But, with precision nicer still, the mind He scans of every locomotive kind;
Birds of all feather, beasts of every name,
That serve mankind or shun them, wild or tame; The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears Have all articulation in his ears;
He spells them true by intuition's light, And needs no glossary to set him right. This truth premised was needful as a text, To win due credence to what follows next. Awhile they mused; surveying every face, Thou hadst supposed them of superior race; Their periwigs of wool and fears combined, Stamp'd on each countenance such marks of mind That sage they seem'd as lawyers o'er a doubt, Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzle out; Or academic tutors, teaching youths,
Sure ne'er to want them, mathematic truths; When thus a mutton, statelier than the rest, A ram, the ewes and wethers sad address'd- Friends! we have lived too long. I never heard
Sounds such as these, so worthy to be fear'd. Could I believe, that winds for ages pent
In Earth's dark womb have found at last a vent, And from their prisonhouse below arise, With all these hideous howlings to the skies, I could be much composed, nor should appear, For such a cause, to feel the slightest fear. Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders roll'd
All night, me resting quiet in the fold. Or heard we that tremendous bray alone, I could expound the melancholy tone;
Should deem it by our old companion made, The ass; for he, we know, has lately stray'd, And being lost perhaps, and wandering wide, Might be supposed to clamour for a guide. But ah! those dreadful yells what soul can hear, That owns a carcass, and not quake for fear? Demons produce them doubtless, brazen-claw'd And fang'd with brass the demons are abroad; I hold it therefore wisest and most fit, That, life to save, we leap into the pit.
Him answer'd then his loving mate and true, But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe. How, leap into the pit our life to save? To save our life leap all into the grave? For can we find it less? Contemplate first The depth, how awful! falling there, we burst: Or should the brambles, interposed, our fall In part abate, that happiness were small? For with a race like theirs no chance I see Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we. Meantime, noise kills not. Be it Dapple's bray, Or be it not, or be it whose it may,
And rush those other sounds, that seem by tongues Of demons utter'd, from whatever lungs,
Sounds are but sounds, and, till the cause appear, We have at least commodious standing here. Come, fiend, come, fury, giant, monster, blast From earth or hell, we can but plunge at last.
While thus she spake, I fainter heard the peals, For Reynard, close attended at his heels By panting dog, tired man, and spatter'd horse, Through mere good fortune took a different course, The flock grew calm again, and I, the road Following that led me to my own abode,
ON SOME NAMES OF LITTLE NOTE.
Much wonder'd that the silly sheep had found Such cause of terror in an empty sound, So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound.
Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day, Live till to-morrow, will have pass'd away.
SOME NAMES OF LITTLE NOTE
THE BIOGRAPHIA BRITANNICA.
OH, fond attempt to give a deathless lot To names ignoble, born to be forgot! In vain, recorded in historic page, They court the notice of a future age: Those twinkling tiny lustres of the land Drop one by one from Fame's neglecting hand; Lethean gulfs receive them as they fall, And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all.
So when a child, as playful children use, Has burn'd to tinder a stale last year's news, The flame extinct, he views the roving fire- There goes my lady, and there goes the squire, There goes the parson, O illustrious spark! And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk !
Translations from Wincent Bourne.
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'd 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.
THE JACKDAW.
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.
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