I'm not inclined to turn a brawler,
With a malicious, bloomless crawler :
Nor yet alarm'd, although I know
The winds may lay my beauties low.
If from my head my crown they sever,
My root will be as firm as ever;
So at my fate I'll not repine,
But to the earth my crown resign,
In hopes, when summer decks the plain,
That I my beauties may regain.
I know thine envy hath been fired,
Because I am so much admired:
For always those of worth devoid
At Merit's praise will be annoy'd."
Up rose the sun, when, from a brake,
One morn, crept out a black old Snake;
Just as a Lark had left the spray,
And hail'd with songs the new-born day.
But, whilst on high the warbler soar'd,
The reptile heard the strain she pour'd,
When to the sky it rais'd its head,
And thus, with spiteful hisses, said:
"Oh! how I hate such bawling things!
Had I the power, I'd clip thy wings;
Such lofty flights thou should'st not take,
The silence of the morn to break.
"Bound to the earth I here must lie,
For neither song nor wings have I,
While thou look'st down, with scornful pride."
Thus then the cheerful Lark replied:
"You're welcome to deride my lays;
From such as you I seek no praise :
To earth confined, there you must crawl, And hiss, and wish- and that is all:
For no such low and creeping things Will e'er have power to crop my wings; And surely 't is no more amiss
For Larks to sing, than Snakes to hiss."
THE ROSE-BUSH AND THE BRAMBLE.
A Rose-bush once, of blushing hue,
Beside a rugged Bramble grew :
This rough companion of her side
She thus addressed, in beauty's pride;
"How great must your presumption be
To venture here, so nigh to me!
See, with what graces I'm attired:
My form was made to be admired:
But you hold out no charms to view;
There's no such honour paid to you.
The contrast's great, you must suppose,
Between a Bramble and a Rose;
While folks admire my beauties rare,
Your rugged thorns they shun with care.
In me what passing elegance,
To charm the eye and please the sense!
The Muse to me this fame ascribes,
'The fairest queen of Flora's tribes.'
The Rose is such a favourite flower,
'Tis made to grace the princely bower:
How oft's its loveliness display'd,
Decking the brow of courtly maid!"
The Bramble, fired with rage, replied:
"Peace! be not thus puff'd up with pride;
Applaud your beauty if you please,
But keep from insults, such as these.
You know not what you talk about,
Because you only look without;
But search beneath your bosom fair,
And you'll find imperfections there.
That I am rugged, may be said;
To me no admiration's paid:
But yet, my friend, can you deny,
That you have thorns as well as I?
Easy it is for you to prate;
To toss your head in pomp
While you yourself perfection deem,
And make another's faults your theme.
But, sure, your boasting is too much :
On things like these you should not touch;
Because you know you must decay;
Your charms are fleeting as the day.
For should this hour a tempest frown,
How quick 'twould sweep your beauty down!
Pray think on this, how soon you'll lie
No less obscure and bare than I.”
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