Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze Pour'd out profusely, silent. Join'd to these. Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw, And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone, Aid the full concert: while the stock-dove breathes A melancholy murmur through the whole. 'Tis love creates their melody, and all
This waste of music is the voice of love; That e'en to birds and beasts, the tender arts Of pleasing teaches. Hence the glossy kind Try every winning way inventive love
Can dictate, and in courtship to their mates Pour forth their little souls. First wide around, With distant awe, in airy rings they rove, Endeavouring by a thousand tricks to catch The cunning, conscious, half-averted glance Of the regardless charmer. Should she seem, Softening, the least approvance to bestow, Their colours burnish, and by hope inspir'd, They brisk advance; then, on a sudden struck, Retire disorder'd; then again approach; In fond rotation spread the spotted wing, And shiver every feather with desire.
Connubial leagues agreed, to the deep woods They haste away, all as their fancy leads, Pleasure, or food, or secret safety prompts; That Nature's great command may be obey'd:
Nor all the sweet sensations they perceive Indulg'd in vain. Some to the holly-hedge Nestling repair, and to the thicket some; Some to the rude protection of the thorn Commit their feeble offspring: The cleft tree Offers its kind concealment to a few ;
Their food its insects, and its moss their nests. Others apart far in the grassy dale,
Or roughening waste, their humble texture weave. But most in woodland solitudes delight; In unfrequented glooms, or shaggy banks, Steep, and divided by a babbling brook,
Whose murmurs sooth them all the live-long day, When by kind duty fix'd. Among the roots Of hazel, pendent o'er the plaintive stream, They frame the first foundation of their domes; Dry sprigs of trees, in artful fabric laid,
And bound with clay together. Now 'tis nought But restless hurry through the busy air, Beat by unnumbered wings. The swallow sweeps The slimy pool, to build his hanging house Intent. And often, from the careless back Of herds and flocks, a thousand tugging bills Pluck hair and wool; and oft, when unobserv'd, Steal from the barn a straw: till soft and warm Clean and complete, their habitation grows. As thus the patient dam assiduous sits, Not to be tempted from her tender task, Or by sharp hunger, or by smooth delight,
Though the whole loosen'd Spring around her blows; Her sympathizing lover takes his stand
High on th' opponent bank, and ceaseless sings The tedious time away; or else supplies Her place a moment, while she sudden flits
To pick the scanty meal. Th' appointed time With pious toil fulfill'd, the callow young, Warm'd and expanded into perfect life,
Their brittle bondage break; and come to light, A helpless family, demanding food
With constant clamour: O what passions then, What melting sentiments of kindly care, On the new parents seize! Away they fly Affectionate, and undesiring bear
The most delicious morsel to their young; Which equally distributed, again
The search begins. E'en so a gentle pair, By fortune sunk, but form'd of generous mould, And charm'd with cares beyond the vulgar breast; In some lone cot amid the distant woods, Sustain'd alone by providential Heaven; Oft, as they weeping eye their infant train, Check their own appetites, and give them all. Nor toil alone they scorn: Exalting love, By the great Father of the Spring inspir'd, Gives instant courage to the fearful race, And to the simple, art. With stealthy wing, Should some rude foot their woody haunts molest, Amid a neighbouring bush they silent drop,
And whirring thence, as if alarm'd, deceive
Th' unfeeling school-boy. Hence, around the head Of wandering swain, the white-wing'd plover wheels Her sounding flight; and then directly on
In long excursion skims the level lawn,
To tempt him from her nest. The wild-duck, hence, O'er the rough moss, and o'er the trackless waste The heath-hen flutters, pious fraud ! to lead The hot pursuing spaniel far astray.
Be not the Muse asham'd here to bemoan Her brothers of the grove, by tyrant Man Inhuman caught, and in the narrow cage From liberty confin'd, and boundless air. Dull are the pretty slaves, their plumage dull, Ragged, and all its brightening lustre lost; Nor is that sprightly wildness in their notes, Which, clear and vigorous, warbles from the beech. O then, ye friends of love and love-taught song, Spare the soft tribes, this barbarous art forbear; If on your bosom innocence can win,
Music engage, or piety persuade.
But let not chief the nightingale lament Her ruin'd care, too delicately fram'd To brook the harsh confinement of the cage. Oft when, returning with her loaded bill, Th' astonish'd mother finds a vacant nest, By the hard hand of unrelenting clowns Robb'd, to the ground the vain provision falls;
Her pinions ruffle, and, low-drooping, scarce
Can bear the mourner to the poplar shade; Where, all abandon'd to despair, she sings Her sorrows through the night; and, on the bough, Sole-sitting, still at every dying fall
Takes up again her lamentable strain
Of winding wo; till, wide around, the woods Sigh to her song, and with her wail resound.
But now the feather'd youth their former bounds, Ardent, disdain; and, weighing oft their wings, Demand the free possession of the sky :
This one glad office more, and then dissolves Parental love at once, now needless grown. Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain.
'Tis on some evening, sunny, grateful, mild, When nought but balm is breathing thro' the woods, With yellow lustre bright, that the new tribes Visit the spacious heavens, and look abroad On Nature's common, far as they can see,
Or wing, their range and pasture. O'er the boughs Dancing about, still at the giddy verge
Their resolution fails; their pinions still, In loose libration stretch'd, to trust the void Trembling refuse: Till down before them fly The parent guides, and chide, exhort, command, Or push them off. The surging air receives Its plumy burden; and their self-taught wings Winnow the waving element. On ground Alighted, bolder up again they lead,
Farther and farther on, the lengthening flight;
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