The Peasant and Ant: A Fable

The fields were ripen'd all around,
And Ceres' head with corn was crown'd;
Pomona with her fruits array'd,
And Plenty (coy, much-envied maid)
Her horn of bounty careless held,
And dropp'd a gift in ev'ry field.
A peasant, walking thro' the grain,
Was heard to murmur and complain:
His face was wan and meagre grown,
And hunger stamp'd him with a frown.

A laden ant was passing by,
And with her small insectic eye,
She look'd upon the abject man,
And, with revilings, thus began:

"Art not asham'd, ungrateful clown,
Amongst such crops thy wants to own,
Whilst smiling plenty round thee stands,
Inviting thy unwilling hands.
Thou poor incorrigible knave,
Thy sloth will bring thee to the grave.
Benevolence is thrown away
On such as thou art, ev'ry day.
How canst thou ever think to thrive,
Except with industry thou'lt strive
To help thyself, when there is giv'n
Before thine eyes such stores from heav'n?
Had I one opportunity
Like this, I'd lay such plenty by,
In such a season I'd provide
Enough for all my days beside.
But I'm oblig'd each day to roam
Many a furlong from my home,
And cry, good luck, whene'er I pick
From off the ground a single stick;
Or, in some long and rutty lane,
I find by chance a single grain.
Had I the art, and strength, like you,
To reap, to thresh, to bake, and brew,
I would not murmur or complain
At winter's snow or summer's rain,
Which heav'n in each season sends,
To answer all its wiser ends."

"Thou boasting thing, (the clown reply'd,)
Thou little crawling piece of pride,
Or stop thy foul reproaching breath,
This moment else shall be thy death;
For all thy counsel's mere pretence,
To shew thy mighty share of sense,
Thy industry and insolence.
Thou would'st not in this manner prate,
Wert thou, like me, of human state;
Were what I've reap'd, and what I've sown,
Like what thou gather'st, all my own,
My barns should ev'ry one be stor'd,
And I, as well as thee, would hoard.—
I own the seasons plenty send,
Were men, like ants, each other's friend;
I would not now come murm'ring here,
Were food and raiment not so dear.
Those times you sure must own are bad,
When there's no victuals to be had;
When Nature sends her stores at large,
And Earth does all her gifts discharge.—
'Tis not by God, but man deny'd,
Who feasts in luxury and pride:
For see, yon infant, starving, dies,
With all this bounty 'fore his eyes."