THE OYSTER AND THE SPARROW.
A Pessimistic Tale.
At Whitstable one summer day,
An oyster gave his fancy wings;
He very indolently lay
In bed, and thought of many things;
Of what his life had been; of weeks
All spent in having forty winks—
You know an oyster never speaks,
But lies awake in bed, and thinks.
He thought, with pardonable pride,
That he had never worked—a plan
Which showed, it cannot be denied,
That he was quite a gentleman.
He lived more calmly in his sea
Than any Bishop; never crossed
In any sort of wishes, he
Had never loved, and never lost.
No cruel maid had ever spurned
His heart, such grief no oyster knows;
Nor hatred ever in him burned
Against the rival whom she chose.
Yet, when considered, all appeared
Too softly calm, too free from strife;
He thought, and, sighing, stroked his beard,
"There does not seem much use in life."
By chance, upon this very day
A London sparrow, for a minute,
Was thinking somewhat in this way
Of life, and what the deuce was in it,
And how he fluttered up and down,
Like Berthas, Doras, Trunks, or Yankees—
His nest was far above the town,
Upon the buildings known as Hankey's.
He thought, with pardonable pride,
Unlike a pampered, gay canary,
He worked—it cannot be denied
That "Laborare est orare."
He worked with all his might and main,
Yet now he chirped with some misgiving,
"Shoot me if I know what I gain,
There does not seem much use in living."
Soon after this the bird and fish
Were slain by old, relentless foes,
When death was near, each seemed to wish!
To keep his life—why, no one knows.
The bird was knocked upon the head—
A crack no gluing could repair;
The oyster rudely dragged from bed,
Died from exposure to the air.
They helped in one great work, at least,
To make some greedy beings fat;
The oyster graced a City feast,
The bird was eaten by the cat.
Thus, though they led such different lives,
One fat from sloth, from work one thinner,
Their end was that for which man strives,
And mostly ends his days with—dinner!