The Stag Seeing Himself In The Water.

[1]      Beside a placid, crystal flood,      A stag admired the branching wood      That high upon his forehead stood,      But gave his Maker little thanks      For what he call'd his spindle shanks.      'What limbs are these for such a head! -      So mean and slim!' with grief he said.      'My glorious heads o'ertops      The branches of the copse;      My legs are my disgrace.'      As thus he talk'd, a bloodhound gave him chase.      To save his life he flew      Where forests thickest grew.      His horns, - pernicious ornament! -      Arresting him where'er he went,      Did unavailing render      What else, in such a strife,      Had saved his precious life -      His legs, as fleet as slender.      Obliged to yield, he cursed the gear      Which nature gave him every year.      Too much the beautiful we prize;      The useful, often, we despise:      Yet oft, as happen'd to the stag,      The former doth to ruin drag.