My little story will explain An olden maxim, which expresses How Avarice, in search of gain, May lose the hoard that it possesses. The fable tells us that a Hen Laid golden eggs, each egg a treasure; Its owner--stupidest of men-- Was miserly beyond all measure. He thought a mine of wealth to find Within the Hen, and so he slew it: He found a bird of common kind-- And lost a pretty fortune through it.
For money-worms, who now and then Grow poor through trying to be wealthy, I tell my fable of the Hen; My tale is good, my moral healthy.
[Illustration: THE HEN WITH THE GOLDEN EGGS.]
An Ass, with relics loaded, thought the crowd Knelt down to him, and straightway grew so proud; He took to his own merit, without qualms, Even the incense and loud chaunted psalms, Some one, to undeceive him, wisely said-- "A foolish vanity has turned your head: They not to you, but to the idol pray; Where glory's due, there they the honour pay."
When foolish magistrates rule o'er a town, It's not the man we bow to, but his gown.
A Serpent once and Watchmaker were neighbours (Unpleasant neighbour for a working man); The Snake came creeping in among his labours, Seeking for food on the felonious plan; But all the broth he found was but a File, And that he gnawed in vain--the steel was tough. The tool said, with a calm contemptuous smile, "Poor and mistaken thing! that's <i>quantum suff.</i> You lose your time, you shallow sneak, you do, You'll never bite a farthing's worth off me, Though you break all your teeth: I tell you true, I fear alone Time's great voracity."
This is for critics--all the baser herd. Who, restless, gnaw at everything they find. Bah! you waste time, you do, upon my word; Don't think your teeth can pierce the thinnest rind: To injure noble works you try, and try, but can't, To you they're diamond, steel, and adamant.
One should not mock the wretched. Who can tell He will be always happy? Fortune changes, Wise Æsop, in his fables, taught this well. My story is like his--which very strange is, The Hare and Partridge shared the selfsame clover, And lived in peace and great tranquillity, Till one day, racing all the meadows over, The huntsmen came, and forced the Hare to flee, And seek his hiding-place. The dogs, put out, Were all astray: yes, even Brifaut erred, Until the scent betrayed. A lusty shout Arouses Miraut, who then loud averred, From philosophic reasoning, 'twas the Hare, And ardently pushed forward the pursuit. Rustaut, who never lied, saw clearly where Had homeward turned again the frightened brute. Poor wretch! it came to its old form to die. The cruel Partridge, bitter taunting, said, "You boasted of your fleetness; now, then, try Your nimble feet." Soon was that scorn repaid: While she still laughed, the recompense was near. She thought her wings would save her from man's jaws. Poor creature! there was worse than that to fear: The swooping Goshawk came with cruel claws.