Popule^: cecidit gratissima copia silvae,
Conticuere susurri, omnisque evanuit umbra.
Nullae jam levibus se miscent frondibus aurae,
Et nulla in fluvio ramorum ludit imago.

Hei mihi! bis senos dum luctu torqueor annos,
His cogor silvis suetoque carere recessu,
Cum sero rediens, stratasque in gramine cernens,
Insedi arboribus, sub queis errare solebam.

Ah ubi nunc merulee cantus? Felicior ilium
Silva tegit, durae nondum permissa bipenni;
Scilicet exustos colles camposque patentes
Odit, et indignans et non rediturus abivit.

Sed qui succisas doleo succidar et ipse,
Et priiis huic parilis quam creverit altera silva
Flebor, et, exequiis parvis donatus, habebo
Defixum lapidem tumulique cubantis acervum.

Tarn subito periisse videns tarn digna manere,
Agnosco humanas sortes et tristia fata—
Sit licet ipse brevis, voluerique simillimus umbras,
Est homini brevior citiusque obitura voluptas.


0 Matutini rores, auraeque salubres,
O nemora, et laetae rivis felicibus herbae,
Graminei colles, et amaenaa in vallibus umbraa!
Fata modo dederint quas olim in rure paterno
Delicias, procul arte, procul formidine novi,
Quam vellem ignotus, quod mens mea semper

avebat, Ante larem proprium placidam expectare senec

tam Turn demum, exactis non infeliciter annis, Sortiri taciturn lapidem, aut sub cespite condi!


Beneath the hedge, or near the stream,

A worm is known to stray,
That shows by night a lucid beam,

Which disappears by day.

Disputes have been, and still prevail,
From whence his rays proceed;

Some give that honour to his tail,
And others to his head.

But this is sure—the hand of might,

That kindles up the skies, Gives him a modicum of light

Proportion^ to his size.

Perhaps indulgent Nature meant,

By such a lamp bestow'd,
To bid the traveller, as he went,

Be careful where he trod:

Nor crush a worm, whose useful light

Might serve, however small,
To show a stumbling stone by night,

And save him from a fall.

Whate'er she meant, this truth divine

Is legible and plain,
'Tis power almighty bids him shine,

Nor bids him shine in vain.

Ye proud and wealthy, let this theme

Teach humbler thoughts to you, Since such a reptile has its gem,

And boasts its splendour too.


There is a bird who, by his coat,
And by the hoarseness of his note,

Might be supposed a crow;
A great frequenter of the church,
Where, bishoplike, he finds a perch,

And dormitory too.

Above the steeple shines a plate,
That turns and turns, to indicate

From what point blows the weather. Look up—your brains begin to swim, 'Tis in the clouds—that pleases him,

He chooses it the rather.

Fond of the speculative height,
Thither he wings his airy flight,

And thence securely sees
The bustle and the rareeshow,
That occupy mankind below,

Secure and at his ease.

You think, no doubt, he sits and muses
On future broken bones and bruises,

If he should chance to fall.
No; not a single thought like that
Employs his philosophic pate,

Or troubles it at all.

He sees that this great roundabout,
The world, with all its motley rout,

Church, army, physic, law,
Its customs and its businesses,
Is no concern at all of his,

And says—what says he ?—Caw.

Thrice happy bird! I too have seen
Much of the vanities of men;

And, sick of having seen 'em,
Would cheerfully these limbs resign
For such a pair of wings as thine,

And such a head between 'em.

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