WHILE he is mark'd by vision clear

Who fathoms Nature's treasures, The man may follow, void of fear,

Who her proportions measures.

Though for one mortal, it is true,

These trades may both be fitted, Yet, that the things themselves are two

Must always be admitted.

Once on a time there lived a cook

Whose skill was past disputing, Who in his head a fancy took

To try his luck at shooting.

So, gun in hand, he sought a spot

Where stores of game were breeding, And there ere long a cat he shot

That on young birds was feeding.

This cat he fancied was a hare,

Forming a judgment hasty, So served it up for people's fare,

Well-spiced and in a pasty.

Yet many a guest with wrath was fill'd

(All who had noses tender): The cat that's by the sportsman kill'd

No cook a hare can render.

1810.

----- LEGEND.

THERE lived in the desert a holy man

To whom a goat-footed Faun one day Paid a visit, and thus began

To his surprise: "I entreat thee to pray That grace to me and my friends may be given, That we may be able to mount to Heaven, For great is our thirst for heav'nly bliss."

The holy man made answer to this: "Much danger is lurking in thy pet.i.tion, Nor will it be easy to gain admission; Thou dost not come with an angel's salute; For I see thou wearest a cloven foot."

The wild man paused, and then answer'd he: "What doth my goat's foot matter to thee?

Full many I've known into heaven to pa.s.s Straight and with ease, with the head of an a.s.s!"

1815.*

----- AUTHORS.

OVER the meadows, and down the stream,

And through the garden-walks straying, He plucks the flowers that fairest seem;

His throbbing heart brooks no delaying.

His maiden then comes--oh, what ecstasy!

Thy flowers thou giv'st for one glance of her eye!

The gard'ner next door o'er the hedge sees the youth: "I'm not such a fool as that, in good truth; My pleasure is ever to cherish each flower, And see that no birds my fruit e'er devour.

But when 'tis ripe, your money, good neighbour!

'Twas not for nothing I took all this labour!"

And such, methinks, are the author-tribe.

The one his pleasures around him strews,

That his friends, the public, may reap, if they choose; The other would fain make them all subscribe,

1776.*

----- THE CRITIC.

I HAD a fellow as my guest, Not knowing he was such a pest, And gave him just my usual fare; He ate his fill of what was there,

And for desert my best things swallow'd, Soon as his meal was o'er, what follow'd?

Led by the Deuce, to a neighbour he went, And talk'd of my food to his heart's content: "The soup might surely have had more spice, The meat was ill-brown'd, and the wine wasn't nice."

A thousand curses alight on his head!

'Tis a critic, I vow! Let the dog be struck dead!

1776.*

----- THE DILETTANTE AND THE CRITIC.

A BOY a pigeon once possess'd, In gay and brilliant plumage dress'd; He loved it well, and in boyish sport Its food to take from his mouth he taught, And in his pigeon he took such pride, That his joy to others he needs must confide.

An aged fox near the place chanc'd to dwell, Talkative, clever, and learned as well; The boy his society used to prize, Hearing with pleasure his wonders and lies.

"My friend the fox my pigeon must see He ran, and stretch'd 'mongst the bushes lay he "Look, fox, at my pigeon, my pigeon so fair!

His equal I'm sure thou hast look'd upon ne'er!"

"Let's see!"--The boy gave it.--"'Tis really not bad; And yet, it is far from complete, I must add.

The feathers, for, instance, how short! 'Tis absurd!"

So he set to work straightway to pluck the poor bird.

The boy screamed.--"Thou must now stronger pinions supply, Or else 'twill be ugly, unable to fly."-- Soon 'twas stripp'd--oh, the villain!--and torn all to pieces.

The boy was heart-broken,--and so my tale ceases.

He who sees in the boy shadow'd forth his own case, Should be on his guard 'gainst the fox's whole race.