The Magpie and The Peacock

SENSE is a treasure; so is gold,
Which, miser-like, we should not hold,
Nor suffer knaves, before our face,
To plunder it, to our disgrace;
For what of both they can purloin,
They use as if their proper coin.
'Tis truly said, those who are wise,
Are seldom known to exercise
Their tongues in ev'ry light debate;
Thus their decision comes with weight.
        A Magpie, vain with some pretence--
For she had knowledge and good sense--

Was so impatient to display,
That folly seem'd to bear the sway;
While sense, like persons in a throng,
Was scarcely seen to pass along;
Whereas had she been quite alone,
She had been visible, and known.
Sense must, from folly, ever be
Unblended to eternity;
Mixed, like the conjurer's ball,
Sense cannot be perceiv'd at all.
        A struting Peacock, proud and vain
Of golden fringe that edg'd his train,
Exulting in each glowing tint,
That form'd the shaded spots distinct,
And neck, in which gold green and blue
Shone lovely in each tinge and hue,
With stately charms came unaware,
And struck the Magpie with his glare.
To shine with beauty like to his,
No hope, no chance was left for this.

But then to shine by sense and wit,
Was no hard task, and not unfit.
Not Newton, with a clearer eye,
Could view each gradiating die.
But praise was here her last design;
She meant to sparkle in her line;
And quickly found she time to say,
Nothing was permanantly gay:
Nature ordain'd nought to remain
Long in a glitt'ring, flaunting strain;
Nor charms it like the sober scene,
Which soothes, while gayer gives the spleen.
She next threw out some learned hints:
Colour was nought but vary'd tints
Reflected from the solar ray,
Which ignorance calls fine, and gay;
Some bodies would reflect the light,
And some absorb it, like the night;
Black mix'd with white she chose to wear,
Not wishing to make people stare.

        In answer to this tedious theme,
The Peacock gave a hideous scream;
And, inattentive to the sound,
Spreading his tail, he turn'd around
To catch the many mingling rays,
The pratling pedant to amaze.
The small birds did not warble sweet,
But gave a most contemptuous tweet,
Envy's snakes being seen to pass,
And heard to hiss beneath the grass.
Maggy knew the jeering titter,
And return'd a scornful twitter,
By which her thoughts were well convey'd
'Gainst vanity, and false parade.
        Eyeing the Peacock with disdain,
She cry'd--"I'll not the truth explain;
"I'll turn my future thoughts on pelt,
"And keep my learning to myself.

MORAL.

To aim at Wisdom's prize, is vain,
While we're too eager to obtain.
Let Knowledge run a sober pace,
She'll never fail to win the race,
Nor to her triumph add beside,
By getting start of saucy Pride.
Those that first set off too fast,
Are often distanc'd at the last.

Original fables by a Lady

Printed by W. Calvert, Shire Lane, Lincoln's Inn, for B. Crosby and Co. London, 1810

To your Royal Highness the following Fables are dedicated, with a wish that in an interval of leisure some transient amusement may be obtained.