreat,"Least they should find me fit to eat."Infirmity has health surviv'd:"But what's ordain'd, or how contriv'd,"Beasts want the reas'ning pow'rs to know,"And only see that things are so."Nor do I think that man can soar"To boast abundantly of more."Our instinct none can disavow,"Altho' they grudgingly allow."I yet must think, that nature meant"We should enjoy the blessing sent;"That man doth tyrant like devour,"And much too far extends his pow'r."The evil pond'ring o'er and o'er,He gave a most outrageous roar.The owner pass'd—"Ah, boy?" said he"You're getting fat, and full of glee:"Time cometh on, I hope, when you"Will be sold off, and eaten too."I'll make ye pay for extra feed!"Fatter, and better both, indeed,"In time not distant far, you'll rise,"And be a most enormous size."Nor is that only all I view,"The markets will be rising too."The beast, incens'd, could hear no more;So roaring louder than before,He turn'd aside with stately gait,To draw conclusions on his fate."This is too hard, too hard," he cry'd:"Could man but suffer for his pride,"His av'rice, his injustice too—"But this gross insult he shall rue." 'Tis evident, that die all must.—"My death shall punish the unjust—"To him, tho' arrogant and vain,"My forfeit life shall bring no gain."I'll not be fattened and fed,"To be by him to market led,"Nor butchers let my carcase carve;"No, ill lay nobly down and starve."So day by day he thinner grew,His strength grew weak and weaker too.The Grazier came at dawn one day;Observing where the creature lay,He hobbled briskly o'er the path,Accosting with a boisterous laugh,His crooked staff to wield began,When starting back, the affrighted manSaw the insulted beast lay dead,And with him all his profits fled.MORAL.Those who would increase their treasures,Oft pursue fallacious measures;The hop'd for chance do not obtain,From too rapacious thirst for gain.

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FABLE XV.The Butterfly and the Bee.STERN Winter with his howling blast,Slowly had retired at last,To regions where he might be join'dBy rushing torrents, storms, and wind:And Spring, possessing ev'ry grace,With joy was hail'd to fill his place.Now birds rejoice, and ev'ry groveIs fill'd with harmony and love;The roving Bee trys ev'ry flow'r,With rapture doth their sweets devour,Blending in a happy measure,Useful industry and pleasure.A Butterfly with painted wing—A little idle flutt'ring thing—Enjoy'd the smiles of Nature's face,And flew around from place to place,Tasting woodbines and the briar,But less to feed on than admire:He wonder'd at the little Bee,And scarcely knew 'twas industryMade him apparently devourEv'ry herb and ev'ry flower.Pleasing his form, his temper vain,And ever in an airy strain—''You're greedy, friend," said he, "to sup"The very bottom of the cup:"I can observe how deep you dip;"While I just lightly take a sip.""What you may do," the Bee rejoin'd,"Is nought to me; I business mind."And probably no harm 'twould be,"Supposing that you did like me."The flutt'ring thing exclaim'd—"My life"Is undisturb'd by care or strife:"Nor is there ought I ere requir'd,"Unless to rove, and be admir'd.""To be admir'd, I never sought,"Return'd the Bee, "as few folks ought."Some to the voice of praise attend,"And think they listen to a friend."Modest people who neglect it,"Neither hear it, nor expect it."The Butterfly, retorting, cry'd—"Self‐praise is worse than all beside."Adding, in his frivolous way,"Keep you to work, and I to play."Now suddenly appeared thereA little urchin, in his air,Like Cupid, playful with his bow,For mischief seeking to and fro;In culling flow'rs he took delight,Till this gay creature caught his sight.Enamour'd at his bright attire,Next to possess it doth aspire:Creeping sometimes, to betray him,Boldly then with hat dismay him.At length the persevering boy,Crown'd with success, was full of joy.Those wings he saw with powder strew'd,Were seiz'd on by his fingers rude,And all their beauty, unaware,Instant vanished into air;And what so charm'd his sight before,Alas, he could behold no more.The Bee contented, and tranquil,Was getting all the while his fill;But satisfy'd, a look he cast,Observ'd the captive was held fast;Neither with triumph, nor with scorn,He saw the boy first pluck a horn;Proceeding next a leg to tear,He cooly cry'd, "I could not bear"To be so much admir'd as you;"It would not greatly suit my gout."But I am call'd a humdrum thing.""You are—but you have got a sting,"The tortured insect made reply;"And thus add torments while I die."MORAL.To pass through life the safest way,Be none too grave, nor yet too gay.Of admiration be aware;For praise is many times a snare.And vanity doth sorrow bring,So sharp, we need not add a sting.

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FABLE XVI.The Robins revenged.TWO Robins, in a bitter frost,When the creation seem'd half lostIn dropping icicles and snow,On feeble wing from woodlands go,And both for shelter, and for food,Off Myra's premises intrude.But had they known 'twas hers, alas!They ne'er had come to peck her glass.Myra had led a pleasant life,And many years had been a wife:So fortunate in ev'ry state,She never had repin'd at fate.Some e'en pretended to explain,Her very losses were her gain;For it was clearly understood,She still prefer'd her widowhood.She'd garden, house, and equipage,With ev'ry thing that could engage,One thing excepted—Who could guess'Twas charity? not more nor less.This was a want she had indeed.'Twas vain for poverty to plead;She gave folks only what they earn'd;And what she lent must be return'd.To be infirm, or to be sick,Was ever call'd an artful trick.And if babes languished for food,She wish'd that folks would feed their brood.Closely sat the birds together.Myra's heart was like the weather,Too much frozen for to meltAt the distresses which they felt.The wind their little red breasts shook;Their bead‐black eyes for pity look;While their notes, with sweet expression,Of their suff'rings make confession;And in a soft and warb'ling strain,Implore for crumbs of bread in vain."On bread," she cry'd, "my chickens feed;"And 'twould be wasting it indeed,"To give a little shabby crew"Of starving Robins, such as you."I eat my poultry when 'tis fed"And fatten'd with the crumbs of bread."Bad luck, they say, a Robin brings,"So haste away, ye gaping things.""We stay," the Robins said, "and trust"Your prophecy may turn out just."And may hearts devoid of merit,"Feel the achs of a mean spirit."Weak superstition join'd with wrath,Made her look very fierce, in troth:And dinner serv'd, she sat her down,With sullen air and angry frown;Greatly enraged as she carv'd,She wish'd the Robins might be starv'd;And flashes from her eyes were thrown,As she demanded—"Are they flown?"Reply when gave—"They still are there,"Becoming faint, she wish'd for air:Just then she heard the Robin's note;Sighs issued from her swelling throat,Her breath seem'd flying past recall;She sunk, Death put an end to all.When Superstition's head uprears,The work is sometimes done, she fears;And things most strangely do fall out,To leave the wond'ring world in doubt.The Robins surely could not singFor any mischief they could bring;Yet still, in this uncommon case,They were reveng'd, their wish took place;Rage, which a deadly aspect wears,Might cause to close the fatal shears,Yet wanting proof the fact to clear;Suffice, she dy'd without a tear.This was implicitly believ'd,And no one thought himself deceiv'd.MORAL.A sordid mind will ever proveThe bane of friendship and of love.

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FABLE XVII.The Magpie and the Peacock.SENSE is a treasure; so is gold,Which, miser‐like, we should not hold,Nor suffer knaves, before our face,To plunder it, to our disgrace;For what of both they can purloin,They use as if their proper coin.'Tis truly said, those who are wise,Are seldom known to exerciseTheir tongues in ev'ry light debate;Thus their decision comes with weight.A Magpie, vain with some pretence—For she had knowledge and good sense—Was so impatient to display,That folly seem'd to bear the sway;While sense, like persons in a throng,Was scarcely seen to pass along;Whereas had she been quite alone,She had been visible, and known.Sense must, from folly, ever beUnblended to eternity;Mixed, like the conjurer's ball,Sense cannot be perceiv'd at all.A struting Peacock, proud and vainOf golden fringe that edg'd his train,Exulting in each glowing tint,That form'd the shaded spots distinct,And neck, in which gold green and blueShone lovely in each tinge and hue,With stately charms came unaware,And struck the Magpie with his glare.To shine with beauty like to his,No hope, no chance was left for this.But then to shine by sense and wit,Was no hard task, and not unfit.Not Newton, with a clearer eye,Could view each gradiating die.But praise was here her last design;She meant to sparkle in her line;And quickly found she time to say,Nothing was permanantly gay:Nature ordain'd nought to remainLong in a glitt'ring, flaunting strain;Nor charms it like the sober scene,Which soothes, while gayer gives the spleen.She next threw out some learned hints:Colour was nought but vary'd tintsReflected from the solar ray,Which ignorance calls fine, and gay;Some bodies would reflect the light,And some absorb it, like the night;Black mix'd with white she chose to wear,Not wishing to make people stare.In answer to this tedious theme,The Peacock gave a hideous scream;And, inattentive to the sound,Spreading his tail, he turn'd aroundTo catch the many mingling rays,The pratling pedant to amaze.The small birds did not warble sweet,But gave a most contemptuous tweet,Envy's snakes being seen to pass,And heard to hiss beneath the grass.Maggy knew the jeering titter,And return'd a scornful twitter,By which her thoughts were well convey'd'Gainst vanity, and false parade.Eyeing the Peacock with disdain,She cry'd—"I'll not the truth explain;"I'll turn my future thoughts on pelt,"And keep my learning to myself.MORAL.To aim at Wisdom's prize, is vain,While we're too eager to obtain.Let Knowledge run a sober pace,She'll never fail to win the race,Nor to her triumph add beside,By getting start of saucy Pride.Those that first set off too fast,Are often distanc'd at the last.

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FABLE XVIII.The Zebra and the Lion.ONCE a Zebra, fam'd for beauty,Was estrang'd from slavish duty,Ne'er felt the lash, or irksome goad,Nor drag'd thro' dirt the cumbrous load;Was free to wander, and to feedIn orchard, avenue, or mead.But which of all the bestial train,Or man himself, more proud and vain,Who bless'd with gifts kind heav'n has sent,Seem'd ever happy and content!No wonder then we should not traceIn creature of the jackass race,One that prosperity could bear,Knowing how hard such trials are.First in a meadow rich in foodHe fed, yet did not think it good.Spoil'd by indulgence, he complain'dOf hardships which he ne'er sustain'd;And still howe'er the Zebra far'd,He always thought his treatment hard.Hard was his phrase, to foe or friend,Which prov'd destructive in the end.Now in the avenue that ledFrom gate to mansion, Zebra fed;But little wanton urchins try'dTo get upon his back and ride;So that was hard.—The orchard nextHad charms that could not be exprest;The trees were bending down with pears,That brush'd the Zebra's nose and ears.He made the lower branches clear,Then casting a signific leer,Survey'd the ruddy ones on top,And cry'd how hard those pears wont drop.Thus pamper'd still, from day to day,He pleas'd his master by his play,Who now resolv'd, where'er he wentThe saucy fav'rite should be sent.Thus, being shipp'd upon the sea—His fodder and his hay had he—In every place how well he far'd!But still exclaim'd 'tis very hard.Fate so decreed, his master dy'd:The Zebra, humbled in his pride,Was turn'd adrift.—Now here, now there,He wander'd, tho' he knew not where;For such a state quite unprepar'd,He really now perceiv'd it hard.Beauty's a passport, tho' it leadsNot ever to the flow'ry meads.Where'er he went he met with friends,Was fed, and so far gain'd his ends;But as the language still he used,Of hard, how hard! he got abus'dBy those who thought 'twas hard to meetRudeness from guests they kindly treat;And being of this fault accus'dBy many beasts, was roughly used.The Lion had a gen'rous heart,And therefore chose to take his part."I never want a meal," said he,"And what I get partake with me;"I will defend you against those"Who mean to make themselves your foes."The Zebra flatter'd was indeed,To find himself so well succeed:But to the Lion's cave when led,The stench had nearly struck him dead,The place with filth was so replete,And not a morsel fit to eat:—To monarchy paid no regard,But cry'd out—"Zounds, 'tis dev'lish hard!"The Lion added—"Bless us, Jack!"If you are angry, pray go back:"The meat that's good enough for me,"I think might almost do for thee."Trembling, the wary brute rejoin'd—"I meant 'twas hard I could not find"Words to express how much I feel,"And how I'm flatter'd by your zeal."The Lion now seem'd satisfy'd;But yet, to calm redundant pride,In whisper said—"If he complain,"Or ever say 'tis hard again,"I'll be reveng'd, by Jove I swear—"For insolence I cannot bear."Thus they both went out together,Walk'd thro' sands in scorching weather,And gain'd a mountain's summit high,Nearly as far as eagles fly.And looking down, the Zebra spy'd,Thro' flow'ry vale, the streamlet glide:—"Oh, could I feed on that sweet spot!"How bless'd, how envy'd were my lot;—"To be from such a place debar'd,"Upon my life 'tis dev'lish hard!"The royal mandate being past,Veng'ance came rapidly at last;Nor could the helpless victim fail,When headlong hurl'd to meet the vale—The vale which his too shallow sightPresented in so fair a light.MORAL.When bounteous Fortune liberal shedsHer choice influence o'er our heads,None idly false, or proudly vain,Of unfelt hardships should complain.

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FABLE XIX.The Owls and the Sparrows.THE glowing west had lost its red,And sable clouds began to spread;The Sparrows' pert and greedy brood,Persisted still to seek for food.A pair of Owls, from hollow tree,Excited all their foolish glee.The giddy flock, like idle folks,Hasted to make their gibes and jokes.With manners frivolous and rude,Insulting, they the Owls pursu'd;When suddenly the biggest birdFac'd them, and beg'd he might be heard.On this the coward noisy crew,Wishing the weakest to pursue,Pass'd with rapid flight the other,Calling—"Hearken to your brother."Both Owls, with visage round and grave,Now turn'd, the flippant tribe to brave.Folly, when join'd with insolence,To valor has but small pretence;Which in each Sparrow was evinc'd,For not a single one but flinch'd:Mock bravery, like spark expir'd,Their trembling hearts no longer fir'd.In haste off flew the saucy brood,And very close the Owls pursu'd:Nor hopes, nor fears could much avail,The Owls with talons fierce assail.The bicorn birds, exciting awe,Each with a Sparrow in his claw,Flying triumphant to his nest,From thence the captives thus addrest:—"We'll give you pardon, if your brood"Will be less arrogant and rude,"Less offensive to your betters,"Folks especially of letters."For want of beauty, sense, and wit,"Make insolence still more unfit."The Sparrows cry'd—"You think us bold,"Therefore you shall the truth be told."You have us now within your pow'r;"Our lives perhaps scarce worth an hour."Know then, that Sparrows, if not best,"At least are birds the happiest;"And this, tho' fools, 'tis wise to know,"And happily have prov'd it so."Whoever scarce in any age,"Observ'd a Sparrow in a cage?"Not distinguish'd like the linnet,—"Wing unmark'd no charm has in it;"Our voice the ear will not regale,"Like lark, or thrush, or nightingale."Thus we remain within the grove,"And chirip, if not sing, notes of love."Parrots, words a few can utter,"Therefore seen in cage to flutter,"Magpies as much, or little more,"Observ'd to grace an alehouse door."A dove for constancy is known,"And therefore doom'd to live alone,"To leave his true beloved mate,"And mourn in bondage his hard fate."There have been some admire an Owl;"His knowing face, and angry scoul,"For wisdom sometimes he's renown'd,"(At this both Owls look'd grave and frown'd)"And had the feather'd tribe a cause,"Would wish him to interpret laws."Now, sirs, if ye are truly wise," 'Twould be no matter of surprize,"Seeing charms we want, and merit,"Should you let us but inherit"That independence nature gave:"We're no man's property, nor slave;"Prais'd by none; no one protects us;"Then we're free, no one corrects us,"Which makes us sometimes saucy, bold,"As you have seen, and I have told."The Owls, in spite of gravity,Laughed to an extreme degree."I think," said one, "our settled rules"Are for the wise to suffer fools;"Let them at any rate retain"The 'vantage which we would not gain,"The other said—"We owe them grudge;"As birds of wisdom, and as judge,"Thus surely punish'd should they be;"For in what court is insult free?"The friend to mercy said—"My spleen"Doth not extend to things so mean:"Sparrows may be gay and jolly;"What joy have fools, unless 'tis folly?"MORAL.Children, like fools, when uncontrol'd,Will be too forward and too bold;And who hath wisdom, and is mild,Gently reproves both fool and child.

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FABLE XX.The Sheep and the Wolf.A WOLF, solicitous to keepIn favor with a flock of Sheep,With venal flat'ry thus began,Their weak credulity to scan:—"Were I," said he, "by Providence"Blest but with half your wit and sense,"I surely would assert my right,"And let no shepherd day and night,"On frivolous pretence watch me,"Who doubtless am by nature free.""Alas!" the gentle Sheep reply'd,"Our shepherd is our faithful guide,"Beneath his tender guardian eye,"Secure from ev'ry enemy.""Secure!" rejoin'd the Wolf: "you know"Progressive each to market go:"And he who watches nights and days,"The faithless creature that betrays."Does he not take from wand'ring dams"Successively their bleating lambs?"And having lost the precious store,"Say which hath e'er regain'd more?"A Sheep—the eldest of the flock—Reply'd—"Alas, our woes you mock!"You shew us that we are not free,"But not to shun the treachery.""Advice, if you but chuse to take,"I'll give it you, for pity's sake."The Wolf with cautious art reply'd,Then pausing, shook his head, and sigh'd—"To serve you, I'll do all I can;"But I abhor to kill a man.—"I've said it; and the work is done"When once with spirit 'tis begun."The shepherd I must then devour,"And gain unto myself the pow'r,"To be your warmest friend I swear,"And for your welfare all my care."Each caught the other's sheepish eye,His friend's opinion to descry:One nodded; round the nodding went,And then all bleated their consent.The ev'ning came; the shepherd laidIn soft repose beneath the shade.The bloody deed black night conceal'd,Till blushing morn the truth reveal'd:Then boldly came—the mischief done—The Wolf in face of noontide sun,And cry'd—"Now be it understood,"That out of evil cometh good."You all must steadily submit"To be control'd as I see fit;"And ev'ry fleecy lamb must be"Resign'd by its dam to me:"In yonder vale, where shelt'ring rocks"Better than shepherds guard the flocks,"I'll bring them up with tend'rest care,"Which you'll confess, when grown, they are:"When you see them—now believe me—"You'll avow I've not deceiv'd ye."These words made ev'ry mother feelDoubts, that she could not well conceal.The promise foolish was in fact,Each wish'd with honor to retract.But the mischief now being done,Each mother sighing o'er her son,Surrender'd up the little heirs,Blessing them with parting prayers,For the last time beheld them skip,And felt their little moisten'd lip.The Wolf, impatient to retreat,Headed the flock, whose endless bleatWas to his ear a pleasant strain—The mother's heard it not again.The Wolf and lambs were seen no more.But time, which secrets doth explore,Proclaim'd it loud to all around,No valley safe had ere been found;No shelter kind amid the rocks,Secur'd from foes the tender flocks;For they of life had been bereft,And not a single lambkin left.The mournful news their dams await;Each curs'd the fell decrees of fate."Alas!" said one, distress'd and meek,"We have been credulous and weak."We doubted all—and what is doubt"But caution, pointing danger out?"And who to caution not attends,"Oft fosters foes, and loses friends."MORAL.How often those, of whom 'tis knownTo have no judgment of their own,Impute the deeds of ignorance,Not unto folly, or to chance;'Tis Providence, 'tis angry Fate,That ever on their footsteps wait.

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FABLE XXI.Winter, April, and May.APRIL affecting to be gayAnd beaut'ous as her sister May,While cowslips blossom'd round her seat,Saw hoary Winter slow retreat,And with a vain, presuming sneer,"Hasten," she cry'd, "and disappear:"All will rejoice when you depart,"And I sincerely, from my heart."Hoar‐headed Winter, whom old TimeCould scarce remember in his prime,Frown'd as on his staff he leant,And thus he mutter'd as he went—"Imperious and capricious maid,"All know you a deceitful jade;"Next morn I will return and show,"By wind, and rain, and drifting snow;"Your violets, cowslips, flow'rets gay,"Shall all be nip'd, and brush'd away:"My reign, believe me, is not past;"Boreas shall soon renew his blast;"The drenching rain, and rattling storm,"At my command shall still deform."No longer was perfum'd the breeze,The vernal tinge forsook the trees;For blighting frost and drenching rainsSpread their influence o'er the plains:Pomona droop'd; a secret dreadMade even Ceres hang her head;And Flora, totally dismay'd,Lay heart‐sick shiv'ring in the shade;Till Winter, with revenge content,His storms within their caverns pent;His countenance became less drear.Seeing pale April shed a tear,And while preparing to depart,Said—"Nature pleases more than art:"You have not sympathy to charm,"Nor yet my frozen heart can warm;"So should we chance to meet again,"If you resolve to be less vain,"Usurping not another's place,"I will respect your pretty face;"But now, fair maid, contentedly,"Without a murmur, follow me."Thus weeping April fled away,And forth came lovely smiling May,Deck'd with endless wreaths of flowers,She adorn'd the vernal bowers:Flora, Pomona, all resortTo pay their homage at her court;All enjoy the halcyon days,Incence bestow, of sweets and praise,Nor from her dew‐bespangled seat,Incline they ever to retreat;Till she, with modest blushing grace,From flaming Sol averts her face,Permitting Summer, warm and bold,To meet his ardour uncontrol'd.MORAL.Those who would seem more young, more fair,More brave more witty than they are,Suffering by the competition,Oft prove objects of derision.

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FABLE XXII.The Soldier, the Picture, and the Wooden Leg.A SOLDIER slept, devoid of care;His Wooden Leg lay on a chair;Across the back of which was flungA chain, whereto a Picture hung.An air of woe the Picture bore—The conscious Leg would fain explore—"I mark," said he, "your doleful look;"My master's loss you cannot brook:"Your grave regards on me are thrown;"Me was it made him lose his own?"Thirst of gold, and love of glory—"Oft I've heard him tell the story—"With ardour fir'd his youthful heart,"Made him from home, and you depart:"Yet, tho' his better leg is gone,"I greatly am prefer'd to none."The Picture seem'd in listening strain;To sigh, unwilling to explain.Look'd with anxious wish to speak,Check'd by a temper mild and meek.The Leg, impatient for reply,Said—"Do explain the reason why:"So distressing 'tis to endure"An evil, when there's known a cure."Keep then your alienated heart,"And from your truest lover part."What, altho' glory had a share,"The jewel, which might deck your hair,"Was not forgot; the riches too,"He strove and fought for, were for you:"This led him to the fatal wars;"This fill'd his manly face with scars."The Picture look'd, at last it cry'd—"Edmund's unhappy destin'd bride"I represent.—— The fair's derang'd;"But still her heart was ne'er estrang'd."Report announc'd her lover slain,"And phrenzy wild distracts her brain."Not honors, nor encumb'ring wealth"She sought, but Edmund's dearer self."Therefore, when war, with scars, alack!"Sent her wounded votary back,She cry'd—"Alas it cannot be"This Edmund!—no, it is not he."Edmund I lov'd—I ne'er can change."Remove me from this object strange."Each art her Edmund try'd in vain,To lead her reason back again.For if Hope shot a doubtful gleam,The ray made madness stronger seem.The Picture paus'd on Edmund's grief.He wak'd from sleep without relief;For day and sorrow both return'd;He thought of glory dearly earn'd.The chain he saw the Leg entwine,—"My heart," he cry'd, "Maria's shrine;"So doth a chain entwine around,"And added with a sigh profound,"To fix Maria's image there,"Ev'n with her sad disorder'd air."Nor other mistress will I have,"Glory except, this side the grave."The Leg exclaim'd—"Spread o'er with scars,"Good Sir, think not again of wars:"Your heart none doubts may steady prove:"Who should mistrust a Soldier's love?"And should Maria ever be"Releas'd from her insanity,"If constant to her you remain,"A sure reward at last you'll gain;"Glory you've won, no more her court,"But ever make me your support."MORAL.Impatience often, when too great,Its promis'd purpose doth defeat.And who too eager grasps at wealth,Knows not how poor he makes himself.

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FABLE XXIII.Clara and the Sky‐lark.A LARK had been from youth to ageA little captive in a cage;But having liberty regain'd,He ply'd his wings, and unrestrain'dEnjoy'd the privilege to fly,Singing, while soaring to the sky.Oft pleasure's steps are check'd by woe—The Lark that secret did not know.—Nor much his liberty avail'd,When high in air his pinions fail'd.Long the time was since he had flown,His inert wings seem'd scarce his own;And while he higher strove to soar,Becoming feeble more and more,He sunk, he fell—but dire mishap,He fell into Misfortune's lap.A simple lad, devoid of art,That lov'd a bird's nest at his heart,What happiness could be prefer'd,To finding he possess'd a bird?The Lark immur'd, in cage once more,Less felt the iron sway of power;Finding the joys of freedom vain,Captivity had charms again;Security, soft rest, and food,Seem'd now the most substantial good.But here again the unhappy LarkFound he was fix'd for Sorrow's mark.The stripling, like a luckless wight,Made not thraldom a burthen light;And ev'ry hour, the Lark distrest,Sigh'd to repose on Clara's breast;Which, fool like, with little reason,He thought in former time a prison.Sometimes he sang, but not a noteOf pleasure fill'd his swelling throat;'Twas woe, anxiety, and grief,From which he scarce dar'd hope relief.Clara, who since her bird had flownLittle tranquillity had known,Her favorite sought with anxious care,Thro' all the village, in despair.The Lark, whose heart with grief was wrung,A strain of gratitude now sung,For Clara's kindness in a state,Which he regretted nigh too late.The song she heard, the note she knew,And eager to the cottage flew.The Lark had been the lad's chief joy—But what more fickle than a boy?A piece of gold had charms beyondThe bird, of whom he erst was fond;And Clara gold consider'd nought,Could her lost bird by that be bought.Again the Lark on Clara's breastSecure, his wonted joy exprest."No more," the happy creature cry'd,"Your bird shall wander from your side.""Nor I," said Clara, "ere again"Lamenting, will of fate complain;"Whatever sorrows may befall,"Hope shall revive me in them all."Pleasure and birds may take their flight;"Yet both return, and all be right."MORAL.Blessings unseen are often nigh,To wipe the tears from Sorrow's eye.

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FABLE XXIV.The Magpie turned Preacher.A MAGPIE chanc'd one day to perchUpon a pulpit, in a church.He heard them preach, he heard them sing,And thought it was an easy thing.He eye'd the door, then out he flew,Call'd all the birds he ever knew;Said that religion he should teach,Turn parson, and begin to preach;Subscriptions would be taken downIn the fir grove, beyond the town.'Twas strange, but plausible—and soThey all agree'd that they should go;But precluded not was wonder.Each together, and asunder,Declar'd, while waving on his twig,He was a sly presuming prig.Tho' not to flinch, the gen'rous tribeAll carry'd something to subscribe.One took a single grain of wheat,Which all the while he wish'd to eat;One took a cherry; one a stone;A seed another, newly sown.Mag, in the grove beyond the town,Sat in great state, and took names down.When Sunday came, they heard the bell—For who the difference could tell?—Maggy had got a hollow bone,Which hard he hit against a stone.When all assembled, seats were made,Some boughs were stript, some form'd a shade.Maggy was seated on a sprayThe topmost, and began to pray;Then with solemnity to preach,Nodding and bending round to each;He rais'd his voice, and sunk it too,Then made a pause, as parsons do.The time arriv'd for them to sing;This was to touch a tender string.Who can shine in every way!Maggy could talk, and preach, and pray,But could not raise a single note;While ev'ry warbler swell'd his throat,Nor ceas'd, till Mag, half tir'd to death,Had chatter'd till he lost his breath.Then all declar'd he was a cheat,Receiving dainty food to eat;But not a word they understood,And not a sentence was there good.So in the grove, if long he staid,He should repent his new‐found trade,Which they could all explain as wellAs any thing that he could tell.MORAL.So vain pretender e'er was born,But saw his hopes o'erturn'd with scorn.

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FABLE XXV.The old Wolf and her Cubs.EXPERIENCE often bids us say,Advice to youth is thrown away:But then experience says again,Let talking be however vain,Mothers, aunts, and ancient cousins,Deal out cautions by the dozens.A WOLF, once hardy, rough, and bold,Was now grown weak and very old;Her days were wearing to an end,Without obtaining any friend.Her retrospective views gave pain;She wish'd to pass her life again:Resolv'd, could she her time renew,Just and mild courses to pursue,Calling around her gaping Cubs,Who thought she had the mulligrubs,She charg'd the hungry rav'ning brood,To be less thirsty after blood:Alluded to the dire mishapsEnsuing oft from dogs and traps:And for proofs—if wanted any—In herself existed many.She vow'd no tender lamb againShould ever more by her be slain.Then felt a joy, this duty o'er,Had not been witnessed before;She felt what wolves full rarely know,The joys which from good actions flow:And exhortations done and past,She seem'd much quieter at last.The worry'd Cubs wish'd not for more.Her growling blessings being o'er,They greet, as signal for departure;All that they had listen'd after,Yet seem'd to take her anxious caresAs much to heart as human heirs.Releas'd, depart the howling crew,Uncertain what they ought to do.One said—"We cannot live by rule;"Our mother's old, and grown a fool;"We'll listen not to her again,"But all start off, and scour the plain."So forth they went, their ill star led—And can there be a worse thing said?—Dogs surround from ev'ry quarter;Dismal scene of blood and slaughter!Some were sadly maim'd and torn;Others left even more forlornThan the old Wolf, who staid at home,And charg'd the young ones not to roam.One, in an agony of pain,Limp'd off and cry'd—"I'll ne'er again,"So rash, and so ungovern'd be;"My mother now may out live me:"She is not the fool I thought her—"But much wiser than her daughter."This most prudent Cub, we are told,Saw length of years, and grew quite old:Mark'd the same faults in all her young,Reprov'd them in her mother tongue;Heard them remit it down againTo wild ones roving o'er the plain.Thus all that ever yet were born,Give the advice they took with scorn.MORAL.As up life's rugged steep you rise,The friendly admonition prize.Many a bitter pang shall share,Who scorns a parent's tender care.If Reason's eye could pierce so far,To see not only what things are,But what the future may produce,Advice would be of little use.Experience still affords a proof,We seldom get advice enough.

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FABLE XXVI.The Rose and the Rose‐bud.THO' evening blights, with morning dews,Their baneful influence did infuse,A full blown Rose its charms retain'd,And all its odour still remain'd;It stood like fabrics past repair,Which shake at ev'ry breath of air.An opening Bud made strong advances,Pressing thro' the tangled branches,Crying—"I claim your place; make way;"Your time is past, you've had your day:"I lack each ray and beam of sun,"For my career, now your's is run."The Rose return'd—"There's none can say"Whose race is run, who's had their day:"Therefore be humble, change your strain;"None know which longest may remain.""Is it not Nature's own decree,"Retorts the Bud, "that all should be"Progressive making room for more,"As others did for them before?"Look first at me, then view your form,"And judge which best can bear the storm.""Nature," resum'd the full blown Rose,"Has laws; but she departs from those,"At least permits, in certain case,"Her own wise laws should not take place."Thus whether humble, proud, or bold,"We see young die, and we see old."Then of presumption be aware,—"A parent may outlive an heir."Sol's ardour now shot sudden heat;The Bud, with arrogance replete,Cry'd out—"I open to your view:"Methinks you're faded in your hue."The Rose with spirit said—"Again"Take my advice, be not too vain."Camilla pass'd; she saw the Rose."Sweetest flower," she cry'd, "that blows!"What have you been?—it strikes my mind,"The very fairest of your kind:"The change I can perceive, with grief."May the winds spare your drooping leaf:"Remain, tho' you are past your prime,"And beg another day of Time."This bud falls short of you, in truth;"I'll crop the little upstart youth."Thus sudden snap'd it from the stem,Unmindful of each spark'ling gem.Now droop'd, now hung his blushing head,As if to say, my life seems fled.Silent the Rose was all the while,Retorting only by a smile.Camilla took another view,Crying—"Fairest flower, adieu!"This Bud, this foolish Bud," she said," 'Tis nothing worth, 'tis almost dead,"Then turn'd once more to look around,And careless threw it on the ground;Where laying in degraded state,"Justice," he cry'd, "is in my fate;"And makes the matter past dispute,"For, Rose, I perish at your root."MORAL.Thus the bold youth impatient waitsTo be possessor of estates,Arms, titles, he has right to bear,When once become the lawful heir:But nought from his proud claim derives;Death strikes him, while his sire survives.

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FABLE XXVII.The Lion and the Fox.A LION, without fix'd abode,Travers'd each path and winding road;Knew ev'ry forest, ev'ry glen,Avoiding all the haunts of men.Fierce in his nature, tho' so mild,Not anger'd, would not hurt a child,Yet dreaded he to meet a man;Knowing a contest once began,Must rueful end, and fatal proveTo one that he aspir'd to love."Man in a savage state," said he,"Except in strength, is just like me."Should I o'ercome, 'twould be a curse;"And to be overcome, still worse."With roving tir'd, he sought a cave:He found one; then a friend would have.But friendship, it is very rareIn cities, forests, ev'ry where.Acquaintance then.—He spy'd a Fox.Wolves make acquaintance with the flocks;So surely Renard will be gladTo make acquaintance, good or bad.Civil the greeting was, and soAt least 'twas friendship a propos.Things were settled in the cavern,Snug as if it were a tavern.And those who had not frequent seenHow oft ill luck will intervene,Had sworn that Renard was a friend,And that the compact ne'er would end:But Renard let the Lion know,It pleased him to be a foe;Mischief his joy, and craft his trade,Which he should follow undismay'd.The Lion, with resentment fraught,Justly despis'd him, as he ought.His angry glare, and lifted paw,Drove him away with fear and awe.But 'tis not greatness, nor contempt,Can make the innocent exemptFrom malice, which the wicked bear,And keep to strike folks unaware.A shepherd, roving o'er the plain,Observ'd the Fox. The thirst of gainExcited him to lay a snare,In which fell Renard, unaware.This sight might Av'rice awaken,Had it slept. "Ah ha! you're taken,"Cries out triumphantly the clown;"You'll not get off, for half‐a‐crown."As compensation must be made,"Your skin will pay for 't, I'm afraid."Renard, quite ready to begin,Cry'd—"Kill me then, and take my skin."But let it pray be understood," 'Tis not a thing will do much good."Were I a Lion, then indeed,"With pleasure you might see me bleed.""A Lion!" cry'd the man, "d'ye say?"We see not Lions every day:"A Fox will please me pretty well;"Where Lions are we cannot tell.""Sir," said the Fox, "if you are brave,"I'll lead you to a Lion's cave."And to the Lion's cave he led,When soon the noble beast lay dead.MORAL.Impertinence will sore annoy,But cunning malice will destroy.

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FABLE XXVIII.The Magpie and the Raven.WHO takes a hint, a fault to mend,Observ'd in either foe or friend,Deserveth praise; but not so he,Copying faults, makes that a plea;It rather aggravates the case,As he sees clearly the disgrace;While him, who first commits the fault,Perhaps is better fed than taught;Incautiously it may be err'd,Therefore less wrong, and less absurd.A MAGPIE, in the way of joke,Reprov'd a Raven for his croak."Whether successful, whether not,"You croak," said he, "none knows for what."If a dead carcass you espy,"It is lamented with a sigh."Ah what an awful sight is death!"But one hour past the thing had breath."Then fancy fills your ears with groans,"But cheerfully you pick his bones."If ever you in fact lament," 'Tis better morsels were not sent:"Because I know you like a lamb,"And much prefer it to the dam."Epicureans never humble,"Are morose, and apt to grumble."You also croak, from morn till night,"As if nought else could give delight."The Raven cry'd—" 'Tis very true;"What will not habit make us do?"To copy them, and do the same?"Examples given, who's to blame."The Magpie said—"Nought can permit,"Or make what's wrong, be right and fit:"Copying faults is ever wrong,"To whomsoever they belong."Good neither wants excuse or clokes;"Leave bad examples to bad folks."Man often grumbles at his lot,"His daily benefits forgot."MORAL.When bad examples men assail,Reason is often known to fail.Shall Instinct be a better guide?No, not if Reason calls in Pride.

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FABLE XXIX.The two cunning Foxes.TWO Foxes thought the highest praiseWas to excel in crafty ways;And greatest he who could succeedIn a mischievous wicked deed.Thus did they settle, that each shouldDeceive the other when he could.But each so clever in his way,None scarcely knew which bore the sway.After a many cunning trick,One chanc'd to fall a little sick;And losing appetite for food,He thought his teeth were not so good."How do your teeth," he cry'd, "hold out?"For mine are going, past a doubt.""Oh," cry'd the other, "mine are gone,"There is not left a single one;"They all dropp'd out the other night—"Oh! how I suffer'd by the fright!"—But added, skrewing up his chops,"I must submit to live on sops."A few days past, when something said,Renard laugh'd out, and in his headA row of ivory was seen,Extremely perfect, white, and clean."So you have to a dentist been,"And got a set of teeth put in,"Cry'd out his friend, for once deceiv'd:"Well, I could never have believ'd"Such things were put in mortal jaws,"To help us for to fill our maws."This made the other's laugh increase,Nor did it for a long time cease,Which made him shew his fangs the more,And while he laugh'd his neighbour swore.But when the laughing fit was past,He cry'd— "You're taken in at last,"And doubly so:—should you ask why—"These teeth are mine, or let me die."You complain'd your teeth were going,"And the fact not rightly knowing,"I really thought if your's were out,"You would steal mine, beyond a doubt."Where love did never much abound,A diff'rence seemed to gain ground:Renard's wit did not digest;The last was but an aukward jest.Foxes were now without controul,In ev'ry place they had a hole,Rewards were offer'd all about,To point their hiding places out.Thus creatures, which in former daysUnited in such various ways,Turn'd their thoughts to the undoingAnd plotting of each other's ruin;In which, like mischief‐making elves,They brought destruction on themselves:For tho' each met success, no doubt,In pointing his confederate out,Yet when the tale they went to tell,Each a deserved victim fell,And both on perfidy cry'd out,'Till dogs had got them by the snout.MORAL.When theives project another's ruin,They oft promote their own undoing.And those who crafty knaves will trust,If they complain, they are unjust.

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FABLE XXX.The Owl and the Cuckow.IF we look round the world, we findEach creature has it's task assign'd.The smallest bird obtains not rest,Till it with labour forms a nest;And ev'ry insect has its bole,And creeps not in another's hole;For if they vary from this plan,We see them scouted by their clan.A CUCKOW, whom all birds detestFor laying in another's nest,Was taken in the very fact,And try'd according to the act.An owl was judge; the jurymanYoung robins, linnets, larks and wren;Counsellors were chiefly sparrows,Pert and bold, and keen as arrows;Th' attorney was a bird of prey,Whose suits succeed as folks can pay.But lucky was the Cuckow's cause;For what with blunders, and the flaws,She fairly got off uncondemn'd,'Tho by the feather'd court contemn'd.And having lost an honest name,She