The Cry of Nature

When returning with her loaded bill,Th' aſtoniſhed mother finds a vacant neſt,By the hard hand of unrelenting clowns,Robb’d: to the ground the vain proviſion falls;Her pinions ruffe, and low-drooping, ſcarceCan bear the mourner to the poplar ſhade,Where, all abandon’d to deſpair, ſhe ſingsHer ſorrows through the night, and on the boughsSole fitting; ſtill, at every dying fall,Takes up again her lamentable ſtrainOf winding woe, till, wide around the woods,Sigh to her ſong, and with her wail reſound.

The living herbs that spring profusely wildO’er all the deep-green earth, beyond the powerOf botanist to number up their tribes:But who their virtues can declare, who pierce,With vision pure, into those secret storesOf health, and life, and joy, the food of man,While yet he lived in innocence, and toldA length of golden years unflesh'd in blood,A stranger to the savage arts of life,Death, rapine, carnage, surfeit and disease;The lord and not the tyrant of the world.

What more advance can mortals make in ſin,So near perfection, who with blood begin?Deaf to the calf that lies beneath the knife,Looks up, and from the Butcher begs her life;Deaf to the harmleſs kid that, ere he dies,All methods to procure thy mercy tries;And imitates, in vain, thy Children's criesWhere will he ſtop?Dryden's Ovid.

—————— one alone,The red-breaſt, ſacred to the houſhold-gods,Wiſely regardful of the embroiling ſky,In joyleſs fields, and thorny thickets, leavesHis ſhivering mates, and pays to truſted manHis annual viſit.

—————— the gloſſy kindTry every winning way inventive loveCan 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 catchThe cunning, conſcious, half-averted glanceOf their regardleſs charmer. Should ſhe ſeemSoft'ning, the leaſt approvance to beſtow,They briſk advance; then, on a ſudden ſtruck,Retire diſorderd; then again approach,In fond rotation ſpread the ſpotted wingAnd ſhiver every feather with deſire.

—————— ſo lovely ſeem’dThe landſcape!———————————— and to the heart inſpiresVernal delight and joy.——————

—————— Gentle friends,Let's kill him boldly, but not wrathfully;Let's carve him as a diſh fit for the Gods;Not hew him as a carcaſe fit for hounds;And let our hearts, as ſubtle maſters do,Stir up their ſervants to an act of rage,And after ſeem to chide them.Shakespeare.

Towhere the far fam'd Hippemolgian strays,Renown'd for justice, and for length of days,Thrice happy race! that, innocent of blood,From milk innoxious seek their simple food;Love sees delighted, and avoids the sceneOf guilty Troy.— Pope's Homer's Iliad.

(11.) Æger enim, vitae postia spe, (illegible text)Confugit ad lachrymas; et flexo poplite, frontemArboream demittie hūmi, vitamene preoatusSuppliciter, tristes immurmurat ore querelas.Prædium Rusticum Vanier.

"Almighty Cama! or doth Smara bright,Or proud Ananga give thee more delight?Whate'er thy seat, whate'er thy name,Seas, earth, and air thy reign proclaim:All to thee their tribute bring,And hail thee universal King."Hymn to Cama-deva, translated by Sir W. Jones.