How will you curse that stubborn pride,
Which drove your bark across the tide.
And, sailing before folly's wind,
Left sense and happiness behind?
Corinna, lest these whims prevail,
To such as you, I write my tale.
A Colt, for blood and mettled speed,
The choicest of the running breed,
Of youthful strength and beauty vain,
Refus'd subjection to the rein.
In vain the groom's officious skill
Oppos'd his pride, and check'd his will;
In vain the master's forming care
Restrain'd with threats, or sooth'd with pray'r;
Of freedom proud, and scorning man,
Wild o'er the spacious plains he ran.
Where'er luxuriant nature spread
Her flow'ry carpet o'er the mead,
Or bubbling streams soft-gliding pass
To cool and freshen up the grass,
Disdaining bounds, he cropt the blade,
And wanton'd in the spoil he made.
In plenty thus the summer pass'd,
Revolving winter came at last;
The trees no more a shelter yield,
The verdure withers from the field:
Perpetual snows invest the ground,
In icy chains the streams are bound;
Cold, nipping winds, and rattling hail,
His lank, unshelter'd sides assail.
As round he cast his rueful eyes,
He saw the thatch'd-roof cottage rise;
The prospect touch'd his heart with cheer;
And promis'd kind deliv'rance near.
A stable, erst his scorn and hate,
Was now become his wish'd retreat;
His passion cool, his pride forgot,
A farmer's welcome yard he sought.
The master saw his woful plight,
His limbs that totter'd with his weight;
And, friendly, to the stable led,
And saw him litter'd, dress'd, and fed.
In slothful ease, all night he lay;
The servants rose at break of day;
The market calls. Along the road,
His back must bear the pond'rous load;
In vain he struggles or complains,
Incessant blows reward his pains.
To-morrow varies but his toil;
Chain'd to the plough, he breaks the soil;
While scanty meals at night repay
The painful labours of the day.
Subdu'd by toil, with anguish rent,
His self-upbraidings found a vent.
Wretch that I am! he sighing said,
By arrogance and folly led;
Had but my restive youth been brought
To learn the lesson nature taught,
Then had I, like my sires of yore,
The prize from ev'ry courser bore;
While man bestow'd rewards and praise,
And females crown'd my latter days.
Now lasting servitude 's my lot,
My birth contemn'd, my speed forgot;
Doom'd am I, for my pride, to bear
A living death, from year to year.
FABLE XIII.
The Owl and the Nightingale.
To know the mistress' humour right,
See if her maids are clean and tight;
If Betty waits without her stays,
She copies but her lady's ways.
When Miss comes in with boist'rous shout, And drops no court'sy going out,
Depend upon 't, mamma is one
Who reads or drinks too much alone.
If bottled beer her thirst assuage,
She feels enthusiastic rage,
And burns with ardour to inherit
The gifts and workings of the spirit.
If learning crack her giddy brains,
No remedy but death remains.
Sum up the various ills of life,
And all are sweet to such a wife.
At home, superior wit she vaunts,
And twits her husband with his wants;
Her ragged offspring all around,
Like pigs, are wallowing on the ground;
Impatient ever of control,
And knows no crder, but of soul;
With books her litter'd floor is spread,
Of nameless authors, never read;
Foul linen, petticoats, and lace,
Fill up th' intermediate space.
Abroad, at visitings, her tongue
Is never still, and always wrong;
All meaning she defines away,
And stands, with truth and sense, at bay.
If e'er she meets a gentle heart,
Skill'd in the housewife's useful art,
Who makes her family her care,
And builds contentment's temple there,
She starts at such mistakes in nature,
And cries, Lord help us!-what a creature!
Melissa, if the moral strike,
You'll find the fable not unlike.
An Owl, puff'd up with self-conceit,
Lov'd learning better than his meat;
Old manuscripts he treasur'd up,
And rummag'd ev'ry grocer's shop;
At pastry-cooks was known to ply,
And strip, for science, ev'ry pie.
For modern poetry and wit,
He had read all that Blackmore writ;
So intimate with Curl was grown,
His learned treasures were his own;
To all his authors had access,
And sometimes would correct the press.
In logic he acquir'd such knowledge,
You'd swear him fellow of a college.
Alike to ev'ry art and science,
His daring genius bid defiance,
And swallow'd wisdom, with that haste,
That cits do custards at a feast.
Within the shelter of a wood, One ev❜ning, as he musing stood, Hard by, upon a leafy spray, A Nightingale began his lay. Sudden he starts, with anger stung, And, screeching, interrupts the song. Pert, busy thing, thy airs give o'er, And let my contemplations soar; What is the music of thy voice, But jarring dissonance and noise? Be wise. True harmony thou 'It find, Not in the throat, but in the mind; By empty chirping not attain'd, But by laborious study gain'd. Go, read the authors Pope explodes, Fathom the depth of Cibber's odes. With modern plays improve thy wit, Read all the learning Henley writ, And if thou needs must sing, sing then, And emulate the ways of men: So shalt thou grow, like me, refin'd, And bring improvement to thy kind.
Thou wretch, the little warbler cry'd, Made up of ignorance and pride, Ask all the birds, and they 'll declare, A greater blockhead wings not air. Read o'er thyself, thy talents scan, Science was only meant for man. No senseless authors me molest, I mind the duties of my nest;
With careful wing protect my young, And cheer their ev'nings with a song; Make short the weary trav❜ller's way, And warble in the poet's lay.
Thus, following nature, and her laws, From men and birds I claim applause; While, nurs'd in pedantry and sloth, An Owl is scorn'd alike by both.
The Sparrow and the Dove.
IT was, as learn'd traditions say,
Upon an April's blithsome day,
When pleasure, ever on the wing,
Return'd, companion of the spring,
And cheer'd the birds with am'rous heat,
Instructing little hearts to beat;
A Sparrow, frolick, gay, and young,
Of bold address, and flippant tongue,
Just left his lady of a night,
Like him, to follow new delight.
The youth, of many a conquest vain,
Flew off to seek the chirping train;
The chirping train he quickly found,
And, with a saucy ease, bow'd round.
For ev'ry she his bosom burns,
And this and that he woos by turns;
And here a sigh, and there a bill,
And here those eyes! so form'd to kill!
And now, with ready tongue, he sings
Unmeaning, soft, resistless things;
With vows, and demme's, skill'd to woo,
As other pretty fellows do.
Not that he thought this short essay,
A prologue needful to his play;
No, trust me, says our learned letter,
He knew the virtuous sex much better;
But these he held as specious arts,
To shew his own superior parts;
The form of decency to shield,
And give a just pretence to yield.
Thus finishing his courtly play,
He mark'd the fav'rite of a day;
With careless impudence drew near,
And whisper'd Hebrew in her ear;
A hint, which, like the Mason's sign,
The conscious can alone divine.
The flutt'ring nymph, expert at feigning, Cry'd, Sir !-pray Sir, explain your meaning
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