FEIGNED COURAGE
Horatio, of ideal courage vain,
Was flourishing in air his father’s cane,
And, as the fumes of valour swelled his pate,
Now thought himself this hero, and now that;
“And now,” he cried, “I will Achilles be;
My sword I brandish; see, the Trojans flee!
Now, I’ll be Hector, when his angry blade
A lane through heaps of slaughter’d Grecians made!
And now my deeds still braver I’ll evince,
I am no less than Edward the Black Prince.
“Give way, ye coward French!” As this he spoke,
And aim’d in fancy a sufficient stroke
To fix the fate of Cressy or Poitiers
(The Muse relates the Hero’s fate with tears),
He struck his milk-white hand against a nail,
Sees his own blood, and feels his courage fail.
Ah! where is now that boasted valour flown,
That in the tented field so late was shown?
Achilles weeps, great Hector hangs his head,
And the Black Prince goes whimpering to bed.
ON READING
“And so you do not like to spell,
Mary, my dear; oh, very well:
’Tis dull and troublesome, you say,
And you would rather be at play.
“Then bring me all your books again,
Nay, Mary, why do you complain?
For as you do not choose to read,
You shall not have your books indeed.
“So as you wish to be a dunce,
Pray go and fetch me them at once;
For if you will not learn to spell,
’Tis vain to think of reading well.