And hazarding a life, too valueless,
He waded thro’ the waves, with plank or pole
Towards where the mariner in conflict dread
Was buffeting for life the roaring surge;
And now just seen, now lost in foaming gulphs,
The dismal gleaming of the clouded moon
Shew’d the dire peril. Often he had snatch’d
From the wild billows, some unhappy man
Who liv’d to bless the hermit of the rocks.
But if his generous cares were all in vain,
And with slow swell the tide of morning bore
Some blue swol’n cor’se to land; the pale recluse
Dug in the chalk a sepulchre — above
Where the dank sea-wrack mark’d the utmost tide,
And with his prayers perform’d the obsequies
For the poor helpless stranger.
One dark night
The equinoctial wind blew south by west,
Fierce on the shore; — the bellowing cliffs were shook
Even to their stony base, and fragments fell
Flashing and thundering on the angry flood.
At day-break, anxious for the lonely man,
His cave the mountain shepherds visited,
Tho’ sand and banks of weeds had choak’d their way —
He was not in it; but his drowned cor’se
By the waves wafted, near his former home
Receiv’d the rites of burial. Those who read
Chisel’d within the rock, these mournful lines,
Memorials of his sufferings, did not grieve,
That dying in the cause of charity
His spirit, from its earthly bondage freed,
Had to some better region fled for ever.
NOTES TO THE FABLES.
These are old stories, which I have endeavoured to tell with such a degree of novelty, as natural history can lend them. They have been so often repeated, that probably the original inventors have been long since forgotten. La Fontaine, whose graceful simplicity in such light narrative has been universally allowed, is the most usually referred to.
La Fontaine, in his manner of telling the story of Les deux Pigeons, calls them Friends. But the proverbial conjugal fidelity of this race of birds, makes it seem more natural to describe them as the pigeon and his mate. If it be objected, that the Truant Dove is represented as repeating the apology of Henry the Fourth of France”Toujours perdrix, toujours Chapon bouilli ne vaut rien;” and that his partner talks from Shakspeare; I must take refuge under the authority of Chaucer; or rather his polisher Dryden; who makes his Dame Partlet quote Galen and Cato, while Chanticleer explains Latin sentences:
“For in the days of yore the birds of parts,
Were bred to speak and sing; and learn the liberal arts.”
In fact, if the mind momentarily acquiesces in the absurdity of animals having the passions and the faculties of man, every thing else may be granted.
It might be necessary to apologize for inserting these fables; but that which Prior and Cowper, and so many other of the most eminent writers have not disdained, can never need any defence.
La Fontaine begins the second Fable here inserted thus:
“L’Alouette et ses Petits, avec le Maître d’un Champ.
Ne t’attends qu’à toi seul, c’est un commun proverbe;
Voici comme Esope le mit
En credit.”
There is nothing I am more desirous of avoiding, even in a trifle like this, than the charge of plagiarism. I must in the present instance defend myself by stating, that so long since as April 1805, Mr. Johnson was in possession of the MS. copy of this Fable. In July 1806, a friend brought with her from London, a volume called “The Birds of Scotland, with other Poems,” in which I read, what, if my fable had been first published, I might perhaps have thought very like an imitation. My lines of the Lark are:
“But like a dart
From his low homested with the morning springs,
And far above the floating vapour sings,
At such an height,
That even the shepherd lad upon the hill,
Hearing his matin note so shrill,
With shaded eyes against the lustre bright,
Scarce sees him twinkling in flood of light”
Mr. Graham, in a more lengthened description, says of the Lark:
“ he towers
In loftier poise, with sweeter fuller pipe,
Cheering the ploughman at his furrow end,
The while he clears the share; or listening, leans
Upon his paddle staff; and with rais’d hand
Shadows his half‐shut eyes, striving to scan
The songster melting in the flood of light”
The extreme resemblance of these passages may be accounted for, however, by the observation very justly made, that natural objects being equally visible to all, it is very probable that descriptions of such objects will be often alike.
I cannot help remarking another coincidence. My lines on the female Lark sitting, are:
“She leaves her nest reluctant and in haste,
And scarce allows herself to taste
A dew drop and a few small seeds”
Mr. Graham says of the Wren:
“ never flitting off,
Save when the morning Sun is high, to drink
A dew drop from the nearest flower cup”
ADDITIONAL NOTES TO THE FABLES.
The varieties of pigeons here named, as Fantail, Carrier, Pouter, Almond Tumbler, and Nun, with many others, are varieties produced by art from the common pigeon. Societies exist in which prizes are given to those who produce birds nearest to the standard of imaginary perfection. A Pouter is a bird of which the crop is capable of being so much distended with wind, that the animal appears to be without a head. On this enlargement of the crop depends the beauty and value of the bird.
These Fanciers are to Ornithologists, what Flower Fanciers are to Botanists.
THE DICTATORIAL OWL.
Within a hollow elm, whose scanty shade
But half acknowledg’d the returning spring,
A female Owl her domicile had made;
There, through the live-long day with folded wing
And eyes half-clos’d she sat; eyes black and round,
Like berries that on deadly nightshade grow,
And full white face demure, and look profound,
That ever seem’d some evil to foreknow;
Still with sententious saws she overflow’d,
And birds of omen dark frequented her abode.
Thither, to profit by her learned lore,
Repair’d the daw, the magpie, and the crow;
Malicious tongues indeed did say, that more
Of the vain world’s affairs they wont to know,
And there discuss, than, ‘mid the night’s deep noon,
To hear wise axioms from her whisker’d beak,
Or to chaunt solemn airs to hail the moon;
But only worldlings thus, she said, would speak,
And, that more sapient judges did opine
Their converse was most pure, and held on themes divine.
She for the errours of the feather’d nation
Griev’d very sorely. “They were all infected
With vanities that wanted reformation,
And to erroneous notions were subjected;
Addicted too to sportiveness and joke,
To song and frolic, and profane delight;”
But Strixaline declar’d, the feather’d folk
Should be to grave demeanour given quite;
Nor, while rejoicing in the new-born spring,
Should cooing dove be heard, or woodlark carolling.
She often had to tell, in piteous tone,
How a poor chough by some sad chance was shent;
Or of some orphan cuckoo left alone
She would declaim; and then with loud lament,
<
br /> To do them good, she’d their disasters tell,
And much deplore the faults they had committed;
Yet “hop’d, poor creatures! they might still do well.”
And sighing, she would say, how much she pitied
Birds, who, improvident resolv’d to wed,
Which in such times as these to certain ruin led!
To her ’twas music, when grown gray with age,
Some crow caw’d loud her praise, with yellow bill,
And bade her in the wholesome task engage,
Mid the plum’d race new maxims to instill;
The raven, ever famous for discerning,
Of nose most exquisite for all good things,
Declar’d she was a fowl of wondrous learning;
And that no head was ever ‘twixt two wings
So wise as hers. Nor female since the pope,
Ycleped Joan, with Strixaline could cope.
This, in process of time, so rais’d her pride,
That ev’ry hour seem’d lost, till she had shown
How science had to her no light denied,
And what prodigious wisdom was her own!
So, no more shrinking from the blaze of day,
Forth flew she. It was then those pleasant hours,
When village girls, to hail propitious May,
Search the wild copses and the fields for flow’rs,
And gayly sing the yellow meads among,
And ev’ry heart is cheer’d, and all look fresh and young.
His nest amid the orchard’s painted buds
The bulfinch wove; and loudly sung the thrush
In the green hawthorn; and the new-leav’d woods,
The golden furze, and holly’s guarded bush,
With song resounded: tree-moss gray enchas’d
The chaffinch’s soft house; and the dark yew
Receiv’d the hedge sparrow, that careful plac’d
Within it’s bosom eggs as brightly blue
As the calm sky, or the unruffled deep,
When not a cloud appears, and ev’n the Zephyrs sleep.
There is a sundial near a garden fence,
Which flow’rs, and herbs, and blossom’d shrubs surround.
And Strixaline determin’d, that from thence
She to the winged creatures would expound
Her long collected store. There she alighted,
And, though much dazzled by the noon’s bright rays,
In accents shrill a long discourse recited;
While all the birds, in wonder and amaze,
Their songs amid the coverts green suspended,
Much marvelling what Strixaline intended!
But when she told them, never joyous note
Should by light grateful hearts to Heav’n be sung,
And still insisted, that from ev’ry throat,
Dirges, the knell of cheerful Hope, be rung;
While, quitting meadows, wilds, and brakes, and trees,
She bade them among gloomy ruins hide;
Nor finch nor white-throat wanton on the breeze,
Nor reed lark warble by the river side;
They were indignant each, and stood aloof,
Suspecting all this zeal but mask’d a shrewd Tartuffe.
Till out of patience they enrag’d surround her,
Some clamouring cry, that her insidious tongue
Bodes them no good; while others say they’ve found her
At ev’ning’s close marauding for their young,
When frogs appear’d no more, and mice were scarce.
At length the wryneck, missel thrush, and bunting,
Protested they would end this odious farce,
And from the dial the baffl’d prater hunting,
With cries and shrieks her hooting they o’erwhelm,
And drive her back for shelter to her elm.
There, vanity severely mortified,
Still on her heart with sharp corrosion prey’d;
No salvo now could cure her wounded pride,
Yet did she fondly still herself persuade,
That she was born in a reforming hour,
And meant to dictate, govern, and direct;
That wisdom such as hers included pow’r,
Nor did experience teach her to reflect
How very ill some folks apply their labours,
Who think themselves much wiser than their neighbours.
THE JAY IN MASQUERADE.
Within a park’s area vast,
Where grassy slopes and planted glades,
Where the thron’d chesnuts, cones, and mast,
Strew’d the wide woodland’s mingled shades;
From antler’d oaks the acorns shower’d,
As blew the sharp October breeze;
And from the lighter ashes pour’d
With the first frost their jetty keys.
Attracted there a countless throng
Of birds resorted to the woods,
With various cries, and various song,
Cheering the cultur’d solitudes.
In the high elms gregarious rooks
Were heard, loud clam’ring with the daw;
And alders, crowding on the brooks,
The willow wren and halcyon saw;
And where, through reeds and sedges steal
With slower course th’ obstructed tide,
The shieldrake, and the timid teal,
And water rail, and widgeon hide.
The lake’s blue wave in plumy pride
The swan repell’d with ebon foot,
And ducks Muscovian, scarlet-eyed,
Sail’d social with the dusky coot.
The partridge on the sunny knowl
Securely call’d her running brood,
And here at large the turkeys prowl
As free as in their native wood;
With quick short note the pheasant crow’d,
While, scudding through the paddocks spacious,
In voice monotonous and loud,
Was seen the guinea fowl pugnacious.
The mistress who presided here
Each bird indigenous protected;
While many a feather’d foreigner
Was from remoter climes collected.
A Jay among these scenes was hatch’d,
Who fancied that indulgent nature
His grace and beauty ne’er had match’d,
Not ever form’d so fair a creature.
His wings, where blues of tend’rest shade
Declin’d so gradually to jet;
Plumes like gray clouds, that o’er the red
Float when the summer sun is set;
Like Sachem’s diadem, a crest
Rising to mark him for dominion;
In short, that never bird possess’d
Such charms, was his confirm’d opinion.
Till wand’ring forth one luckless day,
’Twas his ill fortune to behold
A peacock to the sun display,
Above his lovely shells of gold,
Those shafts, so webb’d, and painted so,
That they seem’d stol’n from Cupid’s wing,
And dipp’d in the ethereal bow
That shines above the show’rs of spring;
And, as the light intensely beam’d,
Or as they felt the rustling zephyr,
The em’rald crescents brightly gleam’d
Round lustrous orbs of deep’ning sapphire.
Still, on the peacock as he gaz’d,
The Jay beheld some beauty new,
While high his green panache he rais’d,
And waved his sinuous neck of blue;
And still with keen and jealous eyes,
The restless, vain, impatient Jay
Or perches near, or round him flies,
And marks his manners and his way.
For where his shiv’ring train is spread,
Or near the ant-hills in the copse,
Some radiant feather often drops;
And these, where’er they chanc’d to fall,
The Jay, with eagerness the prize
Hasten’d to seize, collecting all
These snowy shafts with azure eyes,
Fancying that all this plumage gay
He could so manage, as to place
Around his form, and thus display
The peacock’s hues, the peacock’s grace.
He tried, and so adorn’d appear’d,
Amazing all the folk of feather;
Who, while they gazed at him, were heard
To join in ridicule together,
Gibing and taunting, as they press
Around, and mock his senseless trouble,
While some pluck off his borrow’d dress,
Geese hiss, ducks quack, and turkies gobble.
Shrill screams the stare, and long and loud
The yaffil laughs from aspin gray;
Til scarce escaping from the crowd
With his own plumes, he skulks away.
Be what you are, nor try in vain,
To reach what nature will deny,
Factitious Art can ne’er attain
The grace of young Simplicity.
And ye, whose transient fame arises
From that which others write or say,
Learn hence, how common sense despises
The pilf’ring literary Jay.
THE TRUANT DOVE, FROM PILPAY.
A FABLE.
A MOUNTAIN stream, its channel deep
Beneath a rock’s rough base had torn;
The cliff, like a vast castle wall, was steep
By fretting rains in many a crevice worn;
But the fern wav’d there, and the mosses crept,
And o’er the summit, where the wind
Peel’d from their stems the silver rind,
Depending birches wept ——
There, tufts of broom a footing used to find,
And heath and straggling grass to grow,
And half-way down from roots enwreathing, broke
The branches of a scathed oak,
And seem’d to guard the cave below,
Where each revolving year,
Their twins, two faithful doves were wont to rear;
Choice never join’d a fonder pair;
Charlotte Smith- Collected Poetical Works Page 20
