Richmond Enquirer

THE MORNING BIRD AND THE SWALLOW.

A Collie-bee had pitched her nest
Close by a musk magnolia's crest.
And spun her silken summer thread
Nigh to a swallow's humble shed.
Peacock her plumage with envy views—
'Tis lint eclipsed his radiant hues.
See such the unfolding pink and rose—
The citron cups her banquet owes:
Her bed, (while airs she drinks the sweet,)
Wreathed foliage of white roses sweet.
Spinning so soft its dainty yarn,
She eyes our citizen unfearing—
Notes what coarse tissue swallow spun:
Sees swallow build and sit and run;
Drive in the twig and daub a nest—
Not aromatic—though caressed.
Rude twists of straw the lodging crown—
An ill-wrought mattress for eider down
As the chubby children peep,
They twitter so, you scarce can sleep.
The Collie-bee beholds them feed
On juniper berry, acorn, seed;
Blames such coarse lodging, food and bed.
And deems the bird a wretched slut:
At length accosts her—'See how fine
This bower and nest, how neat and nice—
But in your nest want scent the spice.
It pains me to survey thy cot—
So coarse and vulgar, rude and hot:
I note not what viands cram thy maw—
Their forms, huge bills and face.
See what fine clothes my darlings deck;
What downy robes, feet and neck.
Such no vulgar viands suit—
'Tis juice of blossoms, pulp of fruit,
The dainties they sup.
Nectar their food, and buds their cup?
Then dress and slumber on their bed
Of rose.'—
The swallow—'Ah, voluptuous bird,
Excessive pleasure is absurd:
Thy vagrant cradle, rocked on trees;
Fond epicure, stole from bees;
The couch of luxury's excess,
Its renown's a foe to sense
Seems many weeds on folly's fence.
To us swallows sillier seem, in truth,
Because we educate our youth:
Bring them to business, home and throng,
To plod and work, but never beg!
Prepared we expect rude ills in life,
Endure privation, snare and storm:
Taught by good habits, aims and laws,
To spread industrious wings and poise:
Poor, she is held, to plod, explore—
Employed in good forevermore.
Hence tranquil, free, and brave and kind,
Fervent in heart and firm in mind.
But thou, fond bird, the queen of bowers,
Pampering thy pets on summer flowers;
Downy as buds, and soft as plumes,
What wilt thou do when winter comes?'
The Collie-bee, in pleasure reared, absurd,
Lay soft as this vain bird.
In life's rude ills molest and roll.
Perish for want of nerve and soul!