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 sideling, Attested, glad, his approbation
Of an immediate conjugation.
Their sentiments so well express'd
Influenced mightily the rest;
All pair'd, 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 chill'd, their eggs were addled; Soon every father bird and mother
Grew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other, Parted without the least regret, Except that they had ever met, And learn'd 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, Bat proper time to marry.
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 finish'd his concise repast, Stoppled his cruise, replaced bis 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 Chill'd more his else delightful way. Distant a little mile he spied
A western bank's still sunny side, And right toward the favour'd place Proceeding with his nimblest pace, In hope to bask a little yet, Just reach'd it when the sun was set. Your hermit, young and jovial sirs! Learns something from whate'er occurs→→
And hence, he said, my mind computes The real worth of man's pursuits. His object chosen, wealth or fame, Or other sublunary game, Imagination to his view
Presents it deck'd with every hue That can seduce him not to spare His powers of best exertion there, But youth, health, vigour, to expend On so desirable an end.
Ere long approach life's evening shades, The glow that Fancy gave it fades; And, earn'd too late, it wants the grace That first engaged him in the chase. True, answer'd an angelic guide, Attendant at the senior's side- But whether all the time it cost To urge the fruitless chase, be lost, Must be decided by the worth Of that which call'd his ardour forth. Trifles pursued, whate'er the' event, Must cause him shame or discontent; A vicious object still is worse, Successful there he wins a curse. But he, whom e'en in life's last stage Endeavours laudable engage,
Is paid, at least in peace of mind, And sense of having well design'd; And if, ere he attain his end, His sun precipitate descend, A brighter prize than that he meant Shall recompense his mere intent. No virtuous wish can bear a date Either too early or too late.
A RAVEN, while with glossy breast Her new-laid eggs she fondly press'd, And, on her wickerwork high mounted, Her chickens prematurely counted (A fault philosophers might blame If quite exempted from the same), Enjoy'd at ease the genial day; 'Twas April, as the bumpkins say, The legislature call'd it May. But suddenly a wind, as high As ever swept a winter sky, Shook the young leaves about her ears, And fill'd her with a thousand fears, Lest the rude blast should snap the bough, And spread her golden hopes below. But just at eve the blowing weather And all her fears were hush'd together: And now, quoth poor unthinking Ralph, 'Tis over, and the brood is safe
(For ravens, though as birds of omen They teach both conjurers and old women, To tell us what is to befall,
Can't prophesy themselves at all).
The morning came, when neighbour Hodge, Who long had mark'd her airy lodge,
And destined all the treasure there
A gift to his expecting fair,
Climb'd like a squirrel to his dray, And bore the worthless prize away.
'Tis Providence alone secures
In every change both mine and yours:
Safety consists not in escape
From dangers of a frightful shape;
An earthquake may be bid to spare The man that's strangled by a hair. Fate steals along with silent tread, Found oftenest in what least we dread, Frowns in the storm with angry brow, But in the sunshine strikes the blow.
THE pineapples, in triple row,
Were basking hot, and all in blow; A bee of most discerning taste, Perceived the fragrance as he pass'd. On eager wing the spoiler came, And search'd for crannies in the frame, Urged his attempt on every side, To every pane his trunk applied; But still in vain, the frame was tight, And only pervious to the light: Thus having wasted half the day, He trimm'd his flight another way. Methinks, I said, in thee I find The sin and madness of mankind. To joys forbidden man aspires, Consumes his soul with vain desires; Folly the spring of his pursuit, And disappointment all the fruit. While Cynthio ogles, as she passes, The nymph between two chariot glasses, She is the pineapple, and he
The silly unsuccessful bee.
The maid, who views with pensive air
The show-glass fraught with glittering ware, Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets, But sighs at thought of empty pockets;
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