As, in the merry month of May,
A bard enjoyed the break of day,
And quaffed the fragrant scents ascending,
He plucked a blossomed rose, transcending
All blossoms else; it moved his tongue
To rhapsodize, and thus he sung:
"Go, rose, and lie
On Chloë's bosom, and be there caressed;
For there would I,
Like to a turtle-dove, aye flee to nest
From jealousy
And carking care, by which I am opprest.
There lie—repose
Upon a bosom fragrant and as fair;
Nor rival those
Beauties ethereal you discover there.
For wherefore, rose,
Should you, as I, be subject to despair?"
* * * *
"Spare your comparisons—oh! spare—
Of me and fragrancy and fair!"
A Maiden-blush, which heard him, said,
With face unwontedly flushed red.
"Tell me, for what committed wrong
Am I the metaphor of song?
I would you could write rhymes without me,
Nor in your ecstacies so flout me.
In every ditty must we bloom?
Can't you find elsewhere some perfume?
Oh! does it add to Chloë's sweetness
To visit and compare my meetness?
And, to enhance her face, must mine
Be made to wither, peak, and pine?"
FABLE XLVI.
Cur, Horse, and Shepherd's Dog.
The lad of mediocre spirit
Blurs not with modesty his merit.
On all exerting wit and tongue,
His rattling jokes, at random flung,
Bespatter widely friend and foe.
Too late the forward boy will know
That jokes are often paid in kind,
Or rankle longer in the mind.
A village cur, with treble throat,
Thought he owned music's purest note,
And on the highway lay, to show it
Or to philosopher or poet.
Soon as a roadster's trot was heard,
He rose, with nose and ears upreared;
As he passed by assailed his heels,
Nor left him till they reached the fields.
But, as it happened once, a pad,
Assailed by Master Snarl, like mad,
Flung out, and knocked him in the mire;
Nor did he stop to care, inquire,
If he had hurt him. On his way
Pad passed, and puppy bleeding lay.
A shepherd's dog, who saw him bleed,
Who hated Snarl and all his breed,
Said, "This was brought about by prate,
Which horses—even horses—hate!"