The Dying Fox.

        A fox was dying, and he lay
        In all the weakness of decay.
        A numerous progeny, with groans,
        Attended to his feeble tones:

        "My crimes lie heavy on my soul;
        My sons, my sons, your raids control!
        Ah, how the shrieks of murdered fowl
        Environ me with stunning howl!"

        The hungry foxes in a ring
        Looked round, but saw there no such thing:
        "This is an ecstasy of brain:
        We fast, dear sir, and wish in vain."

        "Gluttons! restrain such wish," replied
        The dying fox; "be such defied;
        Inordinate desires deplore;
        The more you win, you grieve the more.
        Do not the dogs betray our pace,
        And gins and guns destroy our race?
        Old age - which few of us attain -
        Now puts a period to my pain.
        Would you the good name lost redeem?
        Live, then, in credit and esteem."

        "Good counsel, marry!" said a fox;
        "And quit our mountain-dens and rocks!
        But if we quit our native place,
        We bear the name that marks our race;
        And what our ancestry have done
        Descends to us from sire to son.
        Though we should feed like harmless lambs,
        We should regarded be as shams;
        The change would never be believed;
        A name lost cannot be retrieved."

        The Sire replied: "Too true; but then -
        Hark! that's the cackle of a hen.
        Go, but be moderate, spare the brood:
        One chicken, one, might do me good."