Part 43 (2/2)
Love calls me hence; a fav'rite Cow Expects me near the barley-mow, And when a lady's in the case You know all other things give place.
To leave you thus might seem unkind; But see, the Goat is just behind.”
The Goat remarked her pulse was high, Her languid head, her heavy eye.
”My back,” says she, ”may do you harm.
The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm.”
The Sheep was feeble, and complained His sides a load of wool sustained: Said he was slow, confessed his fears; For Hounds eat Sheep as well as Hares.
She now the trotting Calf addressed To save from death a friend distressed.
”Shall I,” says he, ”of tender age, In this important care engage?
Older and abler pa.s.sed you by-- How strong are those; how weak am I!
Should I presume to bear you hence, Those friends of mine may take offence; Excuse me, then; you know my heart, But dearest friends, alas! must part.
How shall we all lament! Adieu!
For see, the Hounds are just in view.”
JOHN GAY
The Nightingale and the Glowworm
A Nightingale, that all day long Had cheered the village with his song, Nor had at eve his note suspended, Nor yet when eventide was ended Began to feel, as well he might, The keen demands of appet.i.te; When, looking eagerly around, He spied far off, upon the ground, A something s.h.i.+ning in the dark, And knew the Glowworm by his spark; So stepping down from hawthorn top, He thought to put him in his crop.
The Worm, aware of his intent, Harangued him thus, right eloquent: ”Did you admire my lamp,” quoth he, ”As much as I your minstrelsy, You would abhor to do me wrong, As much as I to spoil your song; For, 'twas the self-same Power Divine Taught you to sing and me to s.h.i.+ne; That you with music, I with light, Might beautify and cheer the night.”
The Songster heard his short oration, And warbling out his approbation.
Released him, as my story tells, And found a supper somewhere else.
Hence, jarring sectaries may learn Their real interest to discern, That brother should not war with brother, And worry and devour each other; But sing and s.h.i.+ne by sweet consent, Until life's poor transient night is spent.
Respecting in each other's case.
The gifts of Nature and of Grace.
Those Christians best deserve the name Who studiously make peace their aim; Peace both the duty and the prize Of him that creeps and him that flies.
WILLIAM COWPER
The Raven
A Raven, while with glossy breast Her new-laid eggs she fondly pressed, And on her wickerwork high mounted, Her chickens prematurely counted, (A fault philosophers might blame If quite exempted from the same).
Enjoyed at ease the genial day; 'Twas April, as the b.u.mpkins say; The legislature called it May.
But suddenly a wind, as high As ever swept a winter sky, Shook the young leaves about her ears And filled 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 Changed, and her fears were hushed together: ”And now,” quoth poor unthinking Ralph,[1]
”'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 marked her airy lodge, And destined all the treasure there A gift to his expecting fair, Climbed, like a squirrel to his dray, And bore the worthless prize away.
Moral
'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 suns.h.i.+ne strikes the blow.
WILLIAM COWPER
[1]p.r.o.nounced Rafe.
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