Man, Cat, Dog, And Fly.

(To my Native Land.)             My native land, whose fertile ground             Neptune and Amphitrite bound, -             Britain, of trade the chosen mart,             The seat of industry and art, -             May never luxury or minister             Cast over thee a mantle sinister!             Still let thy fleet and cannon's roar             Affright thy foes and guard thy shore.             When Continental States contend,             Be thou to them a common friend.             Imperial rule may sway their land;             Here Commerce only takes her stand,             Diffusing good o'er all the world.             The flag of Commerce, where unfurled,             Stands with fair plenty in her train,             And wealth, to bless her bright domain.             For where the merchant sails to trade             Fair is the face of Nature made.             Glad is the king, in regal dome;             Glad is the rustic, in his home;             The flocks and culture glad the fields,             And Peace her boon of plenty yields.             For Nature meant that man should share             The goods abounding everywhere,             And barter corn, and oil, and wine;             The iron ore and twisted twine,             Cotton and silk, deep-bedded coal,             Be interchanged from pole to pole.             So each land's superfluities             Should bind lands by commercial ties;             And carry, from abounding stores,             The luxuries of distant shores.             The monarch and the rustic eat             Of the same harvest, the same wheat;             The artizan supplies the vest,             The mason builds the roof of rest;             The self-same iron-ores afford             The coulter of the plough and sword;             And all, from cottage to the throne,             Their common obligation own             For private and for public cause,             Protecting property and laws.             The animals were once distressed             By bitter famine, and addressed             Themselves to man to find them food,             And bound themselves in servitude;             For, whilst they starved, or whilst they fed,             Man had his lasting hoards of bread.             The cat demanded leave to sue,             "Well, Puss," says Man, "and what can you do?"             "Scatter the rats and mice," said Tib;             "And guard your grain in sack or crib.             Foe am I of the genus Mus,             Absurdly called 'ridiculus;'             Dan sop called him so, not I;             Feed me, and every mouse shall die."             Then to the starving hound, Man said:             "Well, sir, and how can you earn bread?"             "My name is Trusty," said the hound;             "And ne'er was I untrusty found.             I am not used, by self-applause,             To pander to my famished jaws;             But I am well known; if you please             To ask my character of these.             My province is to watch, and keep             The house and fold the whilst you sleep;             And thief and wolf alike shall know             I am your friend, and am their foe."             "Ah!" said the Man, "we rarely find             Trust uncorrupted with mankind.             Such services, indeed, transcend;             Pray, be my comrade and my friend."             Then to the drone he turned, and said:             "Well, sir; can you, sir, earn your bread?"             "I will explain, sir, if I can;             I am," said drone, "a gentleman.             Mechanics earn their bread - not I:             Where'er there honey is, I fly;             But, truly, it would not be fit             I should submit to toil for it:             I visit peaches, plums, and roses,             Where Beauty on a couch reposes;             I seldom fail the placid hour,             When she takes bohea in the bower;             Nor do I gather stores of pelf - ,             My object is to please myself;             And if I lay to aught pretence,             It is to ease and elegance."             "So, Mr. Drone; and have you done?             Then, from that peach, I pray, begone;             If you won't work, you shall not eat, -             That is, with me; so quit that seat.             If all the world were such as you,             We all should starve when north winds blew             But he who, with industrious zeal,             Contributes to the common weal,             Has the true secret understood             Of private and of public good.             Be off with you!" He raised his hand,             Which the vain insect dared withstand;             It smote the parasite of pride             And there the idler fell, and died.