All, all that power would be vain, Go then, and spread thy busy wing, And teach these truths to wanton man Bid him attend the pris'ner's cry, The wretch condemn'd by him to die; Bid him to breathe the word "Forgive," And let the wretched creature live. Bid him behold the giant's might, Then may he hope at that dread bar, Which he himself to others dealt. ON A BOY PURSUING A BUTTERFLY. A little, gaudy butterfly, Painted with ev'ry varied dye That decorates his race, With wav'ring and unsteady wing, Was flutt'ring through the flow'rs of Spring, That give my garden grace. Its trifling charms were far too strong To be refus'd by one so young, And Tom in rapture flew, Eager to seize so gay a prize, That dazzled thus his straining eyes. And gave him feelings new. With hasty step and panting heart, And still as oft he miss'd his prey, His failures fann'd his flame. One effort more his prize may gain; His flatt'ring tempter, winged, light, With moisten'd eye, and downcast look, He sunk his little head to rest, Unconscious where or how. And thus through life our busy race Caught by the gay and tempting bait, Like Tom we try, like Tom we fail; And leave us to our tears. Sick with pursuing futile schemes, Which fly our grasp, like airy dreams, We turn our thoughts to home: That home where disappointments cease, Where labours rest, where joys increase, Where pain can never come. THE TASK. Alone in my warm Chimney-corner I sat, With a Lamb-skin laid down at my feet for a mat: Vex'd to death that I could not attend to my Church, Forc'd to leave, on a Sunday, my flock in the lurch; I groan'd, and I sigh'd, o'er a fit of the gout, Like a Rattle-snake twisting and writhing about. Inur'd to good health, and but yesterday well, This stroke upon me like a Thunder-bolt fell. "Fetch the doctor," I cried, "if in searching around, In this world's ample theatre, one can be found, More skill'd in the gout than in probing a wound." |