FABLE.

THE mountain and the squirrel

Had a quarrel,

And the former called the latter, 'little prig :'

Bun replied,

You are doubtless very big,

But all sorts of things and weather

Must be taken in together

To make up a year,

And a sphere.

And I think it no disgrace

To occupy my place.

If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,

And not half so spry:

I'll not deny you make

A very pretty squirrel track;

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put ;

If I cannot carry forests on my back,

Neither can you crack a nut.

Behold the famous States

Harrying Mexico

With rifle and with knife.

Or who, with accent bolder,

Dare praise the freedom-loving mountaineer, I found by thee, O rushing Contoocook!

And in thy vallies, Agiochook!

The jackals of the negro-holder.

The God who made New Hampshire

Taunted the lofty land

With little men.

Small bat and wren

House in the oak.

If earth fire cleave

The upheaved land, and bury the folk,
The southern crocodile would grieve.

Virtue palters, right is hence,

Freedom praised but hid;

Funeral eloquence

Rattles the coffin-lid.

What boots thy zeal,

O glowing friend,

That would indignant rend

The northland from the south?

Wherefore? To what good end?

Boston Bay and Bunker Hill

Would serve things still:

Things are of the snake.

The horseman serves the horse,

The neat-herd serves the neat,
The merchant serves the purse,

The eater serves his meat;

'Tis the day of the chattel,

Web to weave, and corn to grind,

Things are in the saddle,

And ride mankind.

There are two laws discrete

Not reconciled,

Law for man, and law for thing;

The last builds town and fleet,

But it runs wild,

And doth the man unking.

"Tis fit the forest fall,

The steep be graded,

The mountain tunnelled,

The land shaded,

The orchard planted,

The globe tilled,

The prairie planted,

The steamer built.

Let man serve law for man,

Live for friendship, live for love,
For truth's and harmony's behoof;

The state may follow how it can,

As Olympus follows Jove.

Yet do not I implore

The wrinkled shopman to my sounding woods,

Nor bid the unwilling senator

Ask votes of thrushes in the solitudes.

Every one to his chosen work.

Foolish hands may mix and mar,

Wise and sure the issues are.

Round they roll, till dark is light,

Sex to sex, and even to odd;

The over-God,

Who marries Right to Might,

Who peoples, unpeoples,

He who exterminates

Races by stronger races,

Black by white faces,

Knows to bring honey