Thy talent, thy judgment, unto thee are given, That means thou may’st have to redeem thy fallen leaven. 140 The goldsmith’s rich art’s not by weaver possessed, By jocund vein here, there another’s distressed. Though mind’s frame and talents endowments are, all, They seem to a foe mere machines for his thrall. When sleep is departed, thoughts, talents return, One’s foe so comes back, has of war one more turn. With dawn, all our thoughts, all our talents, awake, As erst, good or bad; ere repose we could take. So carrier pigeons, wherever they’ve been, Return to their homes, quit the woodlands all green. 145 We see, thus, that all things revert to their source. Parts ever must go shares in whole’s intercourse. So soon as our bird heard that parrot’s sad state, A shudder he gave, fainted, grew stiff as slate. The merchant, on seeing this, seized with dismay, Himself dashed to earth; wished he’d been far away. His clothes rent in sorrow; his beard he plucked out; And moaned, in distress wildly sobbing, throughout: “My parrot, why, dearest, thus broken of heart? Dead art thou, now, really? So fain to depart? 150 Poor pet! Darling bird! With thee, hours I could talk. My sweetheart! My second self! Loved was thy walk. Alas for poor Polly! Where’s now his sly chat? Alas, my companion! How shall I bear that? Had Solomon seen a green parrot like mine, What pleasure had he felt in other birds’ line? Dear prattler, in whose words I took such delight! And then, thus to leave me, with naught in my sight! Thy tongue to me dearer than gold’s wealth untold; At sound of thy sweet voice my joy was tenfold.” 155