And can produce it." "Pray, sir, do;
I'll lay my life the thing is blue."
"And I'll be sworn that when you've seen
The reptile, you'll pronounce him green."
"Well, then, at once to ease your doubt,"
Replies the
man, "I'll turn him out:
And when before your eyes I've set him,
you don't find him black, I'll eat him."
He said; and full before their sight
Produced the beast, and lo!-'twas white!
Both stared, the man looked wondrous wise--
"My children," the chameleon cries,
(Then first the creature found a tongue)
"You all are right, and all are wrong:
When next you talk of what you view,
Think others see as well as you;
Nor wonder if you find that none
Prefers your eyesight to his own."
THE SHEPHERD AND THE PHILOSOPHER.
REMOTE from cities lived a swain,
Unvexed with all the cares of gain,
His head was silvered o'er with age,
And long experience made him sage.
In summer's heat and winter's cold,
He fed his flock and penn'd his fold;
His hours with cheerful labour flew,
Nor envy nor ambition knew;
His wisdom and his honest fame,
Through all the country raised his name.
A deep philosopher, whose rules Of moral life were drawn from schools, The shepherd's homely cottage sought, And thus explored his reach of thought: "Whence is thy learning, hath thy toil O'er books consumed the midnight oil? Hast thou old Greece and Rome surveyed, And the vast sense of Plato weighed ? Hath Socrates thy soul refined? And hast thou fathomed Tully's mind? Or, like the wise Ulysses, thrown By various fate on realms unknown; Hast thou through many cities strayed, Their customs, laws, and manners weighed ?" The shepherd modestly replied,
"I ne'er the paths of learning tried;
Nor have I roamed in foreign parts,
To read mankind, their laws, and arts;
For man is practised in disguise,
He cheats the most discerning eyes;
Who by that search shall wiser grow,
When we ourselves can never know?
The little knowledge I have gained
Was all from simple nature drained.
Hence my life's maxims took their rise,
Hence grew my settled hate to vice.
The daily labours of the bee
Awake my soul to industry;
Who can observe the careful ant,
And not provide for future want?
My dog (the trustiest of his kind)
With gratitude inflames my mind;
I mark his true, his faithful way,
And in my service copy Tray.
In constancy and nuptial love
I learn my duty from the dove;
The hen, who from the chilly air,
With pious wing protects her care,
And every fowl that flies at large,
Instructs me in a parent's charge.
From nature too I take my rule,
To shun contempt and ridicule:
I never with important air,
In conversation overbear.
Can
grave and formal pass for wise,
When men the solemn owl despise ?
My tongue within my lips I rein,
For who talks much, must talk in vain.
We from the wordy torrent fly:
Who listens to the chattering pye?
Nor would I with felonious fight
By stealth invade my neighbour's right;
Rapacious animals we hate,
Kites, hawks, and wolves deserve their fate;
Do not we just abhorrence find
Against the toad and serpent kind?
But envy, calumny and spite,
Bear stronger venom in their bite.
Thus every object of creation
Can furnish hints to contemplation;
And from the most minute and mean
A virtuous mind can morals glean."
"Thy fame is just," the sage replies;
Thy virtue proves thee truly wise;
For he who studies nature's laws,
From certain truths his maxims draws:
And truth and piety suffice
To make men moral, good, and wise."
THE MAN OF ROSS.
ALL our praises why should lords engross?
Risc, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross:
Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in useless columns tost,
Or in proud falls magnificently lost,
But clear and artless, pouring through the plain
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows?
Whose seats the weary travellers repose?
Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise?
"The Man of Ross," each lisping babe replies.
Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread!
The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread:
He feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state,
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate;
Him portioned maids, apprenticed orphans blest,
The young who labour, and the old who rest.
Is any sick? The Man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes and gives.
Is there a variance? Enter but his door,
Balked are the courts, and contest is no more.
Despairing quacks with curses fly the place,
And vile attorneys, now a useless race.
Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all so wish, but want the power to do!
Oh say what sums that generous hand supply!
What mines to swell that boundless charity!
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