He felt the mockery of the songster’s strain.
‘Peace,’ quoth the bird; ‘my third is far the best;
Store thou the precious treasure in thy breast:
What good thou hast, ne’er lightly from thee cast.’
—He spoke, and twittering fled away full fast.
Straight sunk in earth, the gushing fountain dries,
Down fall the fruits, the wither’d pine-tree dies,
Fades all the beauteous plat, so cool, so green,
Into thin air, and never more is seen.
‘Such was the meed of avarice:—bitter cost!