Dull are the pretty slaves, their plumage dull, Ragged, and all its brightening lustre lost;
Nor is that sprightly wildness in their notes, Which, clear and vigorous, warbles from the beech. Oh then, ye friends of love and love-taught song, Spare the soft tribes, this barbarous art forbear! If on your bosom innocence can win,
Music engage, or piety persuade.
But let not chief the nightingale lament Her ruin'd care, too delicately fram'd
To brook the harsh confinement of the cage. Oft when, returning with her loaded bill, The astonish'd mother finds a vacant nest, By the hard hand of unrelenting clowns Robb'd, to the ground the vain provision falls; Her pinions ruffle, and, low-drooping, scarce Can bear the mourner to the poplar shade, Where all abandon'd to despair she sings
Her sorrows through the night; and, on the bough Sole-sitting, still at every dying fall
Takes up again her lamentable strain
Of winding woe, till wide around the woods
Sigh to her song, and with her wail resound.
But now the feather'd youth their former bounds, Ardent, disdain; and, weighing oft their wings, Demand the free possession of the sky.
This one glad office more, and then dissolves Parental love at once, now needless grown : Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain.
'Tis on some evening, sunny, grateful, mild, When nought but balm is breathing through the woods, With yellow lustre bright, that the new tribes
Visit the spacious heavens, and look abroad
On Nature's common, far as they can see
Or wing their range and pasture. O'er the boughs
Dancing about, still at the giddy verge
Their resolution fails-their pinions still,
In loose libration stretch'd, to trust the void Trembling refuse-till down before them fly
The parent guides, and chide, exhort, command, Or push them off. The surging air receives The plumy burden; and their self-taught wings Winnow the waving element. On ground
Alighted, bolder up again they lead,
Farther and farther on, the lengthening flight; Till, vanish'd every fear, and every power Rous'd into life and action, light in air The acquitted parents see their soaring race, And, once rejoicing, never know them more. High from the summit of a craggy cliff, Hung o'er the deep, such as amazing frowns On utmost Kilda's1 shore, whose lonely race Resign the setting sun to Indian worlds,
The royal eagle draws his vigorous young ; Strong-pounc'd, and ardent with paternal fire. Now fit to raise a kingdom of their own,
He drives them from his fort, the towering seat, For ages, of his empire; which, in peace, Unstain'd he holds, while many a league to sea He wings his course, and preys in distant isles. Should I my steps turn to the rural seat, Whose lofty elms and venerable oaks
Invite the rook, who high amid the boughs,
In early Spring, his airy city builds,
And ceaseless caws amusive—there, well-pleas'd,
I might the various polity survey
And, arching proud his neck, with oary feet Bears forward fierce, and guards his osier-isle, Protective of his young. The turkey nigh,
Loud-threatening, reddens; while the peacock spreads His every-colour'd glory to the sun,
And swims in radiant majesty along.
O'er the whole homely scene, the cooing dove Flies thick in amorous chase, and wanton rolls The glancing eye, and turns the changeful neck. While thus the gentle tenants of the shade Indulge their purer loves, the rougher world Of brutes, below, rush furious into flame And fierce desire. Through all his lusty veins The bull, deep-scorch'd, the raging passion feels. Of pasture sick, and negligent of food,
Scarce seen, he wades among the yellow broom, While o'er his ample sides the rambling sprays Luxuriant shoot; or through the mazy wood Dejected wanders, nor the enticing bud Crops, though it presses on his careless sense. And oft, in jealous maddening fancy wrapt, He seeks the fight; and, idly butting, feigns
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