Moral and political fables ancient and modern. Done into Measurd Prose intermixd with Ryme. By Dr. Walter Pope |
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Fab. CIX. The Traveller and Tortoise. |
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 | Moral and political fables |  |
Fab. CIX. The Traveller and Tortoise.
A Traveller, on a long Journey bent,
Enter'd a Wood, just as the Day was spent,
Ready to faint, and resolvd there to sleep,
Until the Sun should out o'th' Ocean peep.
To get new Strength, and fresh Spirits create.
Then, as he thought, he on a Hillock sate.
But, what to him appeard a rising Land,
Was a great Tortoise, coverd o'er with Sand.
Who, pincht with hunger, travelld all the Night
In search of Food, to appease his Appetite.
Cropping the tender Herbs, he found in's way,
Without making a Halt, or the least stay.
His constant, tho slow motion, much ground rid,
And brought him, far from thence, where he lay hid
Next morn, the Traveller about him gazd,
And stood surprizd, confounded, and amazd
At the great Alteration of the Scene,
And could not comprehend what it should mean:
What a strange Metamorfosis is this?
All things I saw last Night, this day I miss.
When I sate down to sleep, he said, there stood
A Rocky Mountain, and orelookt the Wood.
A stately Palace grac'd a pleasant Hill
On my right hand, why is it not there still?
Is it removd, pulld up by th' roots, or sunk?
Have I my Wits lost? am I Mad, or Drunk?
Nothing its Place, nothing its Shape has kept,
Besides this Sandy Bank, on which I slept.
Then, taking of it, an attentive view,
He saw it move, and what it was he knew.
Enter'd a Wood, just as the Day was spent,
Ready to faint, and resolvd there to sleep,
Until the Sun should out o'th' Ocean peep.
To get new Strength, and fresh Spirits create.
Then, as he thought, he on a Hillock sate.
But, what to him appeard a rising Land,
Was a great Tortoise, coverd o'er with Sand.
117
In search of Food, to appease his Appetite.
Cropping the tender Herbs, he found in's way,
Without making a Halt, or the least stay.
His constant, tho slow motion, much ground rid,
And brought him, far from thence, where he lay hid
Next morn, the Traveller about him gazd,
And stood surprizd, confounded, and amazd
At the great Alteration of the Scene,
And could not comprehend what it should mean:
What a strange Metamorfosis is this?
All things I saw last Night, this day I miss.
When I sate down to sleep, he said, there stood
A Rocky Mountain, and orelookt the Wood.
A stately Palace grac'd a pleasant Hill
On my right hand, why is it not there still?
Is it removd, pulld up by th' roots, or sunk?
Have I my Wits lost? am I Mad, or Drunk?
Nothing its Place, nothing its Shape has kept,
Besides this Sandy Bank, on which I slept.
Then, taking of it, an attentive view,
He saw it move, and what it was he knew.
The Moral.
Time passes unperceivd, Pale Death draws near,And steals us hence, before we know we are here.
| Moral and political fables | |