How would they wonder at our arts!
'They must adore us for our parts.
High on the twig I've seen you cling,
Play, twist and turn in airy ring;
How can those clumsy things, like me,
Fly with a bound from tree to tree?
But yet, by this applause, we find
These emulators of our kind
Discern our worth, our parts regard,
Who our mean mimics thus reward.
Brother, the grinning MATE replies,
In this I grant that man is wise;
While good example they pursue,
We must allow some praise is due ;
But, when they strain beyond their guide,
I laugh to scorn the mimic pride.
For how fantastic is the sight,
To meet men always bolt upright,
Because we sometimes walk on two!-
I hate the imitating crew.
THE OWL AND THE FARMER.
AN OWL, of grave deport and mien,
Who, like the TURK, was seldom seen,
Within a BARN had chose his station,
As fit for prey and contemplation.
Upon a beam aloft he sits,
And nods, and seems to think, by fits.
So have I seen a man of news,
Or POST-BOY, or GAZETTE, peruse,
Smoke, nod, and talk with voice profound,
And fix the fate of EUROPE round.
Sheaves pil'd on sheaves hid all the floor. At dawn of morn, to view his store, The FARMER came. The hooting guest His self-importance thus exprest :
Reason in man is mere pretence:
How weak, how shallow, is his sense!
To treat with scorn the bird of night,
Declares his folly or his spite.
Then, too, how partial is his praise!
The LARK's, the LINNET's, chirping lays
To his ill-judging ears are fine;
And NIGHTINGALES are all divine.
But the more knowing feather'd race
See wisdom stampt upon my face.
Whene'er to visit light I deign,
What flocks of fowl compose my train!
Like slaves, they crowd my flight behind,
And own me of superior kind.
The FARMER laugh'd, and thus reply'd:Thou dull important lump of pride,
Dar'st thou with that harsh grating tongue
Depreciate birds of warbling song?
Indulge thy spleen. Know, men and fowl
Regard thee, as thou art, an owl.
Besides, proud blockhead, be not vain
Of what thou call'st thy slaves and train.
Few follow WISDOM or her rules-
Fools in derision follow fools.
A JUGGLER long through all the town
Had rais'd his fortune and renown.
You'd think (so far his art transcends)
The DEVIL at his fingers ends.
VICE heard his fame, she read his bill; Convinc'd of his inferior skill,
She sought his booth, and from the crowd Defy'd the man of art aloud.
Is this, then, he so fam'd for slight?
Can this slow bungler cheat your sight?
Dares he with me dispute the prize?
I leave it to impartial eyes.
Provok'd, the JUGGLER cry'd, 'tis done; In science I submit to none.
Thus said, the cups and balls he play'd;
By turns this here, that there, convey'd.
The cards, obedient to his words,
Are by a fillip turn'd to birds.
His little boxes change the grain:
Trick after trick deludes the train.
He shakes his bag, he shows all fair;
His fingers spreads, and nothing there:
Then bids it rain with showers of gold;
And now his ivory eggs are told:
But, when from thence the hen he draws,
Amaz'd spectators hum applause.
VICE now stept forth, and took the place, With all the forms of his grimace.
This magic looking-glass, she cries,
(There, hand it round) will charm your eyes. Each eager eye the sight desir'd,
And every man himself admir'd.
Next, to a senator addressing,
See this bank-note; observe the blessing, Breathe on the bill. Heigh! pass! 'Tis gone; Upon his lips a padlock shone.
A second puff the magic broke;
The padlock vanish'd, and he spoke.
Twelve bottles rang'd upon the board,
All full, with heady liquor stor❜d,
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