Umbrella, serve the turn;
Again, like praise I earn
When summer's ardent rays the Parasol defies."

FABLE XV.

THE FROG AND THE TADPOLE.

On Tagus' banks, in artless wonder,
A little Tadpole, on a canebrake gazing,
Long with its mother chatted of the leaves,
Of the huge stalks, and verdure so amazing;
But now the air with the fierce tempest heaves,
And the rough winds the canebrake rent asunder—
A broken cane into the stream fell over;
"Come, look, my child," now said the thoughtful mother,
"Without, so strong, luxuriant and smooth—
Within, all pith and emptiness, forsooth!"

If our good Frog some poets' works had read,
Perchance, of them she might the same have said.

FABLE XVI.

THE BUSTARD.

The sluggish Bustard, in her foolish pate,
Vexed with her young ones' awkward flight,
Purposed to raise a brood more light,
Even though 't were illegitimate.

For this end many an egg she stole
From Partridge, Pigeon and the Kite,
And sundry birds of easy flight;
And in her nest mixed up the whole.

Long while and patiently she sat upon them;
Though some proved addled, yet, in time, the rest
With a fine brood of nurslings filled the nest;
And many a kind, of course, was found among them.

A host of birds collects, at her request,
To admire her progeny, so rare and new;
But each away with his own offspring flew,
And left poor Bustard with an empty nest.

Ye, who the ideas of other men brood over,—
Bring out your fledglings. Let us see them fly!
Then, "This, and this is mine," resounds the cry
How much belongs to you, we'll soon discover.

FABLE XVII.

THE LINNET AND THE SWAN.

"Keep silence, noisy little one,"
Unto a Linnet said the Swan.
"It almost tempts myself to sing; although
No voice, our feathered tribes among,
Compares with mine in melody, you know."

The Linnet still maintained her joyous trill.
"What insolence is this!" continued he.
"See how this tiny warbler taunteth me!
Naught but my great consideration
Prevents your well-deserved humiliation,
By the display of my superior skill."

"Would you might sing!" replied the little bird;
"With boundless curiosity we all—
All other voice by silent wonder shackled—
Should listen to that harmony divine,
Which boasts far greater fame than mine;
Though none of us, as yet, hath ever heard."
Kashly the Swan essayed—but only cackled.

Not strange, that empty reputation,
Without, or skill or genius, at foundation,
Should, upon trial, cheat the expectation!

FABLE XVIII.

THE HACK MULE.

Full fed and antic,
A Hack Mule pushed
With speed so frantic
Forth from her stable,
That her rider
Scarcely was able
With rein to guide her.
Half our journey
Not long will bide her
In such a race.
But the false jade
Now slacks her pace.
What trouble now?
Go on! Perhaps
The spur will do.
What, no? Then taps
Of this light rod
Or harder raps
From pointed goad.
Both are, I find,
In vain bestowed.
How! out of wind!
With ready heels
She kicks behind,
And bites and squeals.
What a curvette!
She jumps and reels.
You devil's pet,
With hand and foot
We'll try you yet.
Upon her belly
Down she flounders,—
Here sprawling flat.
A murrain foul
Seize on your soul!
Amen to that!

The Mule, that work begins
With such capers,
Is not the mule for me;
And, whene'er I see
That any author vapors
Too much of his intent,—
At once, I say, "Beware!
Good friend, pray have a care
Of this mule's predicament."

FABLE XIX.

THE GOAT AND THE HORSE.

A Goat, in mute delight,
To the sweet echoes of a violin,
Harmonious, long stood listening;
His feet, the while, in sympathetic measure,
Danced all unconsciously for pleasure.
And, to an honest Nag, who, in like mood
Absorbed, forgot his food,
These words he spoke:

"Now, of these strings you hear the harmony,
Know that they are the entrails of a Goat,
Who pastured, in times past, with me.
And, for myself, I trust some future time—
Blest thought!—such sonorous strains may rise from mine."

The good Hack turned himself, and answered thus:
"Never are heard these sounds harmonious,
Except, across the strings concordant, sweep
The hairs that from my tail were drawn.
My fright is over and the pain is gone;
And, as reward, I now the pleasure reap
Of seeing, for myself, the honors paid
To the sweet instrument, through my own aid.
For you, who hope like pleasure to derive,—
When shall you taste it? Not while you're alive.

Just so, in vain a wretched writer tries,
Throughout his life, to gain celebrity;
To better judgment of posterity
He leaves his work, and, thus consoled, he dies.

FABLE XX.

THE BEE AND THE CUCKOO.

"Stop, Cuckoo," said the Bee;
"With my labor interferes
That unpleasant voice of thine,
Always ringing in my ears.

There is no bird, in song,
So monotonous as thou.
It is cuckoo all day long,
And nothing but cuckoo!"

"Wearies you, my monotone?"
The Cuckoo straight rejoined;
"So, too, one shape alone,
In thy waxen cells, I find.

If, in the self-same way,
You make a hundred as each one;
If I nothing new can say,
Nothing new by you is done."

This was the Bee's reply:
"A work of usefulness
May lack variety,
And be valued none the less.

But in a work designed
To gratify the taste,
If we no invention find,
Aught else is tedious waste."

FABLE XXI.

THE RAT AND THE CAT.

At telling of rabies old Esop was grand;
With his subtile invention, his wisdom so great.
And a story of his, as I have it at hand,
Into our own language I now will translate.

"It is plain," said a Rat, at the mouth of his hole,
"No distinction more lovely and noble is found
Than fidelity. Therefore it is, on my soul,