A Turkey carpet was his lawn, Whereon he loved to bound, To skip and gambol like a fawn, And swing himself around.
His frisking was at evening hours, For then he lost his fear, But most before approaching showers, Or when a storm drew near.
Eight years and five round-rolling moons He thus saw steal away, Dozing out all his idle noons, And every night at play.
I kept him for his humor"s sake, For he would oft beguile My heart of thoughts that made it ache, And force me to a smile.
But now, beneath this walnut shade, He finds his long last home, And waits, in snug concealment laid, Till gentler Puss shall come.
He, still more aged, feels the shocks From which no care can save, And, partner once of Tiney"s box, Must soon partake his grave.
WILLIAM COWPER.
THE COUNCIL OF HORSES.
Upon a time a neighing steed, Who grazed among a numerous breed, With mutiny had fired the train, And spread dissension through the plain.
On matters that concerned the state, The council met in grand debate.
A colt whose eyeb.a.l.l.s flamed with ire, Elate with strength and youthful fire, In haste stept forth before the rest, And thus the listening throng addressed: "Goodness, how abject is our race, Condemned to slavery and disgrace!
Shall we our servitude retain, Because our sires have borne the chain?
Consider, friends! your strength and might; "Tis conquest to a.s.sert your right.
How c.u.mbrous is the gilded coach!
The pride of man is our reproach.
Were we designed for daily toil, To drag the plowshare through the soil, To sweat in harness through the road, To groan beneath the carrier"s load?
How feeble are the two-legg"d kind!
What force is in our nerves combined!
Shall then our n.o.bler jaws submit To foam and champ the galling bit?
Shall haughty man my back bestride?
Shall the sharp spur provoke my side?
Forbid it, heavens! reject the rein; Your shame, your infamy, disdain.
Let him the lion first control, And still the tiger"s famished growl.
Let us, like them, our freedom claim, And make him tremble at our name."
A general nod approved the cause, And all the circle neighed applause.
When, lo! with grave and solemn pace, A steed advanced before the race, With age and long experience wise; Around he cast his thoughtful eyes, And, to the murmurs of the train, Thus spoke the Nestor of the plain.
"When I had health and strength like you The toils of servitude I knew; Now grateful man rewards my pains, And gives me all these wide domains.
At will I crop the year"s increase; My latter life is rest and peace.
I grant, to man we lend our pains, And aid him to correct the plains; But doth he not divide the care, Through all the labors of the year?
How many thousand structures rise, To fence us from inclement skies!
For us he bears the sultry day, And stores up all our winter"s hay.
He sows, he reaps the harvest"s gain; We share the toil and share the grain.
Since every creature was decreed To aid each other"s mutual need, Appease your discontented mind, And act the part by heaven a.s.signed."
The tumult ceased, the colt submitted, And, like his ancestors, was bitted.
JOHN GAY.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
RUTH.
She stood breast high amid the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.
On her cheek an autumn flush, Deeply ripened;--such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell, But long lashes veiled a light, That had else been all too bright.
And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim;-- Thus she stood amid the stocks, Praising G.o.d with sweetest looks:--
Sure, I said, heav"n did not mean, Where I reap thou shouldst but glean, Lay thy sheaf adown and come, Share my harvest and my home.
THOMAS HOOD.
THE ELIXIR.
Teach me, my G.o.d and King, In all things Thee to see, And what I do in anything, To do it as for Thee.
All may of Thee partake: Nothing can be so mean Which with this tincture, for Thy sake, Will not grow bright and clean.
A servant with this clause Makes drudgery divine; Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws, Makes that and the action fine.
This is the famous stone That turneth all to gold; For that which G.o.d doth touch and own Cannot for less be told.
GEORGE HERBERT.
THE BOY AND THE ANGEL.
Morning, evening, noon, and night, "Praise G.o.d!" sang Theocrite.
Then to his poor trade he turned, Whereby the daily meal was earned.
Hard he labored, long and well; O"er his work the boy"s curls fell.
But ever, at each period, He stopped and sang, "Praise G.o.d!"
Then back again his curls he threw, And cheerful turned to work anew.