قراءة كتاب The Peacock and Parrot, on their Tour to Discover the Author of "The Peacock At Home"
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
اللغة: English
The Peacock and Parrot, on their Tour to Discover the Author of "The Peacock At Home"
الصفحة رقم: 7
But, “who is the Author?” this still was the theme
Of Sir Argus’s Song, and his night and day dream.
“Oh! let me,” he cries, “of your kindness implore,
Dear, sweet Mrs. Owlet, yet one favor more!
Acquaint us, I pray, with the name of our Poet;
Its worth will be doubled, to you when we owe it.”
“Dear Sir,” said the Dame, who lov’d flatt’ry as well,
As if folly had made her a mere modern Belle,
“Much joy would it give me to grant your request,
But, in truth, I am not of this secret possest.
For the more I consider, the more I’m perplex’d:
However, thus much I will venture to tell;
A female alone could have written so well.”
Sir Argus believ’d the Dame might have guess’d right;
Yet, entre-nous, thought her not very polite:
But that was a trifle; he now had a clew
To assist his research; and more satisfied grew:
Since the Owl’s well-known wisdom, and vast penetration,
From time immemorial had claim’d admiration.
But ev’ning clos’d in, and we well may suppose,
That our Travellers long’d for a little repose:
While the Moon-loving Dame, who had no wish to sleep,
Meant in pensive delight, her lone vigil to keep:
So her Guests took their leave, with a friendly adieu,
And, forthwith, to a neighbouring Lime Tree withdrew.
And the Lark calls them up, at the first peep of day:
When, quickly descending, each shakes his bright plumes,
And with fresh expectation his journey resumes.
The Peacock is now more accustom’d to travel;
And less inclin’d, therefore, at trifles to cavil:
So, cheerfully lends his smooth wings to the breeze,
And with rapture extols ev’ry prospect he sees.
O’er many a bank, with sweet violets spread,
Green field, blooming garden, and hyacinth-bed;
Thro’ daisy-deck’d vallies, o’er soft swelling hills,
Across velvet-clad lawns, and beside limpid rills,
Our Travellers roam’d; till they found a young Turtle,
Who liv’d with her Mate, in an arbour of Myrtle:
But what cou’d be learnt from two countrified Doves,
Who were thinking, from morning to night, of their loves?
But Concerts and Balls, Doves had never attended:
In rural enjoyments they pass’d time away,
And car’d for no Poems, nor Poets—not they!
Our Birds of haut-ton set them down for a pair
Of the silliest creatures that flutter’d in air!
But breakfast appearing, a kind invitation
To share it, still met with their full approbation;
So both ate as much as they knew how to carry,
And vow’d they no longer a moment cou’d tarry:
Then hurrying off, without further ado,
Said, “good morning, my friends,” and the Turtles cried, “Coo!”