The Ants

So when the ants, a small industrious train, Embodied rob some golden heap of grain, Studious, ere stormy winter frowns, to lay Safe in their darksome cells the treasur'd prey: In one long track the dusky legions lead Their prize in triumph, thro' the verdant mead; Here bending with the load, a panting throng, With force conjoin'd, heave some huge grain along; Some lash the stragglers to the task assign'd, Some to their ranks the bands that lag behind; They croud the peopled path in thick array, Glow at the work, and darken all the way.

HOW bless'd the man, who, like these insects, wise, Exerts his powers to lay up Heav'nly food; Convinc'd, that nought like this beneath the skies Deserves his care, and ought to be pursu'd.

WOULD you in safety plough th' inconstant tide, The helm let prudence ever watchful guide. She shuns the deep, where mountain-billows roar, And shuns alike the shallows and the shore. The few, by precept or experience wise, Who know the mean, the golden mean, to prize, With equal scorn reject a sordid state, And the gilt sorrows of the vainly great. Fix'd in that point, where all the virtues rest, Between th' extremes with peaceful pleasure blest, They know to curb irregular desires. When av'rice tempts them, or ambition fires.