By Anne, Countess of Winchelsea

 

“Methinks the world is oddly made ,
And every things amiss,”
A dull presuming Athiest said,
As stretched he lay beneath a shade,
And instanced it in this:

“Behold,” quoth he, “that mighty thing,
A pumpkin large and round,
Is held but by a little string,
Which upwards cannot make it spring,
Or bear it from the ground;

“While on this oak an acorn grows;
That who with sense surveys this all,
This universal casual ball,
Its ill contrivance knows.

“My better judgment could have hung
The pumpkin on the tree,
And left the acorn, lightly strung,
‘Mongst things which on the surface sprung,
And small and feeble be.”

No more the caviller could say,
Nor further faults descry;
For as he upwards gazing lay,
An acorn, loosened from it’s stay,
Fell down upon his eye.

The wounded part with tears ran o’er,
As punished for the sin;
Fool! Had that bough a pumpkin bore,
Thy whimsies would have worked no more,
Nor skull have kept them in.

 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *