Those Christians best deserve the name
  Who studiously make peace their aim;
  Peace both the duty and the prize
  Of him that creeps and him that flies.

      WILLIAM COWPER

  The Raven

  A Raven, while with glossy breast
  Her new-laid eggs she fondly pressed,
  And on her wickerwork high mounted,
  Her chickens prematurely counted,
  (A fault philosophers might blame
  If quite exempted from the same). 
  Enjoyed at ease the genial day;
  ’Twas April, as the bumpkins say;
  The legislature called it May. 
  But suddenly a wind, as high
  As ever swept a winter sky,
  Shook the young leaves about her ears
  And filled her with a thousand fears,
  Lest the rude blast should snap the bough,
  And spread her golden hopes below. 
  But just at eve the blowing weather
  Changed, and her fears were hushed together: 
  “And now,” quoth poor unthinking Ralph,[1]
  “’Tis over, and the brood is safe.” 
  (For Ravens, though, as birds of omen,
  They teach both conjurers and old women
  To tell us what is to befall,
  Can’t prophesy themselves at all.)
  The morning came, when Neighbour Hodge,
  Who long had marked her airy lodge,
  And destined all the treasure there
  A gift to his expecting fair,
  Climbed, like a squirrel to his dray,
  And bore the worthless prize away.

  Moral

  ’Tis Providence alone secures,
  In every change, both mine and yours: 
  Safety consists not in escape
  From dangers of a frightful shape;
  An earthquake may be bid to spare
  The man that’s strangled by a hair. 
  Fate steals along with silent tread
  Found oftenest in what least we dread,
  Frowns in the storm with angry brow,
  But in the sunshine strikes the blow.

      WILLIAM COWPER

  [1]Pronounced Rafe.

  Pairing Time Anticipated

  I shall not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau
  If birds confabulate or no;
  ’Tis clear that they were always able
  To hold discourse, at least in fable;
  And e’en the child who knows no better
  Than to interpret by the letter
  A story of a cock and bull
  Must have a most uncommon skull. 
  It chanced then on a winter day,
  But warm and bright and calm as May,
  The Birds conceiving a design
  To forestall sweet Saint Valentine,
  In many an orchard, copse and grove,
  Assembled on affairs of love,
  And with much twitter, and much chatter,
  Began to agitate the matter. 
  At length a Bullfinch, who could boast
  More years and wisdom than the most,
  Entreated, opening wide his beak,
  A moment’s liberty to speak;
  And silence publicly enjoined,
  Delivered, briefly, thus his mind—­
  “My friends!  Be cautious how ye treat
  The subject upon which we meet;
  I fear we shall have winter yet.”