Consider, friends! your strength and might;
'Tis conquest to assert your right.
How cumbrous is the gilded coach!
The pride of man is our reproach.
Were we design'd for daily toil,

To drag the ploughshare through the soil,
To sweat in harness through the road,
To groan beneath the carrier's load?
How feeble are the two-legg'd kind!
What force is in our nerves combin'd!
Shall then our nobler jaws submit
To foam and champ the galling bit?
Shall haughty man my back bestride?
Shall the sharp spur provoke my side?
Forbid it Heavens! Reject the rein;
Your shame, your infamy, disdain.
Let him the lion first control,
And still the tiger's famish'd growl.
Let us, like them, our freedom claim,
And make him tremble at our name.'
A general nod approv'd the cause,
And all the circle neigh'd applause.
When, lo! with grave and solemn pace,
A steed advanc'd before the race,
With age and long experience wise;
Around he cast his thoughtful eyes,

And, to the murmurs of the train,
Thus spoke the Nestor of the plain :

"When I had health and strength, like you,

The toils of servitude I knew;

Now grateful man rewards my pains,
And gives me all these wide domains.
At will I crop the year's increase;
My latter life is rest and peace.
I grant to man we lend our pains,
And aid him to correct the plains;
But doth not he divide the care,
Through all the labours of the year?
How many thousand structures rise,
To fence us from inclement skies!
For us he bears the sultry day,
And stores up all our winter's hay,
He sows, he reaps the harvest's gain;

We share the toil and share the grain.
Since every creature was decreed
To aid each other's mutual need,
Appease your discontented mind,

And act the part by Heav'n assign'd.'

The tumult ceas'd. The Colt submitted;

And, like his ancestors, was bitted.

88

THE HOUND AND THE HUNTSMAN.

IMPERTINENCE at first is borne

With heedless slight or smiles of scorn:
Teas'd into wrath, what patience bears
The noisy fool who perseveres?

The morning wakes, the Huntsman sounds,
At once rush forth the joyful Hounds;
They seek the wood with eager pace,
Through bush, through brier, explore the chase:
Now scatter'd wide they try the plain,
And snuff the dewy turf in vain.
What care, what industry, what pains!
What universal silence reigns!

Ringwood, a dog of little fame, Young, pert, and ignorant of game, At once displays his babbling throat; The pack, regardless of the note, Pursue the scent; with louder strain He still persists to vex the train.

The Huntsman to the clamour flies, The smacking lash he smartly plies. His ribs all welk'd, with howling tone The puppy thus express'd his moan.

"I know the music of my tongue Long since the pack with envy stung.

What will not spite? these bitter smarts

I owe to my superior parts.'

'When Puppies prate, (the Huntsman cried) They show both ignorance and pride:

Fools may our scorn, not envy, raise, is a kind of praise.

For envy

Had not thy forward noisy tongue
Proclaim'd thee always in the wrong,
Thou might'st have mingled with the rest,
And ne'er thy foolish nose confest:
But fools, to talking ever prone,

Are sure to make their follies known.'

THE POET AND THE ROSE.

I HATE the man who builds his name
On ruins of another's fame:

Thus prudes, by characters o'erthrown,
Imagine that they raise their own;
Thus scribblers covetous of praise,
Think slander can transplant the bays.
Beauties and bards have equal pride,
With both all rivals are decried,
Who praises Lesbia's eyes and feature,
Must call her sister awkward creature;
For the kind flattery's sure to charm,
When we some other nymph disarm.

As in the cool of early day
A Poet sought the sweets of May,
The garden's fragrant breath ascends,
And every stalk with odour bends:
A Rose he pluck'd, he gaz'd, admir'd,
Thus singing, as the Muse inspir'd:-
'Go, Rose, my Chloe's bosom grace;
How happy should I prove,

Might I supply that envied place

With never-fading love!

There, Phoenix-like, beneath her eye,

Involv'd in fragrance, burn and die.

'Know, hapless flower! that thou shalt find

More fragrant Roses there;

I see thy withering head reclin'd

With envy and despair!

One common fate we both must prove;

You die with envy, I with love.'

'Spare your comparisons, (replied
An angry Rose, who grew beside)
Of all mankind you should not flout us;
What can a Poet do without us!
In every love-song Roses bloom;
We lend you colour and perfume:
Does it to Chloe's charms conduce,
To found her praise on our abuse?
Must we, to flatter her, be made,
To wither, envy, pine, and fade?