The Linnets
Beneath this spreading beech's shade,
Whose boughs exclude the fervid ray,
Where opening roses crown the glade,
And zephyrs waft their sweets away.
Secluded from the feather'd throng,
Two warbling linnets form'd their nest;
'Twas love inspir'd the morning song,
And glow'd serene in either breast.
When fraught with fond maternal care,
She brooded o'er her tender race;
Then hovering in the balmy air,
He sooth'd her anxious thoughts to peace.
His was the task, the wilds to roam,
To range along the furrow'd field;
Then joyful seek the much lov'd home,
And there the tender morsel yield.
Nor hard he deem'd his toilsome fate,
Swift gliding o'er the distant plain:
Love bore him up with wings elate,
And smiling hope sooth'd every pain.
One morn he wing'd his hapless flight,
And quick returning with his prey:
A dreary void—expos'd to sight,
Confess'd the plunders of the day.
I saw his breast with anguish torn,
His pinions trail'd along the ground;
Beneath the shade he lay forlorn,
And silent sadness reign'd around.
At length he strove the song to raise,
Sweet as the lark's-melodious note;
And mournful as the tender lays,
Of Philomela's warbling throat.
“Ah! cruel race,” I heard him cry,
“Sole tyrants of the spacious plain;
“Who place in blood your savage joy,
“And slight the hapless victim's pain.
“The sweets that from refinement flow—
“The genuine joys kind love imparts—
“The mutual sympathetic glow—
“Ne'er warm'd your cold ungenerous hearts.
“Strangers to every soft delight,
“Ye only make the weak your prey;
“Else would ye not invade my right,
“Or tear my helpless young away.
“'Tis yours to bear the lurid blaze,
“When dusky evening stills the air;
“'Tis yours the vengeful tube to raise,
“And plant the unsuspected snare.
“But 'tis not ours alone to know,
“Your hated hand's resistless force;
“You bid the stream of anguish flow,
“Creation droops beneath its course.
“Oft have I heard these hills resound,
“Responsive to the sounding horn;
“Have seen the deep-mouth'd early hound,
“Wake the poor victim of the morn.
“With trembling steps, by fear opprest,
“Thro' paths unknown the sufferer flies;
“Despair invades her throbbing breast,
“Midst barb'rous shouts she gasps and dies.
“Whilst man unpitying at the scene,
“Smiles at the hapless victim's moan;
“Observes each pang with face serene,
“And joys to hear the parting groan.
“Where flows yon stream, so soft and clear,
“And whispering sedges crown its side;
“Whose wat'ry tenants void of fear,
“Oft sport amid the crystal tide;
“Ere yet the sun's returning beam,
“With orient blush bespeaks the day,
“He seeks the cool, the silent stream,
“And lures to death the wat'ry prey.
“Did erring Nature then ordain,
“That all must stoop to man's control;
“Invest him sovereign of the plain,
“Yet curse him with a stubborn soul?
“Ah! no—from life's remotest hour,
“Inur'd to earlier scenes of woe,
“He soon perverts the sacred pow'r,
“And proves creation's deadliest foe.
“But, ah! the weak unnotic'd strain,
“Spent idly in the noontide air,
“Serves but to raise the sense of pain,
“And add fresh poignance to despair.”
As thus the warbling mourner said,
From yonder brake a fiery wound,
Like keenest lightning pierc'd his head—
Life's crimson current stain'd the ground.
Beneath this spreading beech's shade,
Whose boughs exclude the fervid ray,
Where opening roses crown the glade,
And zephyrs waft their sweets away.
Secluded from the feather'd throng,
Two warbling linnets form'd their nest;
'Twas love inspir'd the morning song,
And glow'd serene in either breast.
When fraught with fond maternal care,
She brooded o'er her tender race;
Then hovering in the balmy air,
He sooth'd her anxious thoughts to peace.
His was the task, the wilds to roam,
To range along the furrow'd field;
Then joyful seek the much lov'd home,
And there the tender morsel yield.
Nor hard he deem'd his toilsome fate,
Swift gliding o'er the distant plain:
Love bore him up with wings elate,
And smiling hope sooth'd every pain.
One morn he wing'd his hapless flight,
And quick returning with his prey:
A dreary void—expos'd to sight,
Confess'd the plunders of the day.
I saw his breast with anguish torn,
His pinions trail'd along the ground;
Beneath the shade he lay forlorn,
And silent sadness reign'd around.
At length he strove the song to raise,
Sweet as the lark's-melodious note;
And mournful as the tender lays,
Of Philomela's warbling throat.
“Ah! cruel race,” I heard him cry,
“Sole tyrants of the spacious plain;
“Who place in blood your savage joy,
“And slight the hapless victim's pain.
“The sweets that from refinement flow—
“The genuine joys kind love imparts—
“The mutual sympathetic glow—
“Ne'er warm'd your cold ungenerous hearts.
“Strangers to every soft delight,
“Ye only make the weak your prey;
“Else would ye not invade my right,
“Or tear my helpless young away.
“'Tis yours to bear the lurid blaze,
“When dusky evening stills the air;
“'Tis yours the vengeful tube to raise,
“And plant the unsuspected snare.
“But 'tis not ours alone to know,
“Your hated hand's resistless force;
“You bid the stream of anguish flow,
“Creation droops beneath its course.
“Oft have I heard these hills resound,
“Responsive to the sounding horn;
“Have seen the deep-mouth'd early hound,
“Wake the poor victim of the morn.
“With trembling steps, by fear opprest,
“Thro' paths unknown the sufferer flies;
“Despair invades her throbbing breast,
“Midst barb'rous shouts she gasps and dies.
“Whilst man unpitying at the scene,
“Smiles at the hapless victim's moan;
“Observes each pang with face serene,
“And joys to hear the parting groan.
“Where flows yon stream, so soft and clear,
“And whispering sedges crown its side;
“Whose wat'ry tenants void of fear,
“Oft sport amid the crystal tide;
“Ere yet the sun's returning beam,
“With orient blush bespeaks the day,
“He seeks the cool, the silent stream,
“And lures to death the wat'ry prey.
“Did erring Nature then ordain,
“That all must stoop to man's control;
“Invest him sovereign of the plain,
“Yet curse him with a stubborn soul?
“Ah! no—from life's remotest hour,
“Inur'd to earlier scenes of woe,
“He soon perverts the sacred pow'r,
“And proves creation's deadliest foe.
“But, ah! the weak unnotic'd strain,
“Spent idly in the noontide air,
“Serves but to raise the sense of pain,
“And add fresh poignance to despair.”
As thus the warbling mourner said,
From yonder brake a fiery wound,
Like keenest lightning pierc'd his head—
Life's crimson current stain'd the ground.
Whose boughs exclude the fervid ray,
Where opening roses crown the glade,
And zephyrs waft their sweets away.
Secluded from the feather'd throng,
Two warbling linnets form'd their nest;
'Twas love inspir'd the morning song,
And glow'd serene in either breast.
When fraught with fond maternal care,
She brooded o'er her tender race;
Then hovering in the balmy air,
He sooth'd her anxious thoughts to peace.
His was the task, the wilds to roam,
To range along the furrow'd field;
Then joyful seek the much lov'd home,
And there the tender morsel yield.
Nor hard he deem'd his toilsome fate,
Swift gliding o'er the distant plain:
Love bore him up with wings elate,
And smiling hope sooth'd every pain.
One morn he wing'd his hapless flight,
And quick returning with his prey:
A dreary void—expos'd to sight,
Confess'd the plunders of the day.
I saw his breast with anguish torn,
His pinions trail'd along the ground;
Beneath the shade he lay forlorn,
And silent sadness reign'd around.
At length he strove the song to raise,
Sweet as the lark's-melodious note;
And mournful as the tender lays,
Of Philomela's warbling throat.
“Ah! cruel race,” I heard him cry,
“Sole tyrants of the spacious plain;
“Who place in blood your savage joy,
“And slight the hapless victim's pain.
“The sweets that from refinement flow—
“The genuine joys kind love imparts—
“The mutual sympathetic glow—
“Ne'er warm'd your cold ungenerous hearts.
“Strangers to every soft delight,
“Ye only make the weak your prey;
“Else would ye not invade my right,
“Or tear my helpless young away.
“'Tis yours to bear the lurid blaze,
“When dusky evening stills the air;
“'Tis yours the vengeful tube to raise,
“And plant the unsuspected snare.
“But 'tis not ours alone to know,
“Your hated hand's resistless force;
“You bid the stream of anguish flow,
“Creation droops beneath its course.
“Oft have I heard these hills resound,
“Responsive to the sounding horn;
“Have seen the deep-mouth'd early hound,
“Wake the poor victim of the morn.
“With trembling steps, by fear opprest,
“Thro' paths unknown the sufferer flies;
“Despair invades her throbbing breast,
“Midst barb'rous shouts she gasps and dies.
“Whilst man unpitying at the scene,
“Smiles at the hapless victim's moan;
“Observes each pang with face serene,
“And joys to hear the parting groan.
“Where flows yon stream, so soft and clear,
“And whispering sedges crown its side;
“Whose wat'ry tenants void of fear,
“Oft sport amid the crystal tide;
“Ere yet the sun's returning beam,
“With orient blush bespeaks the day,
“He seeks the cool, the silent stream,
“And lures to death the wat'ry prey.
“Did erring Nature then ordain,
“That all must stoop to man's control;
“Invest him sovereign of the plain,
“Yet curse him with a stubborn soul?
“Ah! no—from life's remotest hour,
“Inur'd to earlier scenes of woe,
“He soon perverts the sacred pow'r,
“And proves creation's deadliest foe.
“But, ah! the weak unnotic'd strain,
“Spent idly in the noontide air,
“Serves but to raise the sense of pain,
“And add fresh poignance to despair.”
As thus the warbling mourner said,
From yonder brake a fiery wound,
Like keenest lightning pierc'd his head—
Life's crimson current stain'd the ground.
Beneath this spreading beech's shade,
Whose boughs exclude the fervid ray,
Where opening roses crown the glade,
And zephyrs waft their sweets away.
Secluded from the feather'd throng,
Two warbling linnets form'd their nest;
'Twas love inspir'd the morning song,
And glow'd serene in either breast.
When fraught with fond maternal care,
She brooded o'er her tender race;
Then hovering in the balmy air,
He sooth'd her anxious thoughts to peace.
His was the task, the wilds to roam,
To range along the furrow'd field;
Then joyful seek the much lov'd home,
And there the tender morsel yield.
Nor hard he deem'd his toilsome fate,
Swift gliding o'er the distant plain:
Love bore him up with wings elate,
And smiling hope sooth'd every pain.
One morn he wing'd his hapless flight,
And quick returning with his prey:
A dreary void—expos'd to sight,
Confess'd the plunders of the day.
I saw his breast with anguish torn,
His pinions trail'd along the ground;
Beneath the shade he lay forlorn,
And silent sadness reign'd around.
At length he strove the song to raise,
Sweet as the lark's-melodious note;
And mournful as the tender lays,
Of Philomela's warbling throat.
“Ah! cruel race,” I heard him cry,
“Sole tyrants of the spacious plain;
“Who place in blood your savage joy,
“And slight the hapless victim's pain.
“The sweets that from refinement flow—
“The genuine joys kind love imparts—
“The mutual sympathetic glow—
“Ne'er warm'd your cold ungenerous hearts.
“Strangers to every soft delight,
“Ye only make the weak your prey;
“Else would ye not invade my right,
“Or tear my helpless young away.
“'Tis yours to bear the lurid blaze,
“When dusky evening stills the air;
“'Tis yours the vengeful tube to raise,
“And plant the unsuspected snare.
“But 'tis not ours alone to know,
“Your hated hand's resistless force;
“You bid the stream of anguish flow,
“Creation droops beneath its course.
“Oft have I heard these hills resound,
“Responsive to the sounding horn;
“Have seen the deep-mouth'd early hound,
“Wake the poor victim of the morn.
“With trembling steps, by fear opprest,
“Thro' paths unknown the sufferer flies;
“Despair invades her throbbing breast,
“Midst barb'rous shouts she gasps and dies.
“Whilst man unpitying at the scene,
“Smiles at the hapless victim's moan;
“Observes each pang with face serene,
“And joys to hear the parting groan.
“Where flows yon stream, so soft and clear,
“And whispering sedges crown its side;
“Whose wat'ry tenants void of fear,
“Oft sport amid the crystal tide;
“Ere yet the sun's returning beam,
“With orient blush bespeaks the day,
“He seeks the cool, the silent stream,
“And lures to death the wat'ry prey.
“Did erring Nature then ordain,
“That all must stoop to man's control;
“Invest him sovereign of the plain,
“Yet curse him with a stubborn soul?
“Ah! no—from life's remotest hour,
“Inur'd to earlier scenes of woe,
“He soon perverts the sacred pow'r,
“And proves creation's deadliest foe.
“But, ah! the weak unnotic'd strain,
“Spent idly in the noontide air,
“Serves but to raise the sense of pain,
“And add fresh poignance to despair.”
As thus the warbling mourner said,
From yonder brake a fiery wound,
Like keenest lightning pierc'd his head—
Life's crimson current stain'd the ground.
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