The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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| THE FLY AND LEECH.
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
THE FLY AND LEECH.
A FABLE.
Content's the choicest bliss we can
E'er reach to in this mortal span:
'Tis not in grandeur, pow'r, or state,
The lordly dome, or cottage neat,
Still to be found—but chief she dwells
In that calm breast that care repels;
With dauntless heart braves frowning Fate,
Nor e'er concludes that Hope's too late;
Aspires no higher than his sphere,
Nor harbours discontentment there.
Pale Discontent! the baneful sting,
From whence unnumber'd mis'ries spring;
Ambition gazing to the skies,
And ever planning schemes to rise,
Till to Pow'r's dizzy peak up-whirl'd,
Fate shakes the base and down he's hurl'd.
Heart-wringing cares that still torment,
All flow from murm'ring Discontent.
E'er reach to in this mortal span:
'Tis not in grandeur, pow'r, or state,
The lordly dome, or cottage neat,
Still to be found—but chief she dwells
In that calm breast that care repels;
With dauntless heart braves frowning Fate,
Nor e'er concludes that Hope's too late;
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Nor harbours discontentment there.
Pale Discontent! the baneful sting,
From whence unnumber'd mis'ries spring;
Ambition gazing to the skies,
And ever planning schemes to rise,
Till to Pow'r's dizzy peak up-whirl'd,
Fate shakes the base and down he's hurl'd.
Heart-wringing cares that still torment,
All flow from murm'ring Discontent.
Some forward look at coming ills,
And die long ere they thwart their wills;
Others in real mis'ry groan,
And think Heav'n frowns on them alone;
While many a one,—mean, pining elves!
Raise airy horrors to themselves.
And die long ere they thwart their wills;
Others in real mis'ry groan,
And think Heav'n frowns on them alone;
While many a one,—mean, pining elves!
Raise airy horrors to themselves.
Happy the man whose views ne'er stretch
To things beyond his honest reach;
Who, whether doom'd to hall or cot,
Ne'er curses Fate, or mourns his lot;
If rich—despises not the poor,
Nor drives them harshly from his door;
If low in fortune—ne'er envies
The wealthy's pomp that meets his eyes;
For oft within their bosom reigns
A raving group of nameless pains,
That ceaseless torture, growl, and fret,
And when they fall, the ruin's great;
Sinking, they eye the humble clown,
Grasp at a spade, and spurn a crown.
To things beyond his honest reach;
Who, whether doom'd to hall or cot,
Ne'er curses Fate, or mourns his lot;
If rich—despises not the poor,
Nor drives them harshly from his door;
If low in fortune—ne'er envies
The wealthy's pomp that meets his eyes;
For oft within their bosom reigns
A raving group of nameless pains,
That ceaseless torture, growl, and fret,
And when they fall, the ruin's great;
Sinking, they eye the humble clown,
Grasp at a spade, and spurn a crown.
One sunny evening, calm and fair,
A Fly that wing'd the fragrant air,
In wheeling past a village-lane,
By chance popt thro' a broken pane;
A scene that ne'er had met his sight,
He now surveys with doubtful flight;
Around the room, with airy drone,
His curious search had circling gone.
He views its bounds, and yet more bold,
Pries o'er the walls, damp, moulded, cold:
Then, pertly sneering, thus began:
‘How wretched are th'abodes of man!
How rank the smell—whoe'er comes near it,
May guess the owner's taste and spirit.’
This said, and roving round, he spies
A Fly that wing'd the fragrant air,
In wheeling past a village-lane,
By chance popt thro' a broken pane;
A scene that ne'er had met his sight,
He now surveys with doubtful flight;
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His curious search had circling gone.
He views its bounds, and yet more bold,
Pries o'er the walls, damp, moulded, cold:
Then, pertly sneering, thus began:
‘How wretched are th'abodes of man!
How rank the smell—whoe'er comes near it,
May guess the owner's taste and spirit.’
An object that engag'd his eyes.
Within a glass a moving being,
Sluggish and black; which Bizzon seeing,
Perch'd on the bottle, gaz'd with mock,
And thus the foppish flutterer spoke:
‘And what art thou, poor grov'lling creature,
Of such detested hue and feature;
That sunk amid that putrid fluid,
So closely cramm'd, so irksome bowèd,
Scarce seems to move thro' scanty water?
An ugly hulk of lifeless matter;
Shame thus to loll, while summer hours,
Invite thee forth, thro' blooming flow'rs,
Enrapt to rove; or, where the field
Of blossom'd beans their fragrance yield;
Or wanton in the noontide beam,
Or skim along the glitt'ring stream
With boundless sweep.—But thou, lone wretch!
Must here remain, till Death shall fetch
Thee from this hold, with furious ire,
And tread thy carcase in the mire:
A life like this what beast could dree,
'Twere death and worse to aught but thee.’
Thus Bizzon spoke, when from her font
The Leech uprear'd her dark-brown front,
And thus reply'd in solemn mood:
‘Know, vainest of thy useless brood!
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But listen to my humble tale:
‘Ne'er make, by outward signs, thy guess,
Nor think, tho' poor, my peace is less;
Compos'd I live, and from my bow'r
Survey the bustling world, secure;
Or when some stubborn, rank disease
Calls for my aid, to give men ease,
I glad obey, and suck the ill,
In my own breast, to save them still;
Who call me blest, while kindly filling,
From the clear brook my freshen'd dwelling;
And in my lonely mansion here,
Nor fatal bird, nor snare I fear,
That constant lurk to fix thy doom,
Ev'n while thou rambles thro' this room;
As thou may feel yet ere thou leave it,
And when 'twill be too late, believe it.’
‘Poor Wretch,’ quoth Bizzon, ‘mind thy distance,
Disgrace of all e'er dragged existence!
I scorn thy speech and slav'ry both,
Mean ugly lump of bondag'd sloth;
Now, what thou art, I plainly spy,
Blest be the power made me a Fly.’
He said—and up, exulting, springs,
To gain the fields with sounding wings;
But miss'd his mark, and ere aware,
Dash'd full into a spider's snare.
He buzz'd and tugged—the foe alarm'd,
Rush'd gloomy forth; with vengeance arm'd,
Fixes his fangs, with furious stride,
And darts the poison thro' his side.
Poor Bizzon groan'd, with quiv'ring sten,
And as Grips dragg'd him to his den,
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And shun ambition's deadly snare;
Oh! save my life!—I vain beseech;
I faint—I die—oh! happy Leech.’!
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |