A boy who savour'd of his school,-- A double rogue and double fool,-- By youth and by the privilege Which pedants have, by ancient right, To alter reason, and abridge,-- A neighbour robb'd, with fingers light, Of flowers and fruit. This neighbour had, Of fruits that make the autumn glad, The very best--and none but he. Each season brought, from plant and tree, To him its tribute; for, in spring, His was the brightest blossoming. One day, he saw our hopeful lad Perch'd on the finest tree he had, Not only stuffing down the fruit, But spoiling, like a Vandal brute, The buds that play advance-courier Of plenty in the coming year. The branches, too, he rudely tore, And carried things to such a pass, The owner sent his servant o'er To tell the master of his class. The latter came, and came attended By all the urchins of his school, And thus one plunderer's mischief mended By pouring in an orchard-full. It seems the pedant was intent On making public punishment, To teach his boys the force of law, And strike their roguish hearts with awe. The use of which he first must show From Virgil and from Cicero, And many other ancients noted, From whom, in their own tongues, he quoted. So long, indeed, his lecture lasted, While not a single urchin fasted, That, ere its close, their thievish crimes Were multiplied a hundred times. I hate all eloquence and reason Expended plainly out of season. Of all the beasts that earth have cursed While they have fed on't, The school-boy strikes me as the worst-- Except the pedant. The better of these neighbours two For me, I'm sure, would never do. VI.--THE SCULPTOR AND THE STATUE OF JUPITER. A block of marble was so fine, To buy it did a sculptor hasten. 'What shall my chisel, now 'tis mine-- A god, a table, or a basin?' 'A god,' said he, 'the thing shall be; I'll arm it, too, with thunder. Let people quake, and bow the knee With reverential wonder.' So well the cunning artist wrought All things within a mortal's reach, That soon the marble wanted nought Of being Jupiter, but speech. Indeed, the man whose skill did make Had scarcely laid his chisel down, Before himself began to quake, And fear his manufacture's frown. And even this excess of faith The poet once scarce fell behind, The hatred fearing, and the wrath, Of gods the product of his mind. This trait we see in infancy Between the baby and its doll, Of wax or china, it may be-- A pocket stuff'd, or folded shawl. Imagination rules the heart: And here we find the fountain head From whence the pagan errors start, That o'er the teeming nations spread.