Classic Poem

FABLE XXXVI.

P YTHAG'RAS rose at early dawn.
By soaring meditation drawn,
To breathe the fragrance of the day,
Through flow'ry fields he took his way;
In musing contemplation warm,
His steps mis-led him to a farm,
Where, on the ladder's topmost round
A Peasant stood; the hammer's sound
Shook the weak barn. Say, friend, what care
Calls for thy honest labour there?
The Clown with surly voice replies.
Vengeance aloud for justice cries:
This kite, by daily rapine fed,
My hen's annoy, my turkey's dread,
At length his forfeit life hath paid;
See, on the wall his wings display'd,
Here nail'd, a terror to his kind,
My fowls shall future safety find,
My yard the thriving poultry feed,
And my barn's refuse fat the breed.
Friend, says the Sage, the doom is wise,
For publick good the murd'rer dies;
But if these tyrants of the air
Demand a sentence so severe,
Think how the glutton man devours;
What bloody feasts regale his hours!
O impudence of power and might,
Thus to condemn a hawk or kite,
When thou perhaps, carniv-rous sinner,
Hadst pullets yesterday for dinner!
Hold, cry'd the Clown, with passion heated,
Shall kites and men alike be treated?
When Heav'n the world with creatures stor'd,
Man was ordain'd their sov'raign lord.
Thus tyrants boast, the Sage reply'd,
Whose murders spring from power and pride.
Own then this manlike kite is slain
Thy greater lux'ry to sustain;;
For petty rogues submit to fate
That great ones may enjoy their state.