FABLE LXX.

THE BEAU AND THE BUTTERFLY.

WHEN summer deck'd each sylvan scene,
And sunshine smil'd along the green,
When groves allur'd with noon-tide shade,
And purling brooks refresh'd the glade,
An empty form of empty shew,

A flutt'ring insect call'd a Beau,
In gaudy colours rich and gay,
A mere papilio of the day,

Was seen around the fields to rove,

And haunt, by turns, the stream and grove.
Around him various insects came,
Of diff'rent colour, diff'rent name,
And, ting'd with every gorgeous dye,
Among the rest a Butterfly;

His wings are spread with wanton pride,

And beauty fades from all beside.

The Beau beholds, with envious eyes,

The living radiance as it flies:

"And shall,' said he, this worthless thing, 'That lives but on a summer's wing, 'This flying worm, more gaudy shine,

' And wear a dress more gay than mine?
'Is this wise nature's equal care
'To deck a Butterfly so fair,

'While man, her worthiest, greatest part, 'Must wear the homely rags of art?'

Thus reason'd he, as reason Beaux, The subject of their logic cloaths: When thus the Butterfly replied, With deeper tints by anger dy'd;

• Vain trifling mortal! could'st thou boast What our Creator prizes most

'On man bestow'd, thou would'st not see • With envy aught bestow'd on me. This painted vestment, all my store, ' Is giv'n, and I can claim no more. 'But man, for greater ends design'd, 'Should boast the beauties of the mind. < More bright than gold with wisdom shine, 'And virtue's sacred charms be thine: To rule the world by reason taught, 'On dress disdain to wear a thought; "For he whom folly bends so low, 'Ambitious to be thought aBeau, Is studious only to be gay,

'In toilet-arts consumes the day;

And, the long trifling labours o'er, "Takes wing, and bids the world adore; 'Looks down with scorn on rival flies, • Himself less splendid, and less wise; 'With scorn, his scorn return'd again, 'Proud insect! impotently vain!

The fool, who thus by self is priz'd, 'By others justly is despis'd.'

She said, and flutter'd round on high, Nor staid to hear the Beau's reply.

FABLE LXXI.

THE PHILOSOPHER AND THE GLOW-WORM.

WHEN toilsome hours of day were spent,
The world seem'd wrapt in calm content,
Each anxious care forsook the breast,
Sleep gently clos'd each eye to rest,
Cynthia her brightest aspect wore,
And Heav'n's expanse was studded o'er,
A Sage, by meditation drawn,
Forsook his cot, and sought the lawn;
In contemplation deep he stray'd,
And nature's dozing charms survey'd;
On either hand new beauties view'd,
As he his tranquil walk pursu'd.
By chance, a Glow-Worm, in his way,
Shone forth his little glitt'ring ray,
Proudly unfolding ev'ry grace,

As trailing round from place to place;
Illumining the moss-fring'd plain,
On other worms he look'd disdain.
The Sage with philosophic eye,
Survey'd the wand'rer crawling by:

Then stooping low, with gentle hand,
High lifts him from the dew-fraught land.
The grub, tho' not dismay'd through fear,
Conscious he was not in his sphere;
Withdrew his beam of light away,

To hear what man-vain man would say.
The learn'd Philosopher amaz'd,
Paus'd for some time, and anxious gaz'd;
Astonish'd that the worm should die
So soon, then careless threw it by;
But, first, this application made :—
This creeping reptile, lo! is dead,
'And, with his life, his glory's fled.
'So 'tis with all ambition's race,
Who fill up each exalted place:
• Brilliant they shine with borrow'd ray,
• And wanton in the blaze of day,

Until the wheel again turns round,

And leaves them where they first were found."
The Glow-Worm with attention heard,

And weigh'd with prudence ev'ry word,
Form'd bright his little lamp again,

And shone more beauteous o'er the plain;
Then thus address'd the wond'ring sage,
The known Philosopher of th' age:
'Know thou, the happy pow'r to shine
'Is truly man's as well as mine;
'I know my sphere, did he the same,
"He'd tread that path that leads to fame;

'Did he in dang'rous times retire, 'And check with care ambition's fire, 'Like me he might new lustre spread, · And deck with laurels fresh his head. 'But coxcomb like, he's led astray To shine, and shines but for a day.'

FABLE LXXII.

THE FOUR BULLS.

FRIENDSHIP! Source of purest bliss,
Best balm for whatsoe'er 's amiss,
'Tis thine the sinking heart to raise,
When love retires, and health decays.
Unmix'd with thy sublimer fire,
Love's but a fev'rish low desire,
And ill the self-destroying flame
Deserves that soft angelic name:
Oh! could this verse, this fabling lay,
Extend, or but confirm, thy sway !
Or warn'd by this, if only one
Thy foe's destructive arts shall shun!
Since dangers rise with every sun,
With ev'ry sand united run;