THE WILD BOAR AND THE RAM.

AGAINST an elm a sheep was tied,
The butcher's knife in blood was dyed;
The patient flock, in silent fright,
From far beheld the horrid sight.

A savage Boar, who near them stood,
Thus mock'd to scorn the fleecy brood:
"All cowards should be served like you.
See, see, your murderer is in view:
With purple hands, and reeking knife,
He strips the skin yet warm with life.
Your quarter'd sires, your bleeding dams,
The dying bleat of harmless lambs,
Call for revenge. O stupid race!
The heart that wants revenge is base."

"I grant," an ancient Ram replies, "We bear no terror in our eyes; Yet think us not of soul so tame, Which no repeated wrongs inflame; Insensible of every ill,

due;

Because we want thy tusks to kill.
Know, those who violence pursue,
Give to themselves the vengeance
For in these massacres they find
The two chief plagues that waste mankind.
Our skin supplies the wrangling bar;
It wakes their slumbering sons to war;
And well revenge may rest contented,
Since drums and parchment were invented."

THE wind was high, the window shakes:
With sudden start the Miser wakes;

Along the silent room he stalks,

Looks back, and trembles as he walks.

Each lock and every bolt he tries,
In every creek and corner pries;

Then opes the chest with treasure stored,
And stands in rapture o'er his hoard:
But now with sudden qualms possess'd,
He wrings his hands, he beats his breast;
By conscience stung, he wildly stares,
And thus his guilty soul declares:

"Had the deep earth her stores confined,

This heart had known sweet peace of mind.

But virtue's sold. Good gods! what price
Can recompense the pangs of vice!

O bane of good! seducing cheat!
Can man, weak man, thy power defeat?
Gold banish'd honour from the mind,
And only left the name behind;

Gold sow'd the world with every ill;
Gold taught the murderer's sword to kill:
'Twas gold instructed coward hearts
In treachery's more pernicious arts.
Who can recount the mischiefs o'er?
Virtue resides on earth no more!"
He spoke, and sigh'd.-In angry mood,
Piutus, his god, before him stood.
The miser, trembling, lock'd his chest;
The Vision frown'd, and thus address'd:
“Whence is this vile ungrateful rant,
Each sordid rascal's daily cant?
Did I, base wretch, corrupt mankind?
The fault's in thy rapacious mind.
Because my blessings are abused,
Must I be censured, cursed, accused?
E'en virtue's self by knaves is made
A cloak to carry on the trade;

And power (when lodged in their possession)
Grows tyranny and rank oppression.

Thus, when the villain crams his chest,

Gold is the canker of the breast; "Tis avarice, insolence, and pride,

And every shocking vice beside:

But when to virtuous hands 'tis given,
It blesses, like the dews of Heaven;
Like Heaven, it hears the orphan's cries,
And wipes the tears from widows' eyes.
Their crimes on gold shall Misers lay,
Who pawn'd their sordid souls for pay
Let bravos, then, when blood is spilt,
Upbraid the passive sword with guilt."

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