a raven, while with glossy breast

her new-laid eggs she fondly pressed,

and on her wickerwork high mounted,

her chickens prematurely counted,

(a fault philosophers might blame

if quite exempted from the same).

enjoyed at ease the genial day;

'twas april, as the bumpkins say;

the legislature called it may.

but suddenly a wind, as high

as ever swept a winter sky,

shook the young leaves about her ears

and filled her with a thousand fears,

lest the rude blast should snap the bough,

and spread her golden hopes below.

but just at eve the blowing weather

changed, and her fears were hushed together:

"and now," quoth poor unthinking ralph,[1]

"'tis over, and the brood is safe."

(for ravens, though, as birds of omen,

they teach both conjurers and old women

to tell us what is to befall,

can't prophesy themselves at all.)

the morning came, when neighbour hodge,

who long had marked her airy lodge,

and destined all the treasure there

a gift to his expecting fair,

climbed, like a squirrel to his dray,

and bore the worthless prize away.