A Fable.

A raven, while with glossy breast     Her new-laid eggs she fondly pressd,     And, on her wicker-work high mounted,     Her chickens prematurely counted     (A fault philosophers might blame,     If quite exempted from the same),     Enjoyd at ease the genial day;     Twas April, as the bumpkins say,     The legislature calld it May.     But suddenly a wind, as high     As ever swept a winter sky,     Shook the young leaves about her ears,     And filld 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     And all her fears were hushd together:     And now, quoth poor unthinking Ralph.     Tis over, and the brood is safe;     (For ravens, though, as birds of omen,     They teach both conjurors and old women     To tell us what is to befall,     Cant prophesy themselves at all.)     The morning came, when neighbour Hodge,     Who long had markd her airy lodge,     And destined all the treasure there     A gift to his expecting fair,     Climbd 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 thats strangled by a hair.     Fate steals along with silent tread,     Found oftnest in what least we dread,     Frowns in the storm with angry brow,     But in the sunshine strikes the blow.