Some sense the plant-world can't afford; And even plants have humble lives. But let me add one story still; And let me know how much your skill Of moral from its facts derives. Two Rats, seeking something to eat, found an Egg: For such folks, to have something to eat is sufficient; And seldom or never you'll find that they beg Of the gods turtle soup, or a French cook proficient. Full of appetite, nimbly they sat down to eat, And soon from the shell would have drawn out the meat, When a Fox in the distance appeared, to molest them, And a question arose, which most greatly distress'd them,-- No other, as you may suppose, but the way The Egg from Sir Reynard's keen snout to convey. To drag it behind them, or roll it on floor, To pack it behind them, or shove it before, Were the plans tried in turn, but were all tried in vain. When at length the old mother of arts[1] made it plain That, if one on his back held the Egg in his paw, The other from danger could readily draw. The plan was successful, in spite of some jolting; And we leave the two sages their pleasant meal bolting. Who shall, after this, declare That beasts devoid of reason are? For my part, I'll to beasts allow The sense that dwells in childhood's brow. Reason, from childhood's earliest years, In all its acts and ways appears; And so it seems to me quite plain That without soul there may be brain. I give to beasts a sort of mind, Compared to ours, a league behind. Some matter I would subtilise, Some matter hard to analyse, Some atoms essence, light's extract; Fire, subtlest of all things; in fact, The flames that out of wood arise Enable us to form some thought Of what the soul is. Silver lies Involved in lead. Beasts' brains are wrought So that they think and judge;--no more. They judge imperfectly. 'Tis sure No ape could ever argue. Then Above all beasts I'll place us men; For to us men a double treasure Belongs--that sense which, in some measure, To all things living here below, The wise and foolish, high and low, Is common; and that holier spirit Which men, with seraphim, inherit. And, oh! this loftier soul can fly Through all the wondrous realms of sky: On smallest point can lie at ease; And though commenced shall never cease. Things strange, but true. In infancy This soul must dim and feeble be; But ripening years its frame develop, And then it bursts the gross envelope Which still in fetters always binds, In men and beasts, the lower minds. [1] Necessity, the mother of invention. FABLE CLXXXVI. THE CORMORANT AND THE FISHES.