Page:Poetry of the Magyars.djvu/144

And all the lower skies, with the wrecks of pride and presumption.
Lost in the crowd, the small Wren looked on in destitute sadness:
Poor little flutterer! how should he hope to soar over his brethren?
Who would have thought that his cunning would serve him in trial far better—
Better than strength? You shall hear how ingenious his dextrous devices:
The Eagle was rising aloft—he sprung on his wing, till he mounted
High in the clouds—through the clouds; while the little Wren, silently crouching,
Rose with the Eagle, and saw the combatants vanquished beneath them—
Heard their loud voices which cried—All hail to our Sovereign and Ruler!
Pride is too confident oft, and slippery the footsteps of monarchs,
Perch'd on his pinions, the Wren soon stole all his honors imperial;
When he could speed no higher, the little Wren sprung from the Eagle―
Sprung, and singing, still soared, and claimed the homage of subjects.
Vain was his pride, reproved was his falsehood, and sadness came with it;
All the assembled tribes spurned the usurper with scoffings,