“If my monotony of song
  Displeases you, shall I be wrong,”
  The Cuckoo answered, “if I find
  Your comb has little to my mind? 
  Look at the cells—­through every one
  Does not unvaried sameness run? 
  Then if in me there’s nothing new,
  Dear knows, all’s old enough in you.” 
  The Bee replied:  “Hear me, my friend. 
  In works that have a useful end
  It is not always worth the while
  To seek variety in style,
  But if those works whose only views
  Are to give pleasure and amuse,
  Want either fancy or invention,
  They fail of gaining their intention.”

  The Rope Dancer and His Pupil

  A Tight-rope Dancer who, they say,
  Was a great master in his way,
  Was tutoring a Youth to spring
  Upon the slight and yielding string,
  Who, though a novice in the science,
  Had in his talents great reliance,
  And, as on high his steps he tried,
  Thus to his sage instructor cried: 
  “This pole you call the counterpoise
  My every attitude annoys;
  I really cannot think it good
  To use this cumbrous piece of wood
  In such a business as ours,
  An art requiring all our powers. 
  Why should I with this burden couple? 
  Am I not active, strong and supple? 
  So—­see me try this step without it,
  I’ll manage better, do not doubt it—­
  See, ’tis not difficult at all,”
  He said, and let the balance fall,
  And, taking fearlessly a bound,
  He tumbled headlong on the ground,
  With compound fracture of the shin,
  And six or seven ribs crushed in.

  “Unhappy youth!” the Master said,
  “What was your truest help and aid
  Impediment you thought to be—­
  For art and method if you flee,
  Believe me, ere your life is past,
  This tumble will not be your last.”

  The Squirrel and the Horse

  A Squirrel, on his hind legs raised,
  Upon a noble Charger gazed,
  Who docile to the spur and rein,
  Went through his menage on the plain;
  Now seeming like the wind to fly,
  Now gracefully curvetting by. 
  “Good Sir,” the little Tumbler said,
  And with much coolness, scratched his head,
  “In all your swiftness, skill and spirit,
  I do not see there’s much of merit,
  For, all you seem so proud to do,
  I can perform, and better too;
  I’m light and nimble, brisk and sprightly,
  I trot, and skip, and canter lightly,
  Backward and forward—­here and there,
  Now on the earth—­now in the air—­
  From bough to bough—­from hill to hill,
  And never for a moment still.” 
  The Courser tossed his head on high;
  And made the Squirrel this reply: 
  “My little nimble jealous friend,
  Those turns and tumbles without end—­
  That hither, thither, restless springing—­
  Those ups and downs and leaps and swinging—­
  And other feats more wondrous far,
  Pray tell me, of what use they are? 
  But what I do, this praise may claim—­
  My master’s service is my aim,
  And laudably I use for him
  My warmth of blood and strength of limb.”