A Collection of Original Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Fortune, fickle as the wind,
Always too, like Cupid, blind;
Now, but rarely, virtue crowns,
Now, on vice and folly frowns;
Now, without distinction, throws
Pomp and titles, care and woes;
Heedless where her gifts descend,
Fortune seldom has a friend;
Whimsical as woman, she
Nought is but inconstancy;
Woo her, virgin-like, she'll fly,
But neglect her, she'll comply:
Deals the Goddess good, or ill,
Giddy she, and lavish still.

Your lot enjoy, nor idly stretch
To grasp at good beyond your reach:
Thus joy shall wing each happy hour,
And mock the busy wanton's pow'r;
My meaning let a tale display;
Silence! the Muse directs the way.

In hope some store of game to get,
A cunning Fowler cast his net;
And Philomela, in her flight,
Chanc'd within the toil to light;
Her native freedom to regain,
She tried her tangled wings, in vain;
Of strength depriv'd, and almost spent,
Since hope no distant prospect sent,
She would have sunk in death content.

But that which breaks thro' ev'ry law,
Necessity, a loop-hole saw,

And whisper'd slyly in her ear—
“How ineffectual is your fear?
“A little art will oft prevail,
“Where giant force is sure to fail;
“Compose yourself, with patience sit,
“Reserve your strength, and try your wit.”

Advis'd, she thus, in soothing strain,
Try'd wonted liberty to gain.

“Good friend, said she, if you'll restore
“The parted freedom I deplore,
“Three precious secrets I'll disclose,
“And wisdom from the knowledge flows;
“I see compassion in thy face,
“Pity's innate in human race;
“Doubt not, but ev'ry word believe;
“Revoke the grant, if I deceive.”

The Fowler paus'd, but bade proceed,
Having to the request agreed;

And in those honest days, observe,
On promises one need not starve;
Then man held faith his better part,
Words were the index of the heart;
Then honour was the courtier's guide,
And virtue was his greatest pride;
Nor was it reckon'd ungenteel,
Another's misery to feel.

“Restrain, cry'd she, your fond belief,
“Credulity's the cause of grief;
“Because, in fancy's glare survey'd,
“Our thoughts their own delusion aid;
“Ere you determine, weigh with care,
“Let reason the decision bear:
“Pursue not what you can't attain;
“Idle such pursuit, and vain:
“Learn to forget, or to endure,
“The evils which you cannot cure.”

Thus Philomel her wisdom show'd,
The Fowler liberty bestow'd;
While, disengag'd, on gladsome wings,
Into the freer air she springs:
Yet, ere she gains her native sky,
She cunningly resolv'd to try
Of what effect her maxims prov'd,
Whether he was by reason mov'd;
And thus began the artful round:
“Thou fool! of fools the most profound!
“Why with such ease didst let me go,
“When, had you rip'd my belly, know,
“You'd found a gem as rich, as bright,
“As e'er Indostan gave to sight.”

At this with grief the Fowler pin'd,
The maxims blotted from his mind;
Curs'd his hard fate, and loudly swore
Ile ne'er was bubbled so before;

While she, secure, in liquid air,
Smiles at his rage, and mocks his care.

Again the snare was fruitless spread,
She was no more to be misled;
Nor ambush'd art, nor open force,
Could bar the freedom of her course;
Now, just in reach, his hope beguiles;
Then, at a distance, mocks his toils;
Now sweeps above the mountain's brow;
Then skims along the vale below;
While he pursues,—the love of gain
Suspends the sense of present pain.
The day, at length, began to close,
And fast the evening vapours rose;
The homely housewife ceas'd to spin,
The peasant from his work came in;
While from the clay-built chimneys, smoke,
A gladsome sign! in volumes broke;

The night brought on the dewy cold,
The flocks were safe within their fold,
The feather'd songsters sought their nest,
All nature nodded into rest;
When Philomel, from stately oak,
In words like these, insulting spoke:

“Is this, says she, your boasted sense?
“Can you to reason have pretence?
“Yet blot my maxims from your breast,
“Like characters on sand impress'd;
“The road to happiness neglect,
“Tho' in your hands the clue direct.

“Had you but my advice observ'd,
“You had not thus to folly swerv'd,
“Nor been to avarice a slave,
“Depending on the rules I gave;
“My words had seem'd a shining cheat,
“A study'd vengeance, all deceit:

“How could you think that gems should fall
“Unto a simple Nightingale?
“Or think to match my flight, while I
“The airy region soaring try?
“While you to duller earth confin'd,
“Can only tower with the mind;
“And ev'n here your flight's curtail'd,
“Or else my lesson had avail'd.”

The Bird thus having finish'd, fled,
The Fowler blush'd, and hung his head.

Such is the pilgrimage thro' life,
Successless toil, incessant strife,
Wealth's teeming hoard of care t' attain,
Or envy'd heights of pomp to gain.
The end this mighty truth will show,
Content was never found below;
He who its perfect bliss wou'd taste,
To heav'n must soar, for there 'tis plac'd.