Away the fancied pleasure flies.
It flies, but, oh! too late we find
It leaves a real sting behind.
(James Merrick.)
A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long
Had cheered 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 glow-worm by his spark;
So, stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put it 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."
