To a Goose

I cannot bear to hear thee slander'd, Goose!It irketh me to see the truant boysPause in their play, and cast a stone at thee,And call thee foolish.Do those worthies knowThat when old Rome had let the ruffian GaulsTread on her threshold of vitality,And all her sentinels were comatose,Thy charion-call did save her? Mighty strangeTo call thee fool!I think thou'rt dignifiedAnd portly in thy bearing, and in allThe duties and proprieties of lifeArt quite a pattern. Yet the duck may quack,The turkey gabble, and the guinea-henKeep up a piercing and perpetual scream,And all is well; but if thou ope thy beak,"Fie, silly creature!"Yet I'm sure thou'st doneMany a clever and obliging deed;And more than this, thou from thy wing dost spareAn outcast feather, which hath woke the world,And made it wiser.Yea, the modest quillDoth take its quiet stand behind the press,And, like a prompter, tell it what to say.

But yet we never praise the goose, who gaveThis precious gift. Yet what can fill its place?Think of the clumsy stylus, how absurd!I know, indeed, that smart metallic pensHave undertook to speculate at large,But I eschew them all, and prophesyGoose-quills will be immortal, as the artTo which they minister. 'Twere meet for me,Though all beside were dumb, to fondly laudThe instrument that from my childhood upHath been my solace and my chosen friendIn hours of loneliness.I'd fain proposeThat, mid the poultry in the farmer's yard,The goose should wear a ducal coronet.But our republic would not authorizeAught like an order of nobility;And so I institute a simple claimFor justice long withheld. I ask my peers,The erudite and learned in the law,Why the recusant owl is singled outAs Wisdom's bird? If blind Mythology,Who on her fingers scarcely knew to countHer thirty thousand gods, should groping makeSuch error, 'tis not strange. But we, who skillTo ride the steam, and have a goodly hopeTo ride the lightning too, need we be ruledBy vacillating Delphos? or stand stillTo sanction her mistakes?The aforesaid owl,With his dull, staring eyes, what hath he doneTo benefit mankind? Moping all day

Amid some dodder'd oak, and then at night,With hideous hooting and wild flapping wings,Scaring the innocent child. What hath he doneTo earn a penny, or to make the worldRicher in any way? I doubt if heEven gets an honest living. Who can sayWhether such midnight rambles, none know where,Are for his credit? Yet the priceless crownOf wisdom he in symbol and in songUnrighteously hath worn.But times have changed,Most reverend owl! Utility bears rule,And the shrewd spirit of a busy ageDotes not on things antique, nor pays respectTo hoary hairs, but counts it loss of timeTo honour whatsoever fails to yieldA fat per centage. Yet thou'rt not ashamedTo live a gentleman, nor bronze thy clawWith manual labour, stupidly contentTo be a burden on community.

—Meantime, the worthy and hard-working gooseHath rear'd us goslings, fed us with her flesh,Lull'd us to sleep upon her softest down,And with her quills maintain'd the lover's lore,And saved the tinsel of the poet's brain.—Dear goose, thou'rt greatly wrong'd.I move the owlBe straightway taken from the usurper's seat,And thou forthwith be voted for, to fillMinerva's arms.The flourish of a pen

Hath saved or lost a realm, hath sign'd the bondThat made the poor man rich—reft from the princeHis confiscated wealth, and sent him forthA powerless exile—for the prisoner badeThe sunbeam tremble through his iron barsThe last, last time—or changed the cry of warTo blessed peace.And yet we scorn the birdWhose cast-off feather hath done this, and more.