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A Scythian philosopher austere,
Resolved his rigid life somewhat to cheer,
Perform’d the tour of Greece, saw many things,
But, best, a sage,–one such as Virgil sings,–
A simple, rustic man, that equal’d kings;
From whom, the gods would hardly bear the palm;
Like them unawed, content, and calm.
His fortune was a little nook of land;
And there the Scythian found him, hook in hand,
His fruit-trees pruning. Here he cropp’d
A barren branch, there slash’d and lopp’d,
Correcting Nature everywhere,
Who paid with usury his care.
‘Pray, why this wasteful havoc, sir?’–
So spoke the wondering traveller;
‘Can it, I ask, in reason’s name,
Be wise these harmless trees to maim?
Fling down that instrument of crime,
And leave them to the scythe of Time.
Full soon, unhasten’d, they will go
To deck the banks of streams below.’
Replied the tranquil gardener,
‘I humbly crave your pardon, sir;
Excess is all my hook removes,
By which the rest more fruitful proves.’
The philosophic traveller,–
Once more within his country cold,–
Himself of pruning-hook laid hold,
And made a use most free and bold;
Prescribed to friends, and counsel’d neighbours
To imitate his pruning labours.
The finest limbs he did not spare,
But pruned his orchard past all reason,
Regarding neither time nor season,
Nor taking of the moon a care.
All wither’d, droop’d, and died.

This Scythian I set beside
The indiscriminating Stoic.
The latter, with a blade heroic,
Retrenches, from his spirit sad,
Desires and passions, good and bad,
Not sparing e’en a harmless wish.
Against a tribe so Vandalish
With earnestness I here protest.
They maim our hearts, they stupefy
Their strongest springs, if not their best;
They make us cease to live before we die.