Fable XIII.
The Two Doves.

Two Turtles once, of gentlest kind,
In softest bands by love were join’d;
’Til tired of home Columbo grew,
And pensive sigh’d for something new;
For distant realms prepar’d to part,—
When spoke the partner of his heart:
“Why should my dear Columbo rove,
And leave me widow’d in the grove—
What ill can worse than absence prove?
Yet let the toils, the perils, cares,
Which fate for travellers prepares,
Retard thy speed—attend the spring,
And wait the zephyr’s aiding wing;
What haste?—this hour, ill omen’d found!
The raven’s croak was heard around;
Hawks, nets, and ills of ev’ry kind
Henceforth shall haunt my boding mind;
And what does Heav’n at home deny
That thou canst wish, or Heav’n supply?”
These words in doubt Columbo hold,
Still weakly vain, and rashly bold;
At length his restless wish prevails,
And love, and fear, and prudence fails:
When thus he spoke with cheerful air—
“From Turturella far be care,
No more let tears those eyes distain,
Whate’er I seek three days shall gain;
Returning then, to thee I’ll tell
Whate’er I saw, or me befell:
Amusing thus the pensive day,
Who little see, can little say,
Of rich description full, my tale
Shall oft thy listening ear regale;
The scenes I’ll paint so strong, so true,
In fancy thou shalt travel too.”
This said, Farewell dissolves his heart,
And wet with mutual tears they part.
As Turturella pensive sate,
In fancy wand’ring with her mate,
Far as her utmost ken she sees
A bird approach by slow degrees;
Not form’d for flight he seem’d, nor song,
But stopp’d by turns, and limp’d along:
Her pains who feels can tell alone,
The bird for chang’d Columbo known;
Her mate, with pearly tears to greet,
Down from her nest she flew to meet.
Awhile with silent grief opprest,
At length she softly him addrest:
“Oh! tell me, dear Columbo, tell
What scenes you saw, what woes befell;
Why wounded thus Columbo mourns,
And ere th’ appointed day returns?”
With falt’ring voice Columbo cry’d,
“From thee no more my heart I hide—
Scarce from this peaceful grove I past
When sudden clouds the skies o’ercast;
I saw the storm, for shelter sought,
A single tree that shelter brought,
Thin leav’d, and pervious to the show’r,
I felt the rig’rous season’s power.
The cloud dissolv’d, benumb’d with cold,
Again my dripping wings unfold;
In neighb’ring fields some corn I view,
And, hov’ring near, a turtle too;
By flatt’ring hopes deluded there,
I struggled in the fowler’s snare:
The turtle tutor’d to betray,
Beneath the bait a net there lay.
Unwonted strength despair supply’d,
I broke the snare my feet that ty’d;
With less than half my tail I fled,
And trail’d behind a broken thread,
A remnant of the snare, when lo!
A vulture sees me, dreadful foe!
Just as he stoop’d to snatch the prey,
From heav’n an eagle wing’d his way;
I, while the sons of rapine fight,
Improv’d the lucky hour in flight
The ruins of a cot were near,
I thought my dangers ended here;
Deceitful thought! a playful boy
(The cruel race in sport destroy)
Whirl’d round the sling, the rapid stone
Laid bare my pinion to the bone.
Yet reach I living this abode,
What signal mercies Heav’n bestow’d!
Left in this grove to sigh alone
What fate has Turturella known?”
“More signal yet, by far,” said she,
“The mercies Heav’n bestow’d on me.”
“Alas! what woes,” Columbo cry’d,
“In this short absence hast thou try’d?
What near escapes to equal mine?
Amazing marks of love divine!”
“The woes averted from my head
Are those which thou hast felt,” she said;
“No near escapes ’twas mine to prove,
What more amazing mark of love!
In ease and safety more I gain
Than life to thee, preserv’d with pain,
See then the mercies that I meant,
Which Heav’n to give me, gave Content!
Learn hence the gifts of Jove to prize,
And, ere misfortunes teach, be wise.”

Fable XIV.
The Beau and Butterfly.

When summer deckt each sylvan scene,
And sunshine smil’d along the green,
When groves allur’d with noon-tide shade,
And purling brooks refresh’d the glade;
An empty form of empty show,
A flutt’ring insect, call’d a Beau,
In gaudy colours rich and gay,
A mere papilio of the day,
Was seen around the fields to rove,
And haunt, by turns, the stream and grove:
A silver zone entwin’d his head,
His belly shone with lively red,
His wings were green, but studded o’er
With gold-embroider’d spots before.
Around him various insects came,
Of diff’rent colour, different name;
And, ting’d with every gorgeous dye,
Among the rest a Butterfly;
His wings are spread with wanton pride,
And beauty fades from all beside.
The Beau beholds, with envious eyes,
The living radiance as it flies:
“And shall,” said he, “this worthless thing.
That lives but on a summer’s wing,
This flying worm, more gaudy shine,
And wear a dress more gay than mine?
Is this wise Nature’s equal care
To deck a Butterfly so fair,
While man, her worthiest, greatest part,
Must wear the homely rags of art?”
Thus reason’d he, as reason beaux,
The subject of their logic clothes;
When thus the Butterfly reply’d,
With deeper tints by anger dy’d:
“Vain, trifling mortal! could’st thou boast
To prize what Nature prizes most
On man bestow’d, thou would’st not see
With envy aught she gives to me.
This painted vestment, all my store,
She gives, and I can claim no more—
But man, for greater ends design’d,
Should boast the beauties of the mind.
More bright than gold with wisdom shine,
And virtue’s sacred charms be thine:
To rule the world by reason taught,
On dress disdain to waste a thought;
For he, whom folly bends so low,
Ambitious to be thought a beau.
Is studious only to be gay,
In toilet-arts consumes the day;
And, the long trifling labours o’er,
Takes wing, and bids the world adore;
Looks down with scorn on rival flies,
Himself less splendid and less wise;
With scorn, his scorn return’d again,
Proud insect! impotently vain!
The fool who thus by self is priz’d,
By others justly is despis’d.”
She said, and flutter’d round on high,
Nor stay’d to hear the Beau’s reply.

Fable XV.
The Bears and Bees.

As two young Bears in wanton mood,
Forth-issuing from a neighb’ring wood,
Came where th’ industrious Bees had stor’d
In artful cells their luscious hoard;
O’erjoy’d they seiz’d with eager haste
Luxurious on the rich repast.
Alarm’d at this, the little crew
About their ears vindictive flew.
The beasts, unable to sustain
Th’ unequal combat, quit the plain:
Half blind with rage, and mad with pain,
Their native shelter they regain;
There sit, and now discreeter grown,
Too late their rashness they bemoan;
And this by dear experience gain,
“That pleasure’s ever bought with pain.”
So when the gilded baits of vice
Are plac’d before our longing eyes,
With greedy haste we snatch our fill,
And swallow down the latent ill;
But when experience opes our eyes,
Away the fancied pleasure flies—
It flies, but oh! too late we find
It leaves a real sting behind.

Fable XVI.
The Trees.

Once on a time, when great Sir Oak
Held all the trees beneath his yoke,
The monarch, anxious to maintain,
In peaceful state, his sylvan reign,
Saw, to his sorrow and distraction,
His subject trees take root in faction,
And, though late join’d in union hearty,
Now branching into shoots of party,
Each sturdy stick of factious wood
Stood stiff and stout for public good:
For patriots ever, ’tis well known,
Seek others welfare, not their own,
And all they undertake, you know,
Is meant pro bono publico.
The hardy Fir, from northern earth
Who took its name, and drew its birth,
The Oak plac’d next him to support
His government, and grace his court.
The Fir, of an uncommon size,
Rear’d his tall head unto the skies,
O’er-topp’d his fellow-plants, his height
Who view’d, and sicken’d at the sight:
With envy ev’ry fibre swell’d,
While in them the proud sap rebell’d;
“Shall then,” they cried, “the Ash, the Elm,
The Beech, no longer rule the helm?
What! shall the ignoble Fir, a plant,
In tempest born, and nurs’d in want,
Far from black regions of the north,
And native famine, issue forth;
In this our happier soil take root,
And dare our birthright to dispute?”
On this the fatal storm began,
Confusion thro’ the forest ran;
Mischief in each dark shade was brewing,
And all betoken’d general ruin:
While each, to make their party good,
Brib’d the vile shrubs and underwood:
And now the Bramble and the Thistle
Sent forth essay, ode, epistle;
To which anon, with equal mettle,
Replied the Thorn and stinging Nettle.
“What’s to be done, or how oppose
The storm which in the forest rose?”
Grief shook the mighty monarch’s mind,
And his sighs labour’d in the wind.
At length, the tumult, strife, and quarrel,
Alarming the sagacious laurel,
His mind unto the King he broke,
And thus addrest him: “Heart of Oak!
Sedition is on foot, make ready;
And fix your empire firm and steady.
Faction in vain shall shake the wood,
While you pursue the general good.
Fear not a foe, trust not a friend,
Upon yourself alone depend.
If not too partially ally’d,
By fear or love to either side,
In vain shall jarring factions strive,
Cabals in vain dark plots contrive.
Slave to no foe, dupe to no minion,
Maintain an equal just dominion:
So shall you stand by storms unbroke,
And all revere the Royal Oak.”

Fable XVII.
The Philosopher and Glow-Worm.

When toilsome hours of day were spent,
The world seem’d wrapt in calm content,
Each anxious care forsook the breast,
Sleep gently clos’d each eye to rest,
Cynthia her brightest aspect wore,
And Heav’n’s expanse was studded o’er,
A sage, by meditation drawn,
Forsook his cot, and sought the lawn;
In contemplation deep he stray’d,
And nature’s dozing charms survey’d;
On either hand new beauties view’d,
As he his tranquil walk pursu’d.
By chance, a Glow-Worm, in his way,
Shone forth his little glitt’ring ray,
Proudly unfolding ev’ry grace,
As trailing round from place to place;
Illumining the moss-fring’d plain.
On other worms he look’d disdain.
The sage, with philosophic eye,
Survey’d the wand’rer crawling by;
Then stooping low, with gentle hand,
High lifts him from the dew-fraught land.
The grub, tho’ not dismay’d thro’ fear,
Conscious he was not in his sphere,
Withdrew his beam of light away,
To hear what man—vain man—would say.
The learn’d Philosopher, amaz’d,
Paus’d for some time, and anxious gaz’d;
Astonish’d that the worm should die
So soon, then careless threw it by;
But first, this application made:—
“This creeping reptile, lo! is dead,
And with his life, his glory’s fled.
So is’t with all ambition’s race,
Who fill up each exalted place:
Brilliant they shine with borrow’d ray,
And wanton in the blaze of day,
’Till fortune’s second wheel turns round,
And leaves them where they first were found.”
The Glow-Worm with attention heard,
And weigh’d with prudence ev’ry word,
Trim’d bright his little lamp again.
And shone more beauteous o’er the plain
Then thus address’d the wond’ring sage,
The known Philos’pher of the age:
“Know thou, the happy pow’r to shine
Is truly man’s as well as mine;
I know my sphere, did he the same,
He’d tread that path that leads to fame;
Did he in dang’rous times retire,
And check with care ambition’s fire,
Like me he might new lustre spread.
And deck with laurels fresh his head.
But, coxcomb like, he’s led astray
To shine, and shines but for a day.”

Fable XVIII.
The Angler and the Philosopher.

Beside a gentle murm’ring brook
An Angler took his patient stand;
He ey’d the stream with anxious look,
And wav’d his rod with cautious hand.
The bait with nicest art was drest,
The fishes left their safe retreat;
And one more eager than the rest,
Look’d, long’d, and swallow’d the deceit.
Too late she felt the poignant smart,
Her pitying friends her fate deplore;
The Angler with well-practis’d art,
Play’d, hook’d, and drew her to the shore.
Lur’d by the beauty of the day,
The sun now sinking in the sky,
A sage pursu’d his walk that way,
And saw the bleeding victim lie.
Far in the vale of years declin’d,
He watch’d the course of nature’s law;
And thus with philosophic mind,
He moralis’d on what he saw:
“Indulge, awhile, the pensive vein,
And fix this image in your mind;
You’ve hook’d a fish; observe its pain,
And view the state of human kind.
“Fate gives us line, we shift the scene,
And jocund traverse to and fro;
Pain, sickness, still will intervene,
We feel the hook where’er we go.
“If, proudly, we our schemes extend,
And look beyond the present hour,
We find our straiten’d prospects end,
And own an over-ruling pow’r.
“Awhile we sport, awhile lament,
Fate checks the line, and we are gone;
Dragg’d from our wonted element,
To distant climes, untry’d, unknown.”

Fable XIX.
The Lion and other Beasts in Council.

The kingly ruler of the plain,[10]
Just ent’ring on his savage reign,
To grace his coronation feast,
Sent and invited every beast;
And soon the royal cave beheld
With all his various subjects fill’d:
For leagues of peace were lately made,
And lambs and wolves together play’d;
Foxes and tim’rous hares agree
With dogs, their common enemy:
And now a sumptuous table spread,
Friendly they altogether fed;
And having din’d, sit still and prate
Familiarly of this and that:
Till with a kind, yet serious look,
The King, desiring audience, spoke.
“My friends, and loving subjects all,
Who’ve kindly thus obey’d my call,
I give you thanks, and now I crave
Your further kindness to receive:
I’m seated on the throne, you see,
In peaceable tranquillity;
No cares of war disturb my breast;
With taxes you are not opprest;
This life I’ll therefore spend in joy;
None shall be happier than I.
But lest I should pursue false bliss,
What I would ask of you is this,
To tell me—what true pleasure is?”
The beasts seem’d pleas’d with this request;
Each thought he could advise him best,
And striving who should silence break,
They all at once rose up to speak:
Till by his majesty’s command,
Their forward zeal was soon restrain’d;
Who calmly bidding them sit down,
And let him hear them one by one,
Th’ impatient Monkey thus began:
“Pleasure, my liege, is free from strife,
To lead a thoughtless, easy life;
Airy, and wild, and brisk, and gay,
To sing, and dance, and laugh, and play;
Now following this, now that, and that,
And so’t be new, no matter what;
Free from all rules of just and fit,
Do mischief first, then laugh at it:
This is diversion, pleasure, wit.”
The Ass was here provok’d to rise,
And gravely thus bray’d his advice:
“If,” said he, “real pleasure is
In such buffoonery as this,
Then beaux and smarts, amongst mankind,
Are in their notions most refin’d;
But well we know, by men of sense,
They’re tax’d with vain impertinence.
I therefore think true pleasure lies
(If I may be thought fit t’advise)
In careless indolence and ease,
Not suff’ring anything to tease,
Regardless what th’ ambitious fly at,
So we’re but undisturb’d and quiet;
Well knowing ’tis but to attain
More ease, that they’re at so much pain.
And he’s more happy, none can doubt it,
Who’s easy without taking pains about it.”
Now rose the Hog, and with a grunt,
“Pleasure,” cry’d he, “they know nought on’t.
A life trail’d on in laziness
Can only suit a stupid Ass,
And fool’d away in Monkey mirth,
It’s really full as little worth;
For doing nothing worthy fame
And doing nothing’s much the same.
But if you’d real pleasure know,
Let generous liquor smiling flow;
In jovial crews spend every hour,
And drink, and sing, and rant, and roar:
Thus every care will sink and drown,
Whilst mirth and joy run laughing round.
I seem a monarch while I drink so,
And you’ll be a god do you but think so.”
Here bursts the Goat into a laugh,
And thus beginning with a scoff:
“Doubtless,” said he, “it must be fine
T’exalt a nasty, dirty swine,
To such a height in fancying,
As to believe himself a King.
But that which thus perverts our senses
Can have, I think, but small pretences
To recommend it to our favour,
As pleasure of the truest flavour.
Nature, methinks, should guide in this,
Who seems t’have shewn the highest bliss,
In having plac’d the sweetest gust,
In gratifying natural lust.
And that ’tis the sublimest joy,
I think ’s so plain none can deny.
Witness the mad tormenting pain,
When disappointed, we sustain.
Witness how eagerly we press on,
Witness our raptures in possession.”
But here the Leopard, rising slow,
Expos’d his beauteous spots to show,
And with a grave majestic face,
Thus gave his verdict in the case:
“Pleasure consists not in such short
Imperfect transitory sport,
Of which the pains we’re at to get it,
O’erpays the bliss when we come at it;
Nor can it e’er be call’d true joy,
With such a mixture of alloy.
No, that must be the most refin’d
Which most exalts and charms the mind;
And nothing sure more charming is,
Than honour, pomp, and dignities,
Than grandeur and magnificence,
Than sumptuous trains and vast expense,
Than place, distinction, and preferment,
And when we die, a grand interment.”
At this the Horse, with noble look,
Raising his crested neck, thus spoke:
“That merit should be rais’d on high,
I think ’s so just none can deny;
But he who places all his bliss
In the external pomp of this,
Knows not what greatness, nor what pleasure is;
His judgment errs as much at least
As his who thinks that painting best
Which is in gaudiest colours drest.
Of both we may affirm the same,
Their taste lies only in the gilded frame.
I grant preferment, honour, place,
Are rising steps to happiness;
But whilst we’re upwards thus aspiring,
We’re anxious still, and still desiring.
To act with an unbounded will,
Can only our desires fulfil;
Whence, the highest bliss, in my opinion,
Must be in power and dominion.”
Thus all their various sense exprest,
And each advis’d what he thought best:
But still what each as best esteem’d
Was by the next that spoke condemn’d:
Meanwhile the savage monarch sate,
Attentive to the warm debate;
The nature saw, without disguise,
Of every beast in his advice.
But soon the disputants grew rude,
Confusion, noise, tumultuous feud
Enrage the jarring multitude.
Till weary’d out, the royal beast
Thus spoke, and silenc’d all the rest:
“Cease, cease your vain contention, cease
Your shallow schemes of happiness;
Which only have confirm’d me more,
’Tis where I thought it was before.
Greatness is no establishment
Of real bliss, or true content;
Luxurious banquets soon disgust;
We’re quickly pall’d with sensual lust:
Virtue alone can give true joy;
The sweets of virtue never cloy.
To take delight in doing good,
In justice, truth, and gratitude,
In aiding those whom cares oppress,
Administ’ring comfort to distress:
These, these are joys which all who prove
Anticipate the bliss above.
These are the joys, and these alone
We ne’er repent or wish undone.”
He spoke; the beasts without delay
Rose from their seats, and sneak’d away.

Fable XX.
The Goat and Fox.

Studious from diff’ring tales to show
That virtue makes our bliss below,
My warning voice to ev’ry heart,
May ev’ry faithful ear impart;
This one important truth believ’d,
Who can by vice be still deceiv’d?
Bliss is our aim, and bliss our end,
And he who points the path, a friend.
A Goat and Fox, by joint consent,
Together once a journey went;
With patient steps from morning’s dawn,
They measur’d hill, and vale, and lawn;
When Phœbus in the zenith rode,
A cheerless, pathless waste they trod;
The fainting wand’rers wide around,
With sighs survey’d the burning ground;
Again, and yet again they look,
To find the welcome cooling brook;
The welcome cooling brook in vain
They sought around the sun-burnt plain.
Onward they slowly pass, when lo!
A pit—and water—deep below;
Urg’d by a strong desire to drink,
They both leap headlong from the brink.
For appetite still foremost goes,
Quite blind to all beyond its nose;
And reason, impotently kind,
A tardy friend, limps far behind.
Now when our pair had drank amain,
They thought of getting out again;
And long with aching hearts they try’d,
But this the steep ascent denied.
Reynard at length the goat addrest,
And thus his wily thought exprest:
“Courage, my friend,—be rul’d by me,
We’ll soon from this mischance be free;
Here—of the pit the shallowest place,
On your hind legs your body raise,
And while thy horns my weight sustain,
At one light bound the shore I’ll gain;
And thence effectual aid can lend
To save thee, too, my dearest friend?”—
The Goat consents—and by his aid
The Fox his leap successful made;
His friend look’d up, well pleased no doubt,
And deem’d himself as good as out;
But the false Fox with barb’rous sneer,
Cry’d, “Pox! how came you scrambling here?”
The Goat reply’d, “Forbear to flout,
Lest I should ask how you got out.”
Said he, “Of that no doubt remains,
You’d horns, my friend,—and I had brains,
You wear that wisdom on your chin,
Which I, more modest, hide within.
We beasts of sprightly thought despise
All who like thee look gravely wise—
Improve these useful hints aright,
You’ll profit much—and so good night.”
This said, he titt’ring slunk away,
The Goat remain’d to death a prey.
In wonder lost, with horror chill’d,
With anguish, indignation fill’d,
The traitor-friend’s enormous guile,
Engross’d his shudd’ring soul awhile;
Awhile the wretched beast forgot
His pity’d, helpless, hopeless lot;
But after short suspense his woes
Return’d—as the stem’d torrent flows,
With trebled force—he scarce sustain’d
The shock—and thus at length profan’d:
“For ever let that maxim cease,
‘That virtue’s paths are paths of peace.’
Where’s that reward which learned pride
Boasts none from virtue can divide?
Where the sure woes of various kinds,
Which fate to vice for ever binds?
Life, joy (or what could make him smile).
The Fox obtains thro’ horrid guile;
My life, my humble guiltless joys,
At once a gen’rous trust destroys;
Jove’s slumb’ring vengeance lets him fly,
His goodness slumbers while I die.”
A sylvan god who pass’d that way
(Of old none wander’d more than they),
By chance the rash impeachment heard,
And instant on the brink appear’d.
“Look up,” he cries, “no more despair,
The help you wish prevents your prayer;
Safe on the wish’d substantial plain,
I’ll set thy dying feet again.
The Fox with envy didst thou see?
Henceforth thyself a Fox shalt be.—
Thou shalt his prosp’rous vice possess,
And taste a Fox’s happiness.”
The thing was done as soon as said,
A Fox, the Goat enfranchis’d, fled;
But feels within his alter’d mind,
His narrow’d love to self confin’d.
No more from others good his breast
The social joy serene possess’d;
No more by kind compassion mov’d,
His mercy is by foes approv’d.
Now mutual wants, love’s band below,
No means to fix a friend bestow;
Unlov’d, unloving, deep in earth
He gives his schemes of plunder birth.
From injur’d man, his friend so late,
He fears the stroke of potent hate;
With grief looks back on periods past,
His bloodless food, a blest repast!
Which late he cropt in peace profound,
With flocks, and herds, and men around;
Yet now abhors that guiltless food,
To rapine doom’d, and thirst of blood;
And mourns the days (to this a slave)
When heav’n a happier nature gave:
“By dear experience now I know,
That virtue’s only bliss below,”
He, sighing, said, in sad despair,
And thus prefers a falt’ring pray’r:
“Ye gracious pow’rs who rule above!
Who virtue and it’s vot’ries love!
I see my fault, my fault repent,
And own I ask’d the pains you sent.
I now th’ unrighteous thought forego.
That vice is bliss, and virtue woe:
Oh! make me what I was again,
Tho’ faint I tread the scorching plain;
Tho’ with a faithless Fox I stray,
Me tho’ again his wiles betray,
Make me a goat, tho’ void of wit,
You leave me dying in the pit:
’Tis better far than thus alone
To live without one joy my own;
For while the past my mind retains,
My present pleasures are but pains.”
He pray’d, to Jove the pray’r ascends;
His ear to pray’rs like these He lends.
“I (said the god) thy wish fulfil,
Henceforth, be virtuous—if you will
Be man—to him that pow’r I give;
Go, and by past experience live.”
Transform’d again with lifted eyes,
The man his story thus applies:—
“From what appears, how little do we know
What others feel of happiness or woe!
Is vice your envy when of health possess’d,
With power, and pelf, and all externals blest?
Know that amidst that health, and power and pelf,
The thriving villain must abhor himself;
For who can bear, tho’ desperately brave,
The voice of conscience when it calls him knave?
Or who so dull, without regret to miss
Of conscious goodness the substantial bliss?
Ask your own heart, and search thro’ all you know,
Consult each various scene of life below,
All, all this universal truth attest,
The virtuous are, and can alone be blest.”

Fable XXI.
The Kite and Nightingale.

I’ll try to mimic honest Gay,
Who had a very decent way;
A pleasant wight of simple sort,
For ever filliping the court.
Let courts be quiet, if they know
The happy knack of being so.
The pestilence flies everywhere,
Almost indefinite as air:
All places need the fanning breeze,
To dissipate the rank disease.
Vice—(not like beasts for show—confin’d)
Runs mad at large, and bites mankind:
Alike the taint infects the brain
Of those that dwell in court and plain:
The same wild fury acts the will
In different ways, with different skill.
A starving Kite, upon a bar
(Worn out with long fatigues of war),
Whose pointed claws, and hooked bill,
Shew’d his profession was to kill,
Thus grieving spoke in doleful strain:
(Your heart will pity and disdain)—
“How blind is everything on earth!
And how injurious to my worth!
Tho’ all the cote my sorrow see,
No dove will help me with a pea:
Hob’s field they robb’d a month together,
I never hurt a single feather;
The lark, whom I secure to rest
(I slew the snake that robb’d her nest),
Will not a little worm supply;
But would rejoice to see me die.
No crow invites me to a treat,
Tho’ what I kill’d he often eat.
Man, were he grateful, would determine
My merit in destroying vermin;
And make me happy to the last,
In justice to my service past.
But man, that thankless wretch is he,
Prefers yon Nightingale to me.”
“Alas! (the Nightingale replies)
I own my little merit lies
In innocence and tender cares
About my family affairs;
Or chaunting soft a pretty tale,
To please my neighbours of the vale;
Perhaps we gratitude may want,
Because you are too arrogant:
Your worth, display’d with all your skill,
Lies chiefly in omitting ill;
And only then for want of power
To seize the dove you would devour.
There’s not a lark that flies, but knows
You long to grasp her in your claws.
The crow you never meant to treat;
You left him what you could not eat;
And man, who most a villain needs,
Detests you for your wicked deeds.
You pilfer duckling, game, and chicken,
Which furnish man with dainty picking.
There’s not a poacher roams the wood,
But who would shoot you, if he could.”
Just had he said; forth pops a spark,
With gun and spaniel from the park;
The Kite he kens, with levell’d gun,
And brings the bloody boaster down.
Thus justly villains are repaid,
Who follow mischief as a trade:
Who merit can pretend alone,
When cruel work is to be done,
To crush their kindred sort of men
With sword, with halter, or with pen;
Whose hollow merit is, at best,
To seem the most, and be the least;
Who own no right, pursue no guide,
But only interest or pride;
Or both together do prefer,
To run most certainly to err.
Such always claim beyond their due,
And always think you wrong them too;
Do all the wrong, yet most complain,
Whene’er they spread the net in vain;
Or bait a hook that fails to catch
The simple trout for which they watch
And innocence, with squint and frown,
Condemn for vices all their own.