A nightingale that all day long
Had cheer’d the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glowworm by his spark;
So stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent:
“Did _you_ admire my lamp,” quoth he,
“As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would _abhor_ to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song;
For ’twas the self same power Divine
Taught _you_ to sing and _me_ to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night.”
The songster heard his short oration,
And, warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.
—_William Cowper._
[Illustration]
If all the year were playing holidays,
To sport would be as tedious as to work.
—_William Shakespeare._