University of Virginia Library

THE THRUSH AND THE OWLS.

A FABLE.

A modest thrush, soft foe to art,
Oft charming the poetic heart;
Who, sweetest of the feather'd throng,
Warbled at eve his melting song;
Or, hail'd the dawn's first blushing ray,
With gratitude's ecstatic lay,
The wild wood echoes, list'ning nigh,
Would ev'ry mellow note reply;
And lov'd the sound so simply sweet,
In native energy complete;
Yet envy mark'd our sylvan bard,
Envy, the fairest breast's reward;
Envy, the shade of purest light,
Tainting with flaws the jewel bright!
In a dark barn, that border'd near,
Three grave birds liv'd, in gloom severe,
On critic tree, and fam'd for malice,
Grim as three felons on a gallows;
Like wretches plotting mischief still,
Prepar'd to scandalize or kill,
Yet daws and ravens styled those fowls,
Most witty, venerable owls.
Birds of a feather, always fit,
And take plain ignorance for wit.
Now, ever when our hero-thrush
Would harmonize his tenant bush,
Thrilling the tender tale of love,
That call'd the twinkling stars above
From their bright spheres, and bade them lean
Attentive o'er the still serene,
Those elves malicious, elves absurd,
Hermaphrodites of cat and bird,
With shrill to-hoo's came sweeping by,
With leathern wing and stupid eye,
Wheeling and rustling, till they marr'd
The music of our rural bard;
Who, frighted by th' ungracious clutter,
Clos'd his sweet vespers with a flutter,
Disdaining long to swell their pride
(For, innocent, he all defy'd!)
He no remonstrance fram'd, but fled
In shades to hide his injur'd head.
At last, by wrongs repeated wounded,
Their empty nonsense he confounded;
And thus, in keenest sting of satire,
Broke through his calm and gentle nature:
“Conceited sons of dulness hence,
Who fly from merit, worth, and sense,
With the same haste you fly from day,
Damning the guiltless and the gay:
Here, by consent of all the wood,
My nest but bare and humble stood,
Nor ever have I pilfer'd leaves
From your tall tow'r: yon hedge-row gives,
Thanks to kind Heav'n, whate'er I need:
On the soft silvery dews I feed,
Which morn, my patron, flings away,
Nor ever pounce the living prey;
No snares for harmless mice I plan,
Like you, sirs, and that tyrant man.
I have no fears for wrangling law,
In debt to no one for a straw!
But why do I such blockheads mind,
Disgrace and outcasts of their kind;
Why humour's force on reptiles spend
In vain, who cannot comprehend.
Away! nor taint my pure abode,
Where nature worships nature's God;
Such flimsy cynics I despise,
But love the censures of the wise!”