PRELUDE.
LIFE is a riddle, deep, majestic, grand,
For all to solve, but few to understand;
’Tis a strange world, some say with stoic bliss,
And straightway vow this globe hath gone amiss;
While some presume and some soliloquise,
“There’s less in wisdom than in seeming wise;”
“Silence is golden,” spake of old the sage,
The rule holds good in our distempered age;
Then silence keep and learn from meaner things,
From which full many a goodly lesson springs.
Grasp not the shadow that first meets your eyes,
For somewhere near the substance always lies;
A simple story serves to tell the fate
Of many a brain-dashed, vaunting shallow pate.
CANTO I.
A frog dwelt once upon a time
Far up within the northern clime,
’Twas pleasant sure, when Summer threw
O’er wood and lake and mountain blue,
Her fairy mantle; then the frog,
Exulting loud in many a bog,
Sang siren songs in brake and bush,
Such as would fairly put to blush,
Or fill, good faith, with envious rage
The modern artist of the stage;
And well he might, the pesky elf
Could even understand himself;
And as his voice still louder rang,
He understood the words he sang;
He sang, and leaping sang so clear,
The very breezes paused to hear;
He sang till even the Echoes tired,
To bear his songs no more aspired.
But why dilate upon this song,
Or why a tedious tale prolong?
When Winter raised his elfin wand,
The frog retired to his pond;
His voice was hushed, the winds that kissed
The placid lake his ditties missed,
Straight in a tempest rage they flew,
And colder, wilder, louder blew,
Till Summer could no more endure,
And fled to southern climes secure.
But when cold Winter, tired grown,
Would drop his wand a moment down,
That self-same instant you might hear
The frog’s shrill voice pipe loud and clear.
The Winds delighted sank again,
And gently swept the barren plain;
And Summer, stirred by some strange force,
Straight to the Northland took her course.
CANTO II.
But once upon a certain time,
Ere Winter visited that clime,
Two idle geese were babbling by,
And little recked the frog was nigh.
They talked of climes so far away,
Where Summer holds eternal sway.
They talked of pearly skies serene,
Of woods forever robed in green,
Of sunny ponds and fairy bogs,—
The paradise of singing frogs.
Then talked they of their journey thither,
And prayed that they might have fair weather.
The frog all meekly sat the while,
Then deigned to ask with winning smile,
While visions of those tempting skies
Floated before his dazzled eyes:
“Where is that land, most potent bird?
Of it, good faith, I’ve never heard.
Pray, let me follow, when once more
You bend your course to that fair shore
Where Winter never dare intrude
To cast his spell of solitude.”
At this the geese laughed loud and long,
A hissing laugh that checked the song
The frog had formed deep in his throat,—
That song died in one gurgling note.
And then the elder of the birds
Addressed the frog the following words:
“Thou silly elf, pray understand
’Tis many a league unto that land,
And should’st thou e’er presume to go
By single jumps and hops so slow,
Why, sure old age would overtake
Thee ere thou’d reach the fairy brake.”
At this the frog at once began:
“I’ve hit upon a novel plan.
We’ll pluck some grass from yonder slope,
And firmly twist it in a rope,
’Twill do, I think, with single fold,
Then at each end you may take hold,
And I will grasp the middle tight,
A goose at both my left and right,
We’ll cleave the upper air so light.”
The frog scarce finished ere ’twould seem
The geese consented to the scheme.
They both affirmed with one accord
Such wisdom they had never heard;
Fitting the action to the word,
They soon were sailing through the skies,
Bound for the southern paradise.
The frog swung on the grassy rope,
And did not deign his mouth to ope.
They travelled over many a rood
Of bush and brake and solitude.
At length a farmer, half amazed,
Spied them aloft in mid-air raised,
And much he wondered as he gazed,
And loud the wise device he praised,
And asked whose wisdom ’twas had planned
The wondrous scheme his vision scanned.
The frog, in whose own estimation,
Centred the wisdom of creation,
Could not the rustic’s praise pass by,
Opened his mouth and shouted “I!”—
Scarce had he risked his mouth to ope,
When slipped his jaws from off the rope,
And, like an arrow from a bow,
He dashed upon the rocks below.
Thus died the frog—was ever fate so dread?
And to the realm of shades his spirit sped.
MORAL.
All ye who read, whatever be your state,
Bear well in mind the frog’s unhappy fate.
How wise you deem yourself, how great a seer,
’Tis vain to boast, the world cares not to hear.
There’s danger oft in speech, be well aware—
The cloak of wisdom is not hard to bear.