Classic Poem

A Marsh-bred Toad, intent to shun
The fervours of a tropic sin,
Entered a blooming arborous bower,
Where hung suspended from a flower
The Collibree—that plumed sprite,
Who takes his name from locks of light.
Words cannot paint the varied rays
Which on that elfin's frontlet blaze;
The pendent plumes that formed his tail
Wave in the scarcely breathing gale,
More exquisitely light and rare
Than beard of corn or maiden hair;
While topazes with rubies blent.
Rich lustre to his raiment lent.
Sir Toad, who, though a harmless creature,
Possessed no very handsome feature,
Struck with dire envy at the sight
Of that gay, glancing, glittering sprite,
Now seemed by contrast doubly curst,
Possessed of every creature's worst.
No brother cramped beneath the harrow,
No birdling tortured by an arrow,
E'er felt such pangs as this poor Toad,
Through envy's dart—dejection's load;
While heaved with sighs his leathern breast,
He thus his rankling grief exprest:
‘O Nature, why hast thou conferred
Such splendour on a useless bird?
Why dost thou prodigally shower
Thy gifts on shell, and plant, and flower—
To me, to me alone, denied
The bloom of youth and beauty's pride?’
But see, what glances like a star,
A spangle shot from Luna's car!
No eye could tell from whence it came,
'Tis quivering like a lambent flame
In breezy air: it settles now,
With azure crown upon its brow,
That glances loveliest purple light;
A robe with glittering tissue dight,
Where emeralds into sapphires play,
To form a jeweled rainbow gay;
And stomacher of purest sheen,
Bedropped with eyes of golden green.
Behold the beamy sylph alight
Beside that ruby-vested sprite,
Who swelled with anger at the view,
And shrieked aloud, ‘Hence, goblin blue!
A thousand blossoms round us glow,
In one of these thy form bestow,
But this datura's spotless shrine
To earthly bird I'll ne'er resign’.
‘Fierce, fiery fright!’ the sparkler screamed,
‘If twice ten thousand blossoms gleamed
Within my reach, I'd ne'er retreat,
Through fear a mortal foe to meet.
Wert thou the eagle, paltry elf,
I'd bid thee fly, or guard thyself!’
The ruffled plumes, erected crest,
And swelling throat, their wrath exprest.
Can tiniest birds such passions know?
Does fire in downy bosoms glow?
In fight the fairy foes engage,
They dart their bills in deadly rage;
Those bills, as keen as tempered steel,
Give wounds no living wight can heal;
And rivulets of blood must flow,
To stain the fair datura's snow;
For triumph, not for her they die,
As breathless on her breast they lie;
While death itself but feebly tames
The splendour of those fairy frames.
Sir Toad beheld the dire event
With less of sorrow than content;
‘Fine feathers make fine birds’, cried he,
‘Superior sense is left to me;
I'd ne'er consent to shed my blood,
For all the treasures of the mud’.
The heart that sinks and inly pines
Because another brighter shines,
Is sure within its depths to hide
Vain-glorious thoughts and sullen pride;
E'en Pity's self is chilled to death,
When touched by Envy's baleful breath.