A MILLIONAIRE of much pretence, Of great conceit, and little sense— For ignorance, as oft we see, Walks hand in hand with vanity— A @3savant@1 in his own esteem, In every art a judge supreme, Of genius gold he thought the test, And wealth with taste and talent blest. Assembled round his table sit Men fam'd for science and for wit. No artist could his sketch complete Till he had laid it at his feet; No sculptor could a Venus cast Till compass he had o'er it pass'd; The architect his plans outspread; The author there his poem read. Their voices they in chorus raise His judgment and his taste to praise; And while he feasts them, one and all Their patron a Mæcenas call. One noon, as, 'neath the forest spray, He rambled in the month of May, A Woodman his attendant guide, Whose head with brains was well supplied; Behold! a boar, who now with toil Of snout upturn'd the forest soil, Now deep in earth was seen to wedge His tusk, to give it keener edge; Around him, fluttering as he plough'd, The wood-birds carroll'd sweet and loud; From forest-tree, from hawthorn-bush, Came linnet, nightingale, and thrush; Where'er he roam'd the tuneful throng Pursued him with unceasing song. The brute, a connoisseur profound In music, listen'd to the sound, Now raised his head, as if to tell The birds he liked their voices well, Now shook it in disapprobation While he resumed his occupation. "They choose," said Dives, "much amiss, An animal so gross as this; Their music and themselves they wrong To make this brute a judge of song." "Excuse me," said the Woodman, "they But show the tact which men display; The soil upturn'd, his grovelling snout Brings many a dainty morsel out; 'Tis that which tunes their hungry throats, And prompts the music of their notes; The labour of his tusk they need Fresh worms to find on which they feed, The brute, with much self-satisfaction Deems his own merit the attraction." |