A Tight-rope Dancer who, they say,
Was a great master in his way,
Was tutoring a Youth to spring
Upon the slight and yielding string,
Who, though a novice in the science,
Had in his talents great reliance,
And, as on high his steps he tried,
Thus to his sage instructor cried:
"This pole you call the counterpoise
My every attitude annoys;
I really cannot think it good
To use this cumbrous piece of wood
In such a business as ours,
An art requiring all our powers.
Why should I with this burden couple?
Am I not active, strong and supple?
So--see me try this step without it,
I'll manage better, do not doubt it--
See, 'tis not difficult at all,"
He said, and let the balance fall,
And, taking fearlessly a bound,
He tumbled headlong on the ground,
With compound fracture of the shin,
And six or seven ribs crushed in.
"Unhappy youth!" the Master said,
"What was your truest help and aid
Impediment you thought to be--
For art and method if you flee,
Believe me, ere your life is past,
This tumble will not be your last."