 | The rural lyre |  |
88
THE CAPTIVE LINNET.
Mycias, behold this bird! see how she tires—
Breaks her soft plumes, and springs against the wires!
A clown more rude than gracious brought her here
To pine in silence, and to die in snare.
Her haunt she well remembers: ev'ry morn
Her sweet note warbled from the blowing thorn
That hangs o'er yon cool wave; responses clear
Her sisters gave, and sprang through upper air.
E'en now (by habit gentler made), at eve,
A time when men their green dominions leave,
They sit, and call her near her fav'rite spray,
Meet no reply, and pensive wing their way.
This wound in friendship dear affections heal,
Their young require them: to their nests they steal;
Nurse them with warmth, with hope, with true delight,
And teach the danger of an early flight.—
Delicious toil! raptures that never cloy!
A mother only can define her joy.
Breaks her soft plumes, and springs against the wires!
A clown more rude than gracious brought her here
To pine in silence, and to die in snare.
Her haunt she well remembers: ev'ry morn
Her sweet note warbled from the blowing thorn
That hangs o'er yon cool wave; responses clear
Her sisters gave, and sprang through upper air.
E'en now (by habit gentler made), at eve,
A time when men their green dominions leave,
They sit, and call her near her fav'rite spray,
Meet no reply, and pensive wing their way.
This wound in friendship dear affections heal,
Their young require them: to their nests they steal;
Nurse them with warmth, with hope, with true delight,
And teach the danger of an early flight.—
89
A mother only can define her joy.
Perhaps, dear Mycias, this poor mourner's breast
Was yesternight on her weak offspring prest!—
The down scarce breaking on their tender skin,
Their eyes yet clos'd, their bodies cold and thin;
Waiting when she would kindly warmth impart,
And take them trembling to her gen'rous heart.
Where are they now, sweet captive? Who'll befriend
Thy mourning children, as the storms descend?
The winds are bleak, thy mossy cradle's torn—
Hark! they lament thee, hungry and forlorn!
Each shiv'ring brother round his sister creeps,
Deep in the nest thy little daughter sleeps.
Again the blast, that tears the oak, comes on:
Thy rocking house, thy family are gone!
One to an hungry weasel falls a prey;
Another chirps, but not to hail the day:
Too weak to live, he seeks no casual aid,
And dies, rememb'ring thee, beneath the shade.
Where could thy daughter go? More weak and shrill
Her voice was heard. The ants forsake their hill.—
Through that republic Addison display'd,
When he unsated hunger virtue made,
And gave, unwisely, ant-like souls to man—
The barb'rous rumour of misfortune ran.
Alike pourtray'd in hist'ry and in verse,
For prey industrious, obdurate and fierce:
Voracious columns move! The victim's voice
Invites her foes, who sting her, and rejoice.
Keenly their riots on her frame begin:
She tries to shake them from her downy skin;
Their organs touch her springs of being—Strife
She holds not with her fate—she trembles out of life.
Was yesternight on her weak offspring prest!—
The down scarce breaking on their tender skin,
Their eyes yet clos'd, their bodies cold and thin;
Waiting when she would kindly warmth impart,
And take them trembling to her gen'rous heart.
Where are they now, sweet captive? Who'll befriend
Thy mourning children, as the storms descend?
The winds are bleak, thy mossy cradle's torn—
Hark! they lament thee, hungry and forlorn!
Each shiv'ring brother round his sister creeps,
Deep in the nest thy little daughter sleeps.
Again the blast, that tears the oak, comes on:
Thy rocking house, thy family are gone!
One to an hungry weasel falls a prey;
Another chirps, but not to hail the day:
Too weak to live, he seeks no casual aid,
And dies, rememb'ring thee, beneath the shade.
90
Her voice was heard. The ants forsake their hill.—
Through that republic Addison display'd,
When he unsated hunger virtue made,
And gave, unwisely, ant-like souls to man—
The barb'rous rumour of misfortune ran.
Alike pourtray'd in hist'ry and in verse,
For prey industrious, obdurate and fierce:
Voracious columns move! The victim's voice
Invites her foes, who sting her, and rejoice.
Keenly their riots on her frame begin:
She tries to shake them from her downy skin;
Their organs touch her springs of being—Strife
She holds not with her fate—she trembles out of life.
O Mycias! What hath yon barbarian gain'd,
Who with malicious joy this linnet chain'd?
Could she at morn salute his untun'd ear?
When dull with vice could she the gaoler cheer;
Hail him with strains of liberty; proclaim,
With harmony he hates, her maker's name:
Or peck from him the crumb withheld so long,
That her heart sicken'd e'en at freedom's song?
No: see, she droops, rejects his aid—confin'd—
Her dreary cage she scorns, and dies resign'd.
Who with malicious joy this linnet chain'd?
Could she at morn salute his untun'd ear?
When dull with vice could she the gaoler cheer;
Hail him with strains of liberty; proclaim,
With harmony he hates, her maker's name:
91
That her heart sicken'd e'en at freedom's song?
No: see, she droops, rejects his aid—confin'd—
Her dreary cage she scorns, and dies resign'd.
Mycias! thus spreads unseen more ling'ring woe,
Than e'en thy sympathising soul must know:
Wisely ordain'd! He mocks the proffer'd cure,
Who bids his friend one fruitless pang endure:
Since pity turns to anguish, when denied,
And troubles swell, which must in death subside.
Ah! fly the scene; secure that guilt can find
In brutal force no fetter for the mind!
True! Violated thus, it feels the chain,
Rises with languor, and lies down with pain;
Yet bless'd in trembling to one mighty whole,
Death is the field of victory for the soul.
Than e'en thy sympathising soul must know:
Wisely ordain'd! He mocks the proffer'd cure,
Who bids his friend one fruitless pang endure:
Since pity turns to anguish, when denied,
And troubles swell, which must in death subside.
Ah! fly the scene; secure that guilt can find
In brutal force no fetter for the mind!
True! Violated thus, it feels the chain,
Rises with languor, and lies down with pain;
Yet bless'd in trembling to one mighty whole,
Death is the field of victory for the soul.
| The rural lyre | |