An ostrich o'er the desert wide,
With upturned beak and jaunty stride,
In stately, self-sufficient pride,
One day was gently roaming.
When--dreadful sound to ostrich ears,
To ostrich mind the worst of fears--
Our desert champion thinks he hears
The dreaded hunter coming.
Ill-fated bird! He might have fled:
Those legs of his would soon have sped
That flossy tail--that lofty head--
Far, far away from danger.
But--fatal error of his race--
In sandy bank he hid his face,
And thought by this to evade the chase
Of the ostrich-bagging ranger.
So he who, like the ostrich vain,
Is ign'rant, and would so remain,
Of what folks do, it's very plain
In folly's road he's walking.
For if in sand you hide your head
Just to escape that which you dread,
And, seeing not, say danger's fled:
'Tis worse than childish talking.
"I'D CHOOSE TO BE A NIGHTINGALE."
Answer to a Poem which appeared in a daily paper, with the above title,
signed "Mary" (Llandovery.)
Gentle Mary! Do you know
What it is you crave?
Listen! As the flowers grow
O'er the dismal grave,
So, when sweetest sings the bird
Thou would'st like to be,
When in twilight's hour is heard
The magic melody,
Harshly comes the cruel thorn
Against the songster's breast,
And melting music thus is born
Of pain and sad unrest (_a_)
So if like Philomel thou'dst sing,
And happiness impart,
Thy breast must bear the cruel sting
That haunts the songster's heart.
(_a_) There is a poetic legend, which says that when the Nightingale
sings the sweetest, it presses its breast against a thorn.