The SPARROW, whose attention hung Upon the DOVE'S enchanting tongue, Of all his little slights disarm'd, And from himself by VIRTUE charm'd, When now he saw, what only seem'd, A fact, so late a fable deem'd; His soul to envy he resign'd, His hours of folly to the wind; In secret wish'd a TURTLE too, And, sighing to himself, withdrew. FABLE XV. THE FEMALE SEDUCERS. 'Tis said of WIDOW, MAID, and WIFE, That honour is a WOMAN'S life; Unhappy sex! who only claim A being in the breath of fame, Which, tainted, not the quick'ning gales That sweep SABÆA'S spicy vales, Nor all the healing sweets restore, That breathe along ARABIA'S shore. The trav'ller, if he chance to stray, May turn uncensur'd to his way; Polluted streams again are pure, And deepest wounds admit a cure; But WOMAN! no redemption knows, The wounds of honour never close. Tho' distant ev'ry hand to guide, Nor skill'd on life's tempestuous tide, If once her feeble bark recede, Or deviate from the course decreed, In vain she seeks the friendly shore, Her swifter folly flies before; The circling ports against her close, And shut the wand'rer from repose, Till by conflicting waves opprest, Her found'ring pinnace sinks to rest. Are there no off'rings to atone For but a single error?--None! Tho' WOMAN is avow'd of old No daughter of celestial mould; Her temp'ring not without allay, And form'd but of the finer clay; We challenge from the mortal dame, The strength angelic natures claim; Nay more--for sacred stories tell That ev'n immortal angels fell. Whatever fills the teeming sphere Of humid earth, and ambient air, With varying elements endu'd, Was form'd to fall, and rise renew'd. The stars no fix'd duration know; Wide oceans ebb, again to flow; The moon repletes her waning face, All-beauteous, from her late disgrace; And suns, that mourn approaching night, Refulgent rise, with new-born light. In vain may death and time subdue, While nature mints her race anew, And holds some vital spark apart, Like virtue, hid in ev'ry heart; 'Tis hence, reviving warmth is seen, To clothe a naked world in green; No longer bared by winter's cold, Again the gates of life unfold; Again each insect tries his wing, And lifts fresh pinions on the spring; Again from ev'ry latent root The bladed stem and tendril shoot, Exhaling incense to the skies, Again to perish, and to rise. And must weak WOMAN then disown The change to which a world is prone? In one meridian brightness shine, And ne'er like ev'ning suns decline? Resolv'd and firm alone?--Is this What we demand of WOMAN?--Yes!