Fables in Song :: :: University of Virginia Library

A little Penknife, with sore toil and pain,
In unskill'd hands, was desperately trying
To smooth a great rough plank against the grain.
“Cease, little fool!” that frustrate labour spying,

A Plane exclaim'd “I'll show thee how to do it!”
And gallopading up and down, he raced
Nimbly along the plank, as tho' he knew it
And found the rough work pleasant to his taste.

Like curdling foam, small shavings here and there
Bubbled; and where the swift Plane flitted o'er
The hard wood, waxing bald, its shaven hair
In yellow ringlets floated to the floor;

Leaving reveal'd, in delicate design,
The section'd surface of each wavy vein
And rosin-colour'd ring with fringes fine.
Then, proudly pausing, “There now!” cried the
Plane.

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“How shall I ever thank thee, friend, enough?”
The Penknife, much admiring, made reply,
And from his tender blade some notches rough
He wiped, like teardrops from a grateful eye.

“Thou shalt not thank me, little fool, at all;
But do thy proper work as I do mine.”
The Plane in accents magisterial
Said to the Penknife. “Carve thou figures fine

“In lucid maple; or, at most essay
Thy tender tooth on the ambitious box,
That deems himself as brave, in his own way,
As elephantine ivory. On blocks

“Of his unfeatured flesh do thou engrave
Rare pictures delicate with dainty lines.
To beautify some poet's gentle page,
Or solace Science with mysterious signs:

“Or round about some richly-foliaged frame
Wreath, rope, and cherub, sculpture, gay with gold,
To enshrine the image of a high-born dame
Limn'd by the painter's peerless art of old.

“For this thou canst do, and this cannot I.
And in our family the rule holds good
That each must do his best to justify
Steel's born superiority to wood.

135

“The Axe, our father, in the forest wages
Stout battle with the centenary oaks;
And they, the giants of a hundred ages,
Sink groaning underneath his sturdy strokes.

“Ho! ho! the crash, when the old warrior goes
In at them, and their rattling harness, plied
By his reiterated ponderous blows,
Bursts into faggots! That is iron's pride.

“The Saw, our mother, when she's set agoing
Goes thro' it bravely, with a right good will.
Once let her show her teeth, and there's no knowing
What dust she'll make about her in the mill.

“The lazy trees that lounged about the wood
And scarce bestirr'd themselves the whole day long,
She turns to trusty planks for service good.
I, the strong firstborn of our parents strong,

“Less strong than they are, am yet strong enough
To finish the good work by them begun.
Too tender thou art for such labour tough.
Thou, brother, thou, the old couple's youngest son,

“Since strength thou hast for nothing else, be thou
At least an artist. We are of the few
Born each, to make a mark i' th' world, and show
There's metal in us. To thy birth be true.”

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MORAL.

Plain-spoken the Plane is,
And somewhat o'erweening
But noble his strain is,
Since noble its meaning.

Noble utility
Only is able
To boast the nobility
Praised in this fable.