POEMS.
THE KITE ; OR, PRIDE MUST HAVE A FALL.
My waking dreams are best conceal d ;
Much folly, little good they yield ;
But now and then I gain, when sleeping,
A friendly hint, that s worth the keeping ;
Lately I dream d of one who cried,
" Beware of self, beware of pride ;
When you are prone to build a Babel,
Recall to mind this little fable."
ONCE on a time a paper kite
Was mounted to a wondrous height,
Where, giddy with its elevation,
It thus express d self-admiration :
"See how yon crowds of gazing people
Admire my flight above the steeple ;
How would they wonder if they knew
All that a kite like me can do ?
Were I but free, I d take a flight,
And pierce the clouds beyond their sight
But, ah ! like a poor pris ner bound,
My string confines me near the ground :
I d brave the eagle s towering wing
Might I but fly without a string."
It tugg d and pull d, while thus it spoke,
To break the string at last it broke.
Deprived at once of all its stay,
In vain it tried to soar away ;
Unable its own weight to bear,
It flutter d downward through the air;
Unable its own course to guide,
The winds soon plunged it in the tide.
