THE PHILOSOPHER AND THE PHEASANTS.
THE Sage, awak'd at early day,
Through the deep forest took his way;
Drawn by the music of the groves,
Along the winding gloom he roves:
From tree to tree the warbling throats
Prolong the sweet alternate notes:
But where he past he terror threw,
The song broke short, the warblers flew;
The thrushes chatter'd with affright,
And nightingales abhor'd his sight;
All animals before him ran,
To shun the hateful sight of man.
Whence is this dread of every creature? Fly they our figure or our nature? As thus he walk'd in musing thought, His ear imperfect accents caught;
With cautious step he nearer drew,
By the thick shade conceal'd from view:
High on the branch a Pheasant stood,
Around her all the list'ning brood.
Proud of the blessings of her nest,
She thus a mother's care express'd-
No dangers here shall circumvent,
Within the woods enjoy content.
Sooner the hawk or vulture trust
Than man-of animals the worst;
In him ingratitude you find,
A vice peculiar to the kind.
The sheep, whose annual fleece is dy'd
To guard his health and serve his pride,
Forc'd from his fold and native plain,
Is in the cruel shambles slain:
The swarms, who, with industrious skill,
His hives with wax and honey fill,
In vain whole summer days employ'd,
Their stores are sold, the race destroy'd.
What tribute from the goose is paid!
Does not her wing all science aid?
Does it not lovers' hearts explain,
And drudge to raise the merchant's gair
What now rewards this gen'ral use?
He takes the quills, and eats the goose.
Man then avoid, detest his ways,
So safety shall prolong your days.
When services are thus acquitted,
Be sure we pheasants must be spitted.
THE PIN AND THE NEEDLE.
PIN, who long had serv'd a beauty
Proficient in the toilet's duty,
Had form'd her sleeve, confin'd her hair,
Or giv'n her knot a smarter air,
Now nearest to her heart was plac'd,
Now in her mantua's tail disgrac'd.
But could she partial fortune blame,
Who saw her lovers serv'd the same?
At length, from all her honours cast,
Through various turns of life she past;
Now glitter'd on a tailor's arm;
Now kept a beggar's infant warm;
Now, rang'd within a miser's coat,
Contributes to his yearly groat;
Now, rais'd again from low approach,
She visits in the doctor's coach;
Here, there, by various fortune tost,
At last in Gresham Hall was lost.
Charm'd with the wonders of the show, On ev'ry side, above, below,
She now of this or that inquires;
What least was understood admires;
"Tis plain, each thing so struck her mind,
Her head's of virtuoso kind.
And pray what's this, and this, dear sir? A Needle, says th' interpreter.
She knew the name.
Address'd her as a tailor's tool:-
And thus the fool
A Needle with that filthy stone, Quite idle, all with rust o'ergrown! You better might employ your parts, And aid the sempstress in her arts. But tell me how the friendship grew Between that paltry flint and you?
Friend, says the Needle, cease to blame; I follow real worth and fame.
Know'st thou the loadstone's pow'r and art, That virtue virtues can impart?
Of all his talents I partake;
Who then can such a friend forsake?
"Tis I direct the pilot's hand.
To shun the rocks and treach'rous sand;
By me the distant world is known,
And either India is our own.
Had I with milliners been bred,
What had I been?-the guide of thread;
And drudg'd, as vulgar needles do-
Of no more consequence than you.
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