But Hope must have green bowers and blue skies,
And must be courted with the gauds of Spring;
Whilst Youth leans god-like on her lap, and cries,
'What shall we always do, but love and sing?'--
And Time is reckon'd a discarded thing."


LIV.

Here in my dream it made me fret to see
How Puck, the antic, all this dreary while
Had blithely jested with calamity,
With mis-timed mirth mocking the doleful style
Of his sad comrades, till it raised my bile
To see him so reflect their grief aside,
Turning their solemn looks to have a smile--
Like a straight stick shown crooked in the tide;--
But soon a novel advocate I spied.


LV.

Quoth he--"We teach all natures to fulfil
Their fore-appointed crafts, and instincts meet,--
The bee's sweet alchemy,--the spider's skill,--
The pismire's care to garner up his wheat,--
And rustic masonry to swallows fleet,--
The lapwing's cunning to preserve her nest,--
But most, that lesser pelican, the sweet
And shrilly ruddock, with its bleeding breast,