The Dying Fox.

A fox was dying, and he lay             In all the weakness of decay.             A numerous progeny, with groans,             Attended to his feeble tones:             "My crimes lie heavy on my soul;             My sons, my sons, your raids control!             Ah, how the shrieks of murdered fowl             Environ me with stunning howl!"             The hungry foxes in a ring             Looked round, but saw there no such thing:             "This is an ecstasy of brain:             We fast, dear sir, and wish in vain."             "Gluttons! restrain such wish," replied             The dying fox; "be such defied;             Inordinate desires deplore;             The more you win, you grieve the more.             Do not the dogs betray our pace,             And gins and guns destroy our race?             Old age - which few of us attain -             Now puts a period to my pain.             Would you the good name lost redeem?             Live, then, in credit and esteem."             "Good counsel, marry!" said a fox;             "And quit our mountain-dens and rocks!             But if we quit our native place,             We bear the name that marks our race;             And what our ancestry have done             Descends to us from sire to son.             Though we should feed like harmless lambs,             We should regarded be as shams;             The change would never be believed;             A name lost cannot be retrieved."             The Sire replied: "Too true; but then -             Hark! that's the cackle of a hen.             Go, but be moderate, spare the brood:             One chicken, one, might do me good."