Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, FABLE: THE FARMER AND THE HORSE, by NATHANIEL COTTON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

FABLE: THE FARMER AND THE HORSE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Tis a vain world, and all things show it
Last Line: But take the world as he shall find it.'
Subject(s): Animals; Fables; Farm Life; Horses; Allegories; Agriculture; Farmers


''TIS a vain world, and all things show it,
I thought so once, but now I know it.'
Ah! GAY! is thy poetic page
The child of disappointed age?
Talk not of threescore years and ten,
For what avails our knowledge then?
But grant, that this experienc'd truth
Were ascertain'd in early youth;
Reader what benefit would flow?
I vow, I'm at a loss to know.
The world alarms the human breast,
Because in savage colours drest.
'Tis treated with invective style,
And stands impeach'd of fraud and guile.
All in this heavy charge agree—
But who's in fault—the world, or we?
The question's serious, short, and clear,
The answer claims our patient ear.
Yet if this office you decline—
With all my heart—the task be mine.
I'm certain, if I do my best,
Your candour will excuse the rest.
A Farmer, with a pensive brow,
One morn accompanied his plough.
The larks their cheerful matins sung,
The woods with answering music rung;
The sun display'd his golden ray,
And Nature hail'd the rising day.
But still the peasant all the while
Refus'd to join the general smile.
He, like his fathers long before,
Resembled much the Jews of yore;
Whose murmurs impious, weak, and vain,
Nor quails nor manna could restrain.
Did accidental death prevail?
How prone to tell his piteous tale!
Pregnant with joys did plenty rise?
How prone to blame indulgent skies!
Thus ever ready to complain,
For plenty sinks the price of grain.
At length he spake:—'Ye powers divine,
Was ever lot so hard as mine?
From infant life an arrant slave,
Close to the confines of the grave.
Have not I follow'd my employ
Near threescore winters, man and boy?
But since I call'd this farm my own,
What scenes of sorrow have I known!
Alas! if all the truth were told,
Hath not the rot impair'd my fold?
Hath not the measles seiz'd my swine?
Hath not the murrain slain my kine?
Or say that horses be my theme,
Hath not the staggers thinn'd my team?
Have not a thousand ills beside
Depriv'd my stable of its pride?
'When I survey my lands around,
What thorns and thistles spread my ground?
Doth not the grain my hopes beguile,
And mildews mock the thrasher's toil?
However poor the harvests past,
What so deficient as the last!
But though nor blasts, nor mildews rise,
My turnips are destroy'd by flies;
My sheep are pin'd to such degree,
That not a butcher comes to me.
'Seasons are chang'd from what they were,
And hence too foul, or hence too fair.
Now scorching heat and drought annoy,
And now returning showers destroy.
Thus have I pass'd my better years
'Midst disappointments, cares, and tears.
And now, when I compute my gains,
What have I reap'd for all my pains?
'Oh! had I known in manhood's prime
These slow convictions wrought by time;
Would I have brav'd the various woes
Of summer suns and winter snows?
Would I have tempted every sky,
So wet, so windy, or so dry?
With all the elements at strife?
Ah! no—I then had plann'd a life,
Where wealth attends the middle stage,
And rest and comfort wait on age:
Where rot and murrain ne'er commence,
Nor pastures burn at my expence;
Nor injur'd cows their wants bewail,
Nor dairies mourn the milkless pail;
Nor barns lament the blasted grain,
Nor cattle curse the barren plain.'
Dun hobbled by his master's side,
And thus the sober brute replied:—
'Look through your team, and where's the steed
Who dares dispute with me his breed?
Few horses trace their lineage higher,
Godolphin's Arab was my sire;
My dam was sprung from Panton's stud,
My grandam boasted Childers' blood.
But ah! it now avails me not
By what illustrious chief begot!
Spavins pay no regard to birth,
And failing vision sinks my worth.
The Squire, when he disgusted grew,
Transferr'd his property to you.
And since poor Dun "became your own,
What scenes of sorrow have I known!"
Hath it not been my constant toil,
To drag the plough, and turn the soil?
Are not my bleeding shoulders wrung
By large and weighty loads of dung?
When the shorn meadows claim your care,
And fragrant cocks perfume the air;
When Ceres' ripen'd fruits abound,
And Plenty waves her sheaves around;
True to my collar, home I bear
The treasures of the fruitful year.
And though this drudgery be mine,
You never heard me once repine.
'Yet what rewards have crown'd my days?
I'm grudg'd the poor reward of praise.
For oats small gratitude I owe,
Beans were untasted joys, you know.
And now I'm hastening to my end,
Past services can find no friend.
Infirmities, disease, and age,
Provoke my surly driver's rage.
Look to my wounded flanks, you'll see
No horse was ever us'd like me.
'But now I eat my meals with pain,
Averse to masticate the grain.
Hence you direct, at night and morn,
That chaff accompany my corn;
For husks, although my teeth be few,
Force my reluctant jaws to chew.
What then? of life shall I complain,
And call it fleeting, false, and vain?
Against the world shall I inveigh,
Because my grinders now decay?
'You think it were the wiser plan,
Had I consorted ne'er with man;
Had I my liberty maintain'd,
Or liberty by flight regain'd,
And rang'd o'er distant hills and dales
With the wild foresters of Wales.
'Grant I succeeded to my mind—
Is happiness to hills confin'd?
Don't famine oft erect her throne
Upon the rugged mountain's stone?
And don't the lower pastures fail,
When snows descending choke the vale?
Or who so hardy to declare
Disease and death ne'er enter there?
'Do pains or sickness here invade?
Man tenders me his cheerful aid.
For who beholds his hungry beast,
But grants him some supply at least?
Interest shall prompt him to pursue
What inclination would not do.
'Say, had I been the desert's foal,
Through life estrang'd to man's control;
What service had I done on earth,
Or who could profit by my birth?
My back had ne'er sustain'd thy weight,
My chest ne'er known thy waggon's freight;
But now my several powers combine
To answer Nature's ends and thine.
I'm useful thus in every view—
Oh! could I say the same of you!
'Superior evils had ensued,
With prescience had I been endued.
Ills, though at distance seen, destroy,
Or sicken every present joy.
We relish every new delight,
When future griefs elude our sight.
To blindness then what thanks are due!
It makes each single comfort two.
The colt, unknown to pain and toil,
Anticipates to-morrow's smile.
Yon lamb enjoys the present hour,
As stranger to the butcher's power.
'Your's is a wild Utopian scheme,
A boy would blush to own your dream.
Be your profession what it will,
No province is exempt from ill:
Quite from the cottage to the throne,
Stations have sorrows of their own.
Why should a peasant then explore
What longer heads ne'er found before?
Go, preach my doctrine to your son,
By your's, the lad would be undone.
But whether he regards or not,
Your lecture would be soon forgot.
The hopes which gull'd the parent's breast,
Ere long will make his son their jest.
Though now these cobweb cheats you spurn,
Yet every man's a dupe in turn.
And wisely so ordain'd, indeed,
(Whate'er philosophers may plead.)
Else life would stagnate at its source,
And Man and Horse decline the course.
'Then bid young Ralpho never mind it,
But take the world as he shall find it.'





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