Above the steeple shines a plate,
That turns and turns to indicate
From what point blows the weather;
Look up-your brains begin to swim,
"Tis in the clouds-that pleases him;
He chooses it the rather.
Fond of the speculative height,
Thither he wings his airy flight,
And thence securely sees
The bustle and the raree-show,
That occupy mankind below,
Secure and at his ease.
You think, no doubt, he sits and muses
On future broken bones and bruises,
If he should chance to fall.
No; not a single thought like that
Employs his philosophic pate,
Or troubles it at all.
He sees, that this great roundabout,
The world, with all its motley rout,
Church, army, physic, law,
Its customs, and its businesses,
Is no concern at all of his,
And says-what says he?-Caw.
Thrice happy bird! I too have seen Much of the vanities of men;
And, sick of having seen 'em, Would cheerfully these limbs resign For such a pair of wings as thine, And such a head between 'em.
Te nulla lux relinquit,
Te nulla nox revisit,
Non musicæ vacantem,
Curisve non solutum :
Quin amplies canendo,
Quin amplies fruendo,
Etatulam, vel omni,
Quam nos homunciones
Absumimus querendo,
Ætate longiorem.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FOREGOING.
LITTLE inmate, full of mirth,
Chirping on my kitchen hearth,
Wheresoe'er be thine abode,
Always harbinger of good,
Pay me for thy warm retreat
With
a song more soft and sweet;
In return thou shalt receive
Such a strain as I can give.
Thus thy praise shall be express'd,
Inoffensive, welcome guest!
While the rat is on the scout,
And the mouse with curious snout,
With what vermin else infest
Every dish, and spoil the best;
Frisking thus before the fire,
Thou hast all thine heart's desire.
Though in voice and shape they be
Form'd as if akin to thee,
Thou surpassest, happier far,
Happiest grasshoppers that are;
Theirs is but a summer's song,
Thine endures the winter long,
Unimpair'd, and shrill, and clear,
Melody throughout the year.
Neither night, nor dawn of day,
Puts a period to thy play:
Sing then-and extend thy span
Far beyond the date of man.
Wretched man, whose years are spent
In repining discontent,
Lives not, aged though he be,
Half a span, compared with thee.
SIMILE AGIT IN SIMILE.
BY VINCENT BOURNE.
CRISTATUS, pictisque ad Thaida Psittacus aliis,
Missus ab Eoo munus amante venit.
Ancillis mandat primam formare loquelam,
Archididascaliæ dat sibi Thais opus.
Psittace, ait Thais, fingitque sonantia molle
Basia, quæ docilis molle refingit avis.
Jam captat, jam dimidiat tyrunculus; et jam
Integrat auditos articulatque sonos.
Psittace mi pulcher pulchelle, hera dicit alumno;
Psittace mi pulcher, reddit alumnus heræ.
Jamque canit, ridet, deciesque ægrotat in horâ,
Et vocat ancillas nomine quamque suo.
Multaque scurratur mendax, et multa jocatur,
Et lepido populum detinet augurio.
Nunc tremulum illudet fratrem, qui suspicit, et Pol!
Carnalis, quisquis te docet, inquit, homo est;
Argutæ nunc stridet anûs argutulus, instar;
Respicit, et nebulo es, quisquis es, inquit anus. Quando fuit melior tyro, meliorve magistra! Quando duo ingeniis tam coiêre pares! Ardua discenti nulla est, res nulla docenti Ardua; cum doceat fœmina, discat avis.
TRANSLATION OF THE FOREGOING.
IN painted plumes superbly dress'd,
A native of the gorgeous east,
By many a billow toss'd,
Poll gains at length the British shore,
Part of the captain's precious store,
A present to his toast.
Belinda's maids are soon preferr'd,
To teach him now and then a word,
As Poll can master it;
But 'tis her own important charge,
To qualify him more at large,
And make him quite a wit.
Sweet Poll! his doting mistress cries, Sweet Poll! the mimic bird replies; And calls aloud for sack.
She next instructs him in the kiss; 'Tis now a little one, like Miss, And now a hearty smack.
At first he aims at what he hears,
And, listening close with both his ears,
Just catches at the sound;
But soon articulates aloud,
Much to the amusement of the crowd,
And stuns the neighbours round.
A querulous old woman's voice
His humorous talent next employs;
He scolds and gives the lie.
And now he sings, and now is sick,
Here Sally, Susan, come, come quick,
Poor Poll is like to die!
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