To silly, idle, flattering words I pray you ne'er give ear;
Unto an evil counsellor close heart, and ear, and eye,
And learn a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly.
GOD might have made the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small,
The oak and the cedar tree,
Without a flower at all.
He might have made enough-enough
For every want of ours,
For luxury, medicine, and toil,
And yet have made no flowers.
The ore within the mountain mine
Requireth none to grow;
Nor doth it need the lotus flower
To make the river flow.
The clouds might give abundant rain,
The nightly dews might fall,
And herb that keepeth life in man,
Might yet have drunk them all.
And wherefore, wherefore were they made,
All dyed with rainbow light?
All fashioned with supremest grace,
Upspringing day and night?
Springing in valleys green and low,
And on the mountain high;
And in the silent wilderness,
Where no man passes by?
Our outward life requires them not,
Then, wherefore had they birth?
To minister delights to man,
To beautify the earth.
To comfort man, to whisper hope,
Whene'er his fate is dim;
For Who so careth for the flowers
Will much more care for him.
'Mongst animals of ev'ry kind,
Of each condition, sort, and size,
From whales and elephants to flies,
A creature that mistakes his plan,
And errs so constantly as man?
Each kind pursues his proper good,
And seeks for pleasure, rest, and food,
As Nature points, and never errs
In what it chooses and prefers;
Man only blunders, tho' possest
Of talents far above the rest."
The happiness of human kind
Consists in rectitude of mind,
A will subdued to Reason's sway,
And passions practised to obey;
An open and a gen'rous heart,
Refined from selfishness and art;
Patience, which mocks at Fortune's power,
And Wisdom never sad nor sour:
In these consists our proper bliss,
Else Plato reasons much amiss.
But foolish mortals still pursue
False happiness in place of true :
Ambition serves us for a guide,
Or Lust, or Avarice, or Pride;
While Reason no assent can gain,
And Revelation warns in vain.
Hence, thro' our lives, in every stage,
From infancy itself to age,
A happiness we toil to find,
Which still avoids us like the wind;
Ev'n when we think the prize our own,
At once 'tis vanish'd, lost and gone:
You'll ask me why I thus rehearse
All Epictetus in my verse,
And if I fondly hope to please
With dry reflections such as these,
So trite, so hackney'd, and so stale!-
I'll take the hint, and tell a tale.
One ev❜ning as a simple swain
His flock attended on a plain,
The shining bow he chanced to spy,
Which warns us when a shower is nigh;
With brightest rays it seemed to glow,
Its distance, eighty yards or so.
This bumpkin had, it seems, been told
The story of the cup of gold,
Which fame reports is to be found
Just where the rainbow meets the ground;
He therefore felt a sudden itch
To seize the goblet and be rich!
Hoping (yet hopes are oft in vain,)
No more to toil through wind and rain,
But sit indulgent by the fire,
'Midst ease and plenty, like a squire.
He mark'd the very spot of land
On which the Rainbow seemed to stand,
And stepping forward at his leisure,
Expected to have found the treasure;
But, as he moved, the color'd ray
Still changed its place, and slipt away,
As seeming his approach to shun;
From walking he began to run;
But all in vain, it still withdrew
As nimbly as he could pursue.
At last, thro' many a bog and lake,
Rough craggy rock, and thorny brake
It led the easy fool, till night
Approach'd, then vanish'd in his sight,
And left him to compute his gains,
With nought but labour for his pains.
THERE was a little stubborn dame,
Whom no authority could tame;
Restive by long indulgence grown,
No will she minded but her own;
At trifles oft she'd scold and fret;
Then in a corner take a seat,
And sourly moping all the day,
Disdain alike to work or play.
Papa all softer arts had tried,
And sharper remedies applied;
But both were vain, for every course
He took still made her worse and worse.
Mamma observed the rising lass,
By stealth retiring to the glass,
To practise little airs unseen,
In the true genius of thirteen.
On this a deep design she laid,
To tame the humour of the maid;
Contriving, like a prudent mother,
To make one folly cure another.
Upon the wall, against the seat
Which Jessy used for her retreat,
Whene'er by accident offended,
A looking-glass was straight suspended;
That it might show her how deform'd
She look'd, and frightful, when she storm'd;
And warn her, as she prized her beauty,
To bend her humour to her duty.
All this the looking-glass achieved:
Its threats were minded and believed.
The maid, who spurn'd at all advice,
Grew tame and gentle in a trice:
So, when all other means had fail'd,
The silent monitor prevail'd.
POETS still, in graceful numbers,
May the glowing roses choose;
But the snowdrop's simple beauty
Better suits an humble muse.
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