The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
A MORAL REFLECTION On the preceding Elegy.
HOW can the eye, in Nature's softness drest,
So harden'd, see the different tribes around;
Behold the grazing cattle all so blest,
And lambkins mingling sport with sweetest sound;
So harden'd, see the different tribes around;
Behold the grazing cattle all so blest,
And lambkins mingling sport with sweetest sound;
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Then glist'ning, in a strain of triumph cry,
‘Your throats young gentlefolks, will soon be cut—
You, sweet Miss Lamb, most speedily shall die—
Soon on the spit, you, Master Calf, be put.’
‘Your throats young gentlefolks, will soon be cut—
You, sweet Miss Lamb, most speedily shall die—
Soon on the spit, you, Master Calf, be put.’
How can the tongue, amid the mingled noise
Of goose, duck, turkey, pigeon, cock and hen,
Exclaim, ‘Aye, aye, good fowls, your cackling joys
Soon cease, to fill with mirth the mouths of men?
Of goose, duck, turkey, pigeon, cock and hen,
Exclaim, ‘Aye, aye, good fowls, your cackling joys
Soon cease, to fill with mirth the mouths of men?
I cannot meet the lambkin's asking eye,
Pat her soft neck, and fill her mouth with food,
Then say, ‘Ere evening cometh, thou shalt die,
And drench the knives of butchers with thy blood.’
Pat her soft neck, and fill her mouth with food,
Then say, ‘Ere evening cometh, thou shalt die,
And drench the knives of butchers with thy blood.’
I cannot fling with lib'ral hand the grain,
And tell the feather'd race so blest around,
‘For me, ere night, you feel of death the pain;
With broken necks you flutter on the ground.’
And tell the feather'd race so blest around,
‘For me, ere night, you feel of death the pain;
With broken necks you flutter on the ground.’
How vile!—‘Go, creatures of th' Almighty's hand;
Enjoy the fruits that bounteous Nature yields;
Graze at your ease along the sunny land;
Skim the free air, and search the fruitful fields—
Enjoy the fruits that bounteous Nature yields;
Graze at your ease along the sunny land;
Skim the free air, and search the fruitful fields—
‘Go, and be happy in your mutual loves;
No violence shall shake your shelter'd home;
'Tis life and liberty shall glad my groves;
The cry of murder shall not damn my dome;’
No violence shall shake your shelter'd home;
'Tis life and liberty shall glad my groves;
The cry of murder shall not damn my dome;’
Thus should I say, were mine a house and land—
And lo, to me a parent should you fly,
And run, and lick, and peck with love my hand,
And crowd around me with a fearless eye.
And lo, to me a parent should you fly,
And run, and lick, and peck with love my hand,
And crowd around me with a fearless eye.
And you, O wild inhabitants of air,
To bless, and to be blest, at Peter's call,
Invited by his kindness, should repair;
Chirp on his roof, and hop amidst his hall.
To bless, and to be blest, at Peter's call,
Invited by his kindness, should repair;
Chirp on his roof, and hop amidst his hall.
No school-boy's hand should dare your nests invade,
And bear to close captivity your young—
Pleas'd would I see them flutt'ring from the shade,
And to my window call the sons of song.
And bear to close captivity your young—
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And to my window call the sons of song.
And you, O natives of the flood should play
Unhurt amid your crystal realms, and sleep:
No hook should tear you from your loves away;
No net surrounding form its fatal sweep.
Unhurt amid your crystal realms, and sleep:
No hook should tear you from your loves away;
No net surrounding form its fatal sweep.
Pleas'd should I gaze upon your gliding throng,
To sport invited by the summer beam;
Now moving in most solemn march along,
Now darting, leaping from the dimpled stream.
To sport invited by the summer beam;
Now moving in most solemn march along,
Now darting, leaping from the dimpled stream.
How far more grateful to the soul the joy,
Thus cheerful, like a set of friends, to treat ye,
Than like the bloated epicure, to cry,
‘Zounds! what rare dinners!—God! how I could eat ye!’
Thus cheerful, like a set of friends, to treat ye,
Than like the bloated epicure, to cry,
‘Zounds! what rare dinners!—God! how I could eat ye!’
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |