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The Fox and the Brambles.
A FABLE.
Before the pack for many a mile
A Fox had sped in gallant style;
But gasping with fatigue at last,
The clamorous hounds approach'd him fast;
Though painful now the toilsome race,
With draggled brush and stealthy pace
Still onward for his life he flies—
He nears the wood—before him lies
A tangled mass of thorn and bramble;
In vain beneath he tries to scramble,
So springing, heedless of his skin,
With desperate bound he leaps within.
The prickly thicket o'er him closes;
To him it seem'd a bed of roses,
As there he lay and heard around
The baying of the baffled hound.
Within that bush, his fears allay'd,
He many a sage reflection made;
“'Tis true, whene'er I stir,” he cried,
“The brambles wound my bleeding side,
“But he who seeks may seek in vain
“For perfect bliss; then why complain?
“Since, mingled in one current, flow
“Both good and evil, joy and woe;
“O! let me still with patience bear
“The evil, for the good that's there.
“Howe'er unpleasant this retreat,
“Yet every bitter has its sweet;
“The brambles pierce my skin, no doubt,
“The hounds had torn my entrails out.”
A Fox had sped in gallant style;
But gasping with fatigue at last,
The clamorous hounds approach'd him fast;
Though painful now the toilsome race,
With draggled brush and stealthy pace
Still onward for his life he flies—
He nears the wood—before him lies
A tangled mass of thorn and bramble;
In vain beneath he tries to scramble,
17
With desperate bound he leaps within.
The prickly thicket o'er him closes;
To him it seem'd a bed of roses,
As there he lay and heard around
The baying of the baffled hound.
Within that bush, his fears allay'd,
He many a sage reflection made;
“'Tis true, whene'er I stir,” he cried,
“The brambles wound my bleeding side,
“But he who seeks may seek in vain
“For perfect bliss; then why complain?
“Since, mingled in one current, flow
“Both good and evil, joy and woe;
“O! let me still with patience bear
“The evil, for the good that's there.
“Howe'er unpleasant this retreat,
“Yet every bitter has its sweet;
“The brambles pierce my skin, no doubt,
“The hounds had torn my entrails out.”
Good farmers! read, nor take amiss,
The moral which I draw from this;
Grieve not o'er gap or broken gate;
The damage small, the profit great;
The love of sport to home brings down
Your Landlord from the smoky town,
To dwell and spend his rents among
The tenantry, from whom they sprung.
Though vainly when he leads the chase,
His willing steed urged on apace,
When scent is good and hounds are fleet,
Though vainly then you shout, “Ware wheat!”
That steed, perchance, by you was bred,
And yours the corn on which he's fed;
Ah! then restrain your rising ire,
Nor rashly damn the Hunting Squire.
The moral which I draw from this;
Grieve not o'er gap or broken gate;
The damage small, the profit great;
The love of sport to home brings down
Your Landlord from the smoky town,
To dwell and spend his rents among
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Though vainly when he leads the chase,
His willing steed urged on apace,
When scent is good and hounds are fleet,
Though vainly then you shout, “Ware wheat!”
That steed, perchance, by you was bred,
And yours the corn on which he's fed;
Ah! then restrain your rising ire,
Nor rashly damn the Hunting Squire.
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