I SHALL not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau If birds confabulate or no ;
'Tis clear that they were always able
To hold discourse, at least in fable;
And even the child who knows no better
Than to interpret by the letter
A story of a cock and bull,
Must have a most uncommon skull.
It chanced then on a winter's day,
But warm and bright and calm as May, The birds, conceiving a design
To forestall sweet St. Valentine,
In many an orchard, copse, and grove, Assembled on affairs of love,
And with much twitter and much chatter Began to agitate the matter.
At length a Bullfinch, who could boast More years and wisdom than the most, Entreated, opening wide his beak, A moment's liberty to speak; And, silence publicly enjoined, Delivered briefly thus his mind :
* It was one of the whimsical speculations of this philosopher, that all fables which ascribe reason and speech to animals should be withheld from children, as being only vehicles of decepBut what child was ever deceived by them, or can be, against the evidence of his senses?
"My friends! be cautious how ye treat The subject upon which we meet ; I fear we shall have winter yet."
A Finch, whose tongue knew no control, With golden wing and satin poll,
A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried What marriage means, thus pert replied : "Methinks the gentleman," quoth she, Opposite in the apple tree,
By his good will would keep us single Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle; Or (which is likelier to befall) Till death exterminate us all. I marry without more ado;
My dear Dick Redcap, what say you?" Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling, Turning short round, strutting, and sidling, Attested, glad, his approbation
Of an immediate conjugation. Their sentiments so well expressed Influenced mightily the rest;
All paired, and each pair built a nest.
But though the birds were thus in haste, The leaves came on not quite so fast, And Destiny, that sometimes bears An aspect stern on man's affairs, Not altogether smiled on theirs. The wind, of late breathed gently forth, Now shifted east, and east by north; Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know, Could shelter them from rain or snow : Stepping into their nests, they paddled,
Themselves were chilled, their eggs were addled : Soon every father-bird and mother
Grew quarrelsome, and pecked each other, Parted without the least regret,
Except that they had ever met,
And learnt in future to be wiser
Than to neglect a good adviser.
Misses the tale that I relate This lesson seems to carry— Choose not alone a proper mate, But proper time to marry.
THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY.
THE noon was shady, and soft airs Swept Ouse's silent tide, When, 'scaped from literary cares, I wandered on his side.
My spaniel, prettiest of his race, And high in pedigree, (Two nymphs* adorned with every grace That spaniel found for me)
Now wantoned, lost in flags and reeds, Now starting into sight, Pursued the swallow o'er the meads With scarce a slower flight.
It was the time when Ouse displayed His lilies newly blown ;
Their beauties I intent surveyed And one I wished my own.
With cane extended far, I sought To steer it close to land;
But still the prize, though nearly caught, Escaped my eager hand.
Beau marked my unsuccessful pains With fixed considerate face,
And puzzling set his puppy brains To comprehend the case.
But with a cherup clear and strong Dispersing all his dream,
I thence withdrew, and followed long The windings of the stream.
My ramble ended, I returned; Beau, trotting far before, The floating wreath again discerned, And plunging left the shore.
I saw him with that lily cropped Impatient swim to meet
My quick approach, and soon he dropped The treasure at my feet.
Charmed with the sight, "The world,” I cried,
"Shall hear of this thy deed : My dog shall mortify the pride Of man's superior breed:
But chief myself I will enjoin, Awake at duty's call,
To show a love as prompt as thine To Him who gives me all."
ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON (AFTERWARDS MRS. COURTENAY).
SHE came-she is gone-we have met—
And meet perhaps never again; The sun of that moment is set,
And seems to have risen in vain. Catharina has fled like a dream
(So vanishes pleasure, alas !) But has left a regret and esteem
That will not so suddenly pass.
The last evening ramble we made,— Catharina, Maria, and I,— Our progress was often delayed
By the nightingale warbling nigh. We paused under many a tree,
And much she was charmed with a tone Less sweet to Maria and me,
Who so lately had witnessed her own.
* Sir Robert Gunning's daughters.
A HERMIT (or if 'chance you hold That title now too trite and old), A man once young, who lived retired As hermit could have well desired, His hours of study closed at last, And finished his concise repast, Stoppled his cruse, replaced his book Within its customary nook, And, staff in hand, set forth to share The sober cordial of sweet air, Like Isaac, with a mind applied To serious thought at evening tide. Autumnal rains had made it chill, And from the trees that fringed his hill Shades slanting at the close of day Chilled more his else delightful way. Distant a little mile he spied A western bank's still sunny side, And right toward the favoured place Proceeding with his nimblest pace, In hope to bask a little yet,
Just reached it when the sun was set.
THERE is a field through which I often pass, Thick overspread with moss and silky grass, Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood, Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood, Reserved to solace many a neighbouring squire, That he may follow them through brake and brier, Contusion hazarding of neck or spine, Which rural gentlemen call sport divine. A narrow brook, by rushy banks concealed, Runs in a bottom, and divides the field; Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head, But now wear crests of oven-wood instead ;
« AnteriorContinuar » |