Perhaps indulgent Nature meant, Nor crush a worm, whose useful light 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 II. THE JACKDAW. THERE is a bird who, by his coat, Might be supposed a crow; Above the steeple shines a plate, From what point blows the weather; Look up your brains begin to swim, up-your 'Tis in the clouds-that pleases him, He chooses it the rather. Fond of the speculative height, You think, no doubt, he sits and muses He sees that this great roundabout, Its customs, and its business, 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. III. THE PARROT. In painted plumes superbly dress'd, By many a billow toss'd; Poll gains at length the British shore, Part of the captain's precious store, A present to his toast. Belinda's maids are soon preferr'd But 'tis her own important charge To qualify him more at large, Sweet Poll! his doating mistress cries, Sweet Poll! the mimic bird replies; And calls aloud for sack. She next instructs him in the kiss; 'Tis now a little one, like Miss, And now a hearty smack. At first he aims at what he hears; Just catches at the sound, But soon articulates aloud, Much to the amusement of the crowd, And stuns the neighbours round. A querulous old woman's voice And now he sings, and now is sick, Here, Sally, Susan, come, come quick, Poor Poll is like to die! Belinda and her bird! 'tis rare To meet with such a well-match'd pair, Each character in every part And both in unison. When children first begin to spell, We think them tedious creatures; But difficulties soon abate When birds are to be taught to prate, IV. THE CRICKET. LITTLE inmate, full of mirth, Such a strain as I can give. Thus thy praise shall be express'd, While the rat is on the scout, And the mouse with curious snout, Thou hast all thine heart's desire. Though in voice and shape they be Neither night, nor dawn of day, Sing then-and extend thy span Far beyond the date of man. Wretched man, whose years are spent In repining discontent, Lives not, aged though he be, Half a span, compared with thee. |