Who saw not (and with some delight
Perhaps review'd the novel sight)
How numerous, at the tables there,
The sparrows beg their daily fare.
For there, in every nook and cell,
Where such a family may dwell,
Sure as the vernal season comes
Their nests they weave in hope of crumbs,
Which, kindly given, may serve with food
Convenient their unfeather'd brood;
And oft, as with its summons clear
The warning bell salutes their ear,
Sagacious listeners to the sound,
They flock from all the fields around,
To reach the hospitable hall,
None more attentive to the call,
Arrived, the pensionary [1] band,
Hopping and chirping, close at hand,
Solicit what they soon receive,
The sprinkled, plenteous donative. [2]
Thus is a multitude, though large,
Supported at a trivial charge;
A single doit [8] would overpay
The expenditure of every day,
And who can grudge so small a grace
To suppliants, natives of the place?
[1] Pensionary depending on a pension, or stated allowance.
[8] Doit-a small coin, no longer in use.
169.-THE PEASANTS' SONG.
Up, up! ye dames, ye lasses gay!
To the meadows trip away.
'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn,
And scare the small birds from the corn.
Not a soul at home may stay:
For the shepherds must go,
With lance and bow,
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.
Leave the hearth, and leave the house,
To the cricket and the mouse:
Find grannam out a sunny seat,
With babe and lambkin at her feet.
Not a soul at home may stay:
For the shepherds must go,
With lance and bow,
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.
170.-THE WOODMAN AND HIS DOG.
Forth
goes the woodman, leaving unconcern'd
The cheerful haunts of man; to wield the axe,
And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear,
From morn to eve his solitary task.
Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed ears,
And tail cropped short, half lurcher and half cur,
His dog attends him. Close behind his heel
Now creeps he slow; and now, with many a frisk
Wide scampering, snatches up the drifted snow
With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout,
Then shakes his powdered coat and barks for joy.
Heedless of all his pranks, the sturdy churl
Moves right towards his work, nor stops for aught
But now and then, with pressure of his thumb
To adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube
That fumes beneath his nose; the trailing cloud
Streams far behind him, scenting all the air.
Cowper.
171. THE RIVER NYMPH'S SONG.
By the rushy-fringed bank,
Where grows the willow and the osier dank,[1]
My sliding chariot stays,
Thick set with agate, and the azure sheen [2]
Of turkis blue, and emerald green,
That in the channel strays;
Whilst from off the waters fleet,
Thus I set my printless [3] feet,
O'er the cowslip's velvet head,
That bends not as I tread.
ADDRESSED TO A CHILD.
Say not you love a roasted fowl,
But you may love a screaming owl,
[1] Dank-damp, moist.
[2] Sheen-splendour, brightness.
[8] Printless that leaves no impression.
And if you can, the unwieldy toad
That crawls from his secure abode
Within the grassy garden wall
When evening dews begin to fall.
Oh! mark the beauty of his eye,
What wonders in that circle lie!
So clear, so bright, our fathers said
He wears a jewel in his head!
And when, upon some showery day,
Into a path or public way
A frog leaps out from bordering grass,
Startling the timid as they pass,
Do you observe him, and endeavour
To take the intruder into favour;
Learning from him to find a reason,
For a light heart in a dull season.
And you may love the strawberry flower,
And love the strawberry in its bower:
But when the fruit, so often praised
For beauty, to your lip is raised,
Say not you love the delicate treat,
But like it, enjoy it, and thankfully eat.
173. TO A WASP.
Winged wanderer of the sky,
From your wonted path on high,
With your fearful dragon tail,
Crested head, and coat of mail,
Why do you my peace molest?
Why do you disturb my rest?
While the sunny meads are seen
Deck'd with purest white and green;
And the gardens and the bowers,
And the forests and the flowers,
Don their robes of various dye,
Blending fitly to the eye;-
Did I chase you in your flight?
Did I put you in a fright?
Did I spoil your treasures hid?
Well you know I never did.
Foolish trifler, pray beware!
Tempt my anger—if you dare.
Trust not in your strength of wing,
Trust not in your length of sting;
You are lost if here you stay,
Haste then, trifler, haste away!
174. THE TOAD'S JOURNAL. [1]
In a land for antiquities greatly renown'd,
A traveller had dug wide and deep under ground,
A temple, for ages entomb'd, to disclose-
When, lo! he disturb'd in its secret repose
A toad, from whose journal it plainly appears
It had lodged in that mansion some thousands of
years.
1] It is said that Belzoni, the traveller in Egypt, discovered a living toad in a temple which had been for ages buried in the sand. This circumstance gave rise to the poem, the first twelve lines of which were not written by the ingenious author of the rest, but attached by some unknown hand.
|