Chapter 2

"My glorious bird," exclaims the maid, Who her brave fav'rite survey'd, While she expir'd above: "I will not at thy lot repine, But rather pray it may be mine, To die with those I love!"

THE PANTHER.

BALLAD THE SIXTH.

Maternal love! thou wond'rous power, By no base fears controul'd, Tis truly thine, in danger's hour, To make the tender bold!

And yet, more marvellous! thy sway, Amid the pathless wild, Can humanize the beast of prey! And make the savage mild!

A traveller, on Afric's shore. Near to a forest's side, That shook with many a monster's roar, With hasty caution hied.

But suddenly, full in his way, A Panther he descries; Athwart his very road she lay, And fixt his fearful eyes.

With backward step, and watchful stare If refuge there may be; He hopes to gain, with trembling care, The refuge of a tree.

A fruitless hope--the Panther moves, Perceiving his intent, And vain his utmost caution proves Her purpose to prevent.

But no fierce purpose to destroy The dreadful beast impells; Her gesture, blending grief and joy, Far other motive tells.

Round him she fawns, with gentle pace; Her actions all entreat: She looks imploring in his face, And licks his hands and feet!

The traveller, a Roman born, Was of a generous mind; He never view'd distress with scorn, To all that breath'd most kind.

And soon all selfish fear apart, His native spirit rose, The suffering Panther won his heart, He only felt her woes.

"Jove help thee gracious beast," he cried, "Some evil wounds thee sore, And it shall be my joy and pride, Thy sorrows to explore!"

The beast his kindness understood, Fix'd on his robe a claw, And gently to the neighb'ring wood, Appear'd her friend to draw.

How little is the want of speech, When kindness rules the heart; Gesture will then all lessons teach, That language can impart!

The Roman, Caelius, was his name, By brave compassion sway'd, Conjectur'd all the Panther's aim, And gave her willing aid.

For in the forest with his guide, He hears her wailing young, To whom the tender beast replied. With a maternal tongue.

He sees them only in his thought, For in a curious snare, The hapless little creatures caught, Could only murmur there.

Deep in an earthy trap they lay, An iron grate above, Precluded them from chearful day, And from a mother's love!

But quicken'd by the touching sound, The little captives made, The generous Cælius clear'd the ground. And all the snare display'd.

Two vigorous cubs spring up to light, And to their parent haste; Cælius a third, in tenderer plight, Within the pit embrac'd!

For in he leap'd, to save the young, That seem'd to suffer harm; And swiftly from the pit he sprung, The cub beneath his arm.

The conscious nursling lick'd his cheek, With young endearment sweet, He kiss'd, and laid it safe, tho' weak, Before its parent's feet.

Too faint is language to describe, The Panther's grateful glee, Contemplating her little tribe, From deadly bondage free.

By gesture, that with meaning glows, All eloquence above, She largely, on her friend, bestows, Protection, thanks, and love!

Seeing him start, to hear a roar, That spoke the lion near, She guides him thro' her wood once more, And banishes his fear.

Here (when she brought him to his road) Her gesture said, "we part!" With friendship all her features glow'd, Each movement spoke her heart.

He shar'd her feelings. "Bless your den," He said, as he withdrew, "For gratitude has fled from men, And seems to live with you!"

* * * * *

THE GRATEFUL SNAKE.

BALLAD THE SEVENTH.

Ingratitude! of earth the shame! Thou monster, at whose hated name, The nerves of kindness ake; Would I could drive thee from mankind, By telling how a grateful mind, Once dignified a snake.

The tale is antient, and is sweet, To mortals, who with joy repeat, What soothes the feeling heart; The first of virtues, that may boast The power to soothe, and please it most, Sweet gratitude, thou art.

The reptile, whom thy beauties raise, Has an unquestion'd claim to praise, That justice will confirm! The Muses, with a graceful pride, May turn from thankless man aside, To celebrate a worm!

In Arcady, grave authors write, There liv'd a Serpent, the delight, Of an ingenuous child; Proud of his kindness, the brave boy. Fed and caress'd it with a joy, Heroically mild.

Pleased all his gambols to attend, The snake, his playfellow, and friend, Still in his sight he kept; The reptile, ever at his side, Obeys him waking, and with pride, Would watch him, while he slept!

Once ere her darling was awake, The anxious mother saw the snake, So twin'd around his arm, She begged her husband to convey The fondling serpent far away, For fear of casual harm.

The happy father of the child, Himself a being bravely mild, To her request attends; Conscious such comrades could not part Without great anguish of the heart, He fear'd to wound the friends.

They both were young, and both had shewn Affection into habit grown, With feelings most acute; Yet to a parent's duty just, Tho' griev'd to part them, part he must, The point bears no dispute.

But with a tenderness of mind That prov'd him truly not inclined, Their friendship to destroy; He form'd a plan, and held it good; To hurt as little as he could, The Serpent, or the boy.

To sleep he both with opiates lur'd, Then, in their slumber's bond secur'd, See in his arms they go! To woody scenes, where for the snake, (There left entranc'd) when he shall wake, Both food and shelter grow.

The slumbering boy awak'd at home, And miss'd his friend, and wish'd to roam, And seek the friend he miss'd: But hearing all his sire had done, Soon pacified, the grateful son, Could not such love resist.

He promis'd, for his mother's sake, Not to recall his exil'd snake, Nor wander to his wood; He was a boy of manly soul, And true to honour's just controul, He made his promise good.

Nature, to these divided friends Now in their separate lot attends; Time decks them as he flies; The child, a graceful stripling grows, And freedom on the snake bestows, A formidable size.

And now it chanc'd the Arcadian youth, Renown'd for courage, love and truth! Had sought a favourite maid; Led by her tender charms to roam, Forgetting distance from his home, Abroad too late he stay'd.

Sooner indeed he meant to start, To save a watchful parent's heart, And not one fear excite: But oft, as nature's records tell, Ere love can utter his farewell, Day melts into the night.

Eager to take the shortest road, That led to his remote abode, He thro' a forest sped; There, by the moon's slow rising beam, He saw a robber's faulchion gleam, High brandish'd o'er his head.

A hunter's javelin in his hand, He scorn'd the ruffian's base demand, And made the wretch recoil; But numbers from a thicket spring, The youth they hem within a ring, And threaten to despoil.

He, then alarm'd, calls loud for aid, And sudden from the rustling shade, A wond'rous sound they hear. The startled ruffians turned in dread; Some shriek'd, some shouted, and some fled, Their foe approaches near.

Against one wretch, of form uncouth, Who basely struck the encircled youth, And gave his foot a wound; This shadowy foe, of silent tongue, Had from his secret ambush sprung, And beat him to the ground,

Another, as he fled in haste, The youth's defender then embrac'd With such a deadly clasp; The villain fell, and in the strife Groan'd out his miserable life, In horror's speechless gasp.

Who can describe the youth's surprise, When by the moon-beam he descries The source of his escape! That aid, who crush'd his murd'rous foes, To meet his gratitude now rose. And in a serpent's shape.

"My Zoe!" (hear him now exclaim) The child had by that fondling name, Been used his snake to call: The reptile heard, and at the sound Began, with pitying care, around His wounded foot to crawl.

The blood she staunch'd, with tender tongue, Then higher to his hand she sprung, And lick'd with fond caress! Her gestures all this truth declare, "Thy Zoe makes thy life her care, And joys in her success!"

The wasting night now wears away; The youth's fond mother at his stay, To fear maternal yields; And doubting of some dire mischance, She hurries, ere the morn's advance, To seek him in the fields.

With what delight, with what amaze, Her eye her smiling son surveys, And rolling by his side, A serpent of triumphant air, Who seems his fond regard to share, And serve him as a guide!

For faithful Zoe would attend The footsteps of her wounded friend, 'Till he at home may rest; His mother learnt her wond'rous truth, And clasping the dear rescued youth, His brave confederate blest!

Zoe no more condemn'd to roam, Now grew an inmate of their home: The snake at Athens rear'd, The symbol of Minerva's power, Lodg'd as her servant in her tower, Was never more rever'd.

Zoe was the delight of all, Obedient to each friendly call, From all she honour won; But her the mother most caresst, And fondly shew'd to every guest, The guardian of her son!

* * * * *

THE FATAL HORSE.

BALLAD THE EIGHTH.

Of creatures that to man attend, His pastime, or his wealth; The Horse we cherish as a friend, To sickness and to health.

Bless them, who shield a steed from woe. By age from toil releas'd! And hated be the proud, who shew No mercy to their beast!

A wretch once doom'd, tho' rich and strong, His faithful horse to bleed, But tell his fate, my moral song, For that atrocious deed!

An antient knight, of Kentish race; Of his athletic frame Prone to indulge the passions base, Sir Geoffrin his name,

Against a priest indulg'd his rage, Who charitably good, To shield a widow's helpless age, His avarice withstood.

With abject choler fierce and hot, The knight perforce would gain, And blend her little garden plot, With his superb domain.

The priest, who, on that very ground, To soothe his wrath would strive, In frantic passion's fit he bound, And buried him alive!

The wretch was seiz'd with shame and fear, Tho' he his crime would boast: When suddenly he chanc'd to hear, His king lay off the coast!

'Twas gallant Harold, in that day, Elate with regal power; Becalm'd his stately vessel lay, Near Geoffrin's high tower.

The royal mercy to surprize, He now resolves with speed; "Haste, hither bring," he wildly cries, "My strongest favourite steed."

It was a steed of noblest kind, In spirit and in limb, On which the desp'rate knight design'd To the king's ship to swim!

Now by the swelling ocean's side, He mounts his courser brave! Spurs him with domineering pride, And plunges in the wave!

Us'd to his bold caprices oft, And equal to his weight, The courser toss'd his mane aloft, And swam with breast elate.

The knight now flourishes his sword, As near the ship he draws; The wond'rous sight strikes all on board, Who throng to find the cause:

The sailors round their sov'reign croud, Who on the vessels stern, Now hails the knight's approach aloud, Eager, his aim to learn.

"Provok'd by villains, one I slew, And own him rashly slain; Hence to thy clemency I flew, My pardon to obtain!"

"Now by St. George, thou vent'rous knight, Thy steed has nobly done; Swim back, and pardon make thee light, Thy pardon he has won!"

The knight now with a joyous spring His horse's neck embrac'd; Then blessing thrice his gracious king, He steer'd him back in haste.

Now, as he touch'd his native sand, And near his castle gate, He saw the weeping widow stand, And mock'd her mournful state.

"Woman, thy threats touch me no more, I ride on safety's wing; My brave horse brings me safe to shore, With pardon from my king!"

"Kings seem to grant what God denies, Trust my prophetic breath," (So the indignant dame replies) "That horse shall prove thy death!"

She spoke, and with a voice so keen, It search'd his inmost soul, And caus'd a storm of fearful spleen, Thro' his dark brain to roll

Half credulous, half wildly brave, Now doubt, now rage prevails: He stood like a black suspended wave, Struck by two adverse gales.

A doubt by superstition nurst, Made all just thoughts recede; Frantic he wav'd his sword, and pierc'd His life-preserving steed!

"Thy prophecies I thus destroy," He cried, "thou wretched crone; Threats on my days no more employ, But tremble for thy own."

Striding away, his steed he left In his pure blood to roll, He quickly, of all aid bereft, Breath'd out his nobler soul.

The boastful knight, now gay with pride By his successful crimes, Floating on folly's golden tide, Prosper'd in stormy times.

Ungrateful both to man and beast His sovereign he betray'd, And lent, ere Harold's empire ceas'd, The Norman treacherous aid.

The Norman tyrant much carest This proud and abject slave, And lands, by worthier lords possest, For his base succour gave.

Now years, since that eventful hour, In which his courser bled, Had pour'd increase of wealth, and pow'r On his aspiring head.

As near, with much enlarged estate, To his domain he drew; He chanc'd, before his castle gate, A signal scene to view.

The scene his war-steel'd nerves could shock, Seated on mossy stones The widow, leaning 'gainst a rock, Wept o'er his horse's bones.

Enrag'd from his new steed he vaults, Quick with his foot to spurn These bones, that bid his bloody faults To his base mind return.

The head, now bleach'd, his proud foot strikes With such indignant speed, The bone its fierce aggressor spikes; It is his turn to bleed.

The trivial wound the wrathful knight Disdains to search with care. But soon he finds, the wound tho' slight, Death lurks in ambush there.

Now to his bed of sorrow bound, By penitential pain, He seems, by this heart-reaching wound, A purer mind to gain.

Near to his couch he bids, with care, The widow to be brought, And speaks to her, with soften'd air, His self-correcting thought.

"True prophetess! I feel thee now; So God my crimes forgive, As I with thee true concord vow: In comfort may'st thou live."

"Behold upon this charter'd scroll, A pictur'd cottage stand, I give it thee, with all my soul, And its adjacent land."

"The only rent I will assume, Be this. At close of day, Sit thou, with pity, on my tomb, And for my spirit pray!"

"That tomb be rais'd by sculpture's aid, To warn men from my guilt; My horse's head beside me laid, Whose blood I basely spilt!"

He spoke, he died, the tomb was made, His statue look'd to Heaven! And daily then the widow pray'd, His crimes might be forgiven!

* * * * *

THE LION.

BALLAD THE NINTH.

Lovely woman! how brave is thy soul, When duty and love are combin'd! Then danger in vain would controul Thy tender, yet resolute mind.

Boulla thus in an African glade, In her season of beauty and youth, In the deadliest danger display'd All the quick-sighted courage of truth.

Tho' the wife of a peasant, yet none Her grandeur of heart rose above; And her husband was nature's true son In simplicity, labour, and love.

'Twas his task, and he manag'd it well, The herd of his master to guide, Where a marshy and desolate dell Daily drink to the cattle supplied.

In this toil a dear playfellow shar'd, A little, brave, sensible boy! Who nobly for manhood prepar'd, Made every kind office his joy.

One day as the dell they drew near, They perceiv'd all the cattle around Starting wild, in tumultuous fear, As if thunder had shaken the ground.

The peasant, in wonder and awe, Keenly search'd for the cause of their fright; Very soon it's just motive he saw, And he shudder'd himself at the sight;

For couch'd in the midst of the glade An enormous fierce Lion he view'd; His eye-balls shot flame thro' the shade, And with gore his vast jaw was imbru'd.

"Fly boy to thy mother, be sure! Dear child do not tremble for me! I fear not if thou art secure; I shall 'scape in the limbs of a tree."

He spoke, flying light as the breeze, His cattle were scatter'd before, Them he thought that the Lion would seize, And for human food hunger no more.

But athirst for the blood of a man, All the herd he in fury disdain'd; And leapt at the bough, as he ran, Which the peasant had rapidly gain'd.

He leapt, but he fail'd of his prey; For the peasant was happily higher: Beneath him, indignant, he lay, And watch'd him with vigilant ire.

The boy had his father obey'd, And ran for his rustic abode; And oft turning, that father survey'd, And hardly remember'd his road.

But when, with a burst of delight. His father he saw in a tree, He lost all his sense of affright, And his terror was turn'd into glee.

Then quick to his mother he sped, And quickly his story he told: As she heard it, she shudder'd with dread; But love made her suddenly bold.

She remember'd, that oft to her boy She a lesson of archery gave: Then the bow she resolv'd to employ, And by courage his father to save.

Soon forth from a curious old chest A bundle of arrows she drew; The gift of a warrior, their guest, And ting'd with a poisonous glue!

With a bow, that the chief us'd alone, Which her arm could not easily draw: This bow she preferr'd to her own, In these moments of hope and of awe.

And now they both haste from their cot, The stripling his mother before, And keenly he shew'd her the spot, As the bow he exultingly bore.

More cautious as now they advance, The boy, to his eager desire, Espied, with a love-guided glance, The half-shrouded head of his sire.

He leapt, with a rapturous joy; But, marking the Lion below, In silence the spirited boy Made ready the powerful bow.

From his mother an arrow he caught, In hope's youthful extacy hot; And softly said, quick as his thought, "O grant to my hand the first shot."

His entreaty she could not refuse, Yet hardly had time to consent; Impatient his aim not to lose, The stripling the bow would have bent.

He labour'd to bend it in vain; It surpass'd all the strength of his years: The brave boy full of anguish and pain, Let it fall to the ground with his tears.

His father beheld him with grief, Seeing both, he yet more and more grieves, While his eyes, as in search of relief, Look forth from his refuge of leaves.

But Boulla, who caught his keen eye, Now grasp'd her adventurous bow, And, with prayers addrest to the sky, She aim'd at the Lion below.

Good angels! her arrow direct! On its flight these dear beings depend, Whose kindness, by danger uncheck'd, Has deserv'd to find Heaven their friend.

See the beast! Lo! his eye-balls yet burn, On his prey he still gloats, with a yawn, Yet the woman he does not discern; And her bow is undauntedly drawn.

O love! it is thine to impart Such force, as none else can bestow-- She has shot with the strength of her heart, She has pierced her infuriate foe.

While his jaws were enormously spread, (The truth of her archery see!) Thro' his cheek her sure arrow has sped; It fastens his flesh to the tree.

Too soon of her conquest secure, She runs within reach of his claw, But in tortures he cannot endure, He has struck her to earth with his paw.

Lo! anxious the peasant descends: Good peasant no more be afraid! Heaven sent her the bravest of friends, In the boy who has rush'd to her aid.

Before thou couldst spring to the ground, Her boy made her triumph complete; And contriving a marvellous wound, He has stretch'd her foe dead at her feet.

From the tree by his struggles releas'd, While he roll'd in his own blood afloat Brave Demba ran up to the beast, And darted ten shafts in his throat.

Their poisons collected afford Lethargic relief to his pangs; And Death! of all nature the lord! Thy shadows now rest on his fangs.

Now love! thy own fancy employ! For words are too feeble to trace The father, the mother, the boy, In triumph's extatic embrace.

* * * * *

THE SWAN.

BALLAD THE TENTH.

Kind Heaven will oft a lesson give If mortals are inclined to learn; To shew how simplest things that live, To kindness make a rich return.

Tho' fiction speaks of dying notes, Sung by the swan in death resign'd; Is there a tribe, that flies or floats, Of sense, or feeling, less refin'd?

Yet simple as this bird we deem, My faithful ballad shall attest, One Swan displayed on Thames's stream, A feeling and a friendly breast

Cecilia liv'd on Thames's bank, A young and lovely married fair; To creatures kind of every rank, A favourite Swan had own'd her care.

Her lord, a merchant, frank and young, By probity was known to thrive; Their bliss enliven'd every tongue, They were the happiest pair alive;

For to increase their nuptial joy And their domestic scene adorn; Heaven crown'd their blessings with a boy, A finer boy was never born.

His sportive life had only run To six short months, how brief a date! When gay Cecilia's darling son, Was threaten'd with a deadly fate!

Her garden had a terrace fair, Beneath it, full the river flow'd, There she enjoyed the evening air, Her favourite Swan there proudly row'd.

The mother in her active arms, To make her boy benignly mild; And nobly proof 'gainst all alarms, There oft would exercise her child.

A boat-house by the terrace side, Shelter'd a small and simple boat: And sometimes half way o'er the tide Chain'd to its home, it us'd to float.

Here she, her infant, and her maid, Sport with the Swan, and give it bread; While her gay boy, of nought afraid, With lively transport sees it fed.

'Tis June--a sultry tempest wild Impends, Cecilia would retire, But checks herself to teach her child, The vivid light'ning to admire.

Her noble mind delights to rear In early fortitude, her boy; That he the voice of God may hear, With admiration's awful joy!

While to regain the vessel's shed, Her maid an active pilot stands; She to the music o'er her head, Dances the child with dauntless hands.

But whirlwinds rise: the vessel reel'd, Heaven! the sweet parent is o'erthrown: Her falling head she fails to shield, Attentive to her child alone.

Tis the tornado's ruthless blast; The mother stunn'd, the babe it bears Far from her senseless frame! aghast The maid, in speechless horror glares!

Yet swiftly to its proper shore, The whirlwind now the vessel drives, Where by the elemental roar Alarm'd, Cecilia's lord arrives.

Into the boat behold him bound, He lifts his lifeless wife upright: She wakens to the thunder's sound; Her opening eyes regain the light.