Part 44 (1/2)
Pairing Time Antic.i.p.ated
I shall not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau If birds confabulate or no; 'Tis clear that they were always able To hold discourse, at least in fable; And e'en the child who knows no better Than to interpret by the letter A story of a c.o.c.k and bull Must have a most uncommon skull.
It chanced then on a winter day, But warm and bright and calm as May, The Birds conceiving a design To forestall sweet Saint Valentine, In many an orchard, copse and grove, a.s.sembled on affairs of love, And with much twitter, and much chatter, Began to agitate the matter.
At length a Bullfinch, who could boast More years and wisdom than the most, Entreated, opening wide his beak, A moment's liberty to speak; And silence publicly enjoined, Delivered, briefly, thus his mind-- ”My friends! Be cautious how ye treat The subject upon which we meet; I fear we shall have winter yet.”
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 appletree, By his good will would keep us single, Until yonder heavens and earth shall mingle, Or (which is likelier to befall) Until death exterminate us all.
I marry without more ado, My dear d.i.c.k Redcap; what say you?”
d.i.c.k heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling; With many a strut and many a sidling, Attested, glad, his approbation Of an immediate conjugation.
Their sentiments so well expressed Influenced mightily the rest; All paired, 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 chilled, their eggs were addled, Soon every father-bird and mother Grew quarrelsome and pecked each other, Parted without the least regret, Except that they had ever met, And learned in future to be wiser Than to neglect a good adviser.
WILLIAM COWPER
The Poet, the Oyster, and Sensitive Plant
An Oyster cast upon the sh.o.r.e Was heard, though never heard before, Complaining in a speech well worded, And worthy thus to be recorded: ”Ah, hapless wretch comdemn'd to dwell Forever in my native sh.e.l.l, Ordain'd to move when others please, Not for my own content or ease, But toss'd and buffeted about, Now in the water, and now out.
'Twere better to be born a stone Of ruder shape and feeling none, Than with a tenderness like mine, And sensibilities so fine!
I envy that unfeeling shrub, Fast rooted against every rub.”
The plant he meant grew not far off, And felt the sneer with scorn enough; Was hurt, disgusted, mortified, And with asperity replied.
(”When,” cry the botanists, and stare, ”Did plants call'd Sensitive grow there?”
No matter when--a poet's muse is To make them grow just where she chooses): ”You shapeless nothing in a dish, You that are but almost a fish, I scorn your coa.r.s.e insinuation, And have most plentiful occasion To wish myself the rock I view, Or such another dolt as you.
For many a grave and learned clerk, And many a gay unlettered spark, With curious touch examines me If I can feel as well as he; And when I bend, retire, and shrink, Says, 'Well--'tis more than one would think.'
Thus life is spent! oh fie upon't, In being touched, and crying--'Don't'!”
A poet, in his evening walk, Overheard and checked this idle talk.
”And your fine sense,” he said, ”and yours, Whatever evil it endures, Deserves not, if so soon offended, Much to be pitied or commended.
Disputes, though short, are far too long, Where both alike are in the wrong; Your feelings in their full amount Are all upon your own account.”
”You, in your grotto-work enclosed, Complain of being thus exposed, Yet nothing feel in that rough coat, Save when the knife is at your throat.
Wherever driven by wind or tide, Exempt from every ill beside.”
”And as for you, my Lady Squeamish, Who reckon every touch a blemish, If all the plants that can be found Embellis.h.i.+ng the scene around, Should droop and wither where they grow, You would not feel at all, not you.
The n.o.blest minds their virtue prove By pity, sympathy, and love: These, these are feelings truly fine, And prove their owner half divine.”
His censure reached them as he dealt it.
And each by shrinking show'd he felt it.
WILLIAM COWPER
The Pineapple and the Bee
The Pineapples, in triple row, Were basking hot, and all in blow.
A Bee of most deserving taste Perceived the fragrance as he pa.s.s'd.
On eager wing the spoiler came, And searched 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.