Long while and patiently she sat upon them; Though some proved addled, yet, in time, the rest With a fine brood of nurslings filled the nest; And many a kind, of course, was found among them.

A host of birds collects, at her request, To admire her progeny, so rare and new; But each away with his own offspring flew, And left poor Bustard with an empty nest.

Ye, who the ideas of other men brood over,-- Bring out your fledglings. Let us see them fly!

Then, "This, and this is mine," resounds the cry How much belongs to you, we'll soon discover.

FABLE XVII.

THE LINNET AND THE SWAN.

"Keep silence, noisy little one,"

Unto a Linnet said the Swan.

"It almost tempts myself to sing; although No voice, our feathered tribes among, Compares with mine in melody, you know."

The Linnet still maintained her joyous trill.

"What insolence is this!" continued he.

"See how this tiny warbler taunteth me!

Naught but my great consideration Prevents your well-deserved humiliation, By the display of my superior skill."

"Would you might sing!" replied the little bird; "With boundless curiosity we all-- All other voice by silent wonder shackled-- Should listen to that harmony divine, Which boasts far greater fame than mine; Though none of us, as yet, hath ever heard."

Kashly the Swan essayed--but only cackled.

Not strange, that empty reputation, Without, or skill or genius, at foundation, Should, upon trial, cheat the expectation!

FABLE XVIII.

THE HACK MULE.

Full fed and antic, A Hack Mule pushed With speed so frantic Forth from her stable, That her rider Scarcely was able With rein to guide her.

Half our journey Not long will bide her In such a race.

But the false jade Now slacks her pace.

What trouble now?

Go on! Perhaps The spur will do.

What, no? Then taps Of this light rod Or harder raps From pointed goad.

Both are, I find, In vain bestowed.

How! out of wind!

With ready heels She kicks behind, And bites and squeals.

What a curvette!

She jumps and reels.

You devil's pet, With hand and foot We'll try you yet.

Upon her belly Down she flounders,-- Here sprawling flat.

A murrain foul Seize on your soul!

Amen to that!

The Mule, that work begins With such capers, Is not the mule for me; And, whene'er I see That any author vapors Too much of his intent,-- At once, I say, "Beware!

Good friend, pray have a care Of this mule's predicament."

FABLE XIX.

THE GOAT AND THE HORSE.

A Goat, in mute delight, To the sweet echoes of a violin, Harmonious, long stood listening; His feet, the while, in sympathetic measure, Danced all unconsciously for pleasure.

And, to an honest Nag, who, in like mood Absorbed, forgot his food, These words he spoke:

"Now, of these strings you hear the harmony, Know that they are the entrails of a Goat, Who pastured, in times past, with me.

And, for myself, I trust some future time-- Blest thought!--such sonorous strains may rise from mine."

The good Hack turned himself, and answered thus: "Never are heard these sounds harmonious, Except, across the strings concordant, sweep The hairs that from my tail were drawn.

My fright is over and the pain is gone; And, as reward, I now the pleasure reap Of seeing, for myself, the honors paid To the sweet instrument, through my own aid.

For you, who hope like pleasure to derive,-- When shall you taste it? Not while you're alive.

Just so, in vain a wretched writer tries, Throughout his life, to gain celebrity; To better judgment of posterity He leaves his work, and, thus consoled, he dies.

FABLE XX.

THE BEE AND THE CUCKOO.

"Stop, Cuckoo," said the Bee; "With my labor interferes That unpleasant voice of thine, Always ringing in my ears.

There is no bird, in song, So monotonous as thou.

It is cuckoo all day long, And nothing but cuckoo!"

"Wearies you, my monotone?"

The Cuckoo straight rejoined; "So, too, one shape alone, In thy waxen cells, I find.

If, in the self-same way, You make a hundred as each one; If I nothing new can say, Nothing new by you is done."