Some characters may sure be found to write Among her sons; for 'tis no common sight, A spotted dam, and all her offspring white.

The savage, though she saw her plea controll'd, Yet would not wholly seem to quit her hold, But offer'd fairly to compound the strife, 360 And judge conversion by the convert's life.

'Tis true, she said, I think it somewhat strange, So few should follow profitable change: For present joys are more to flesh and blood, Than a dull prospect of a distant good.

'Twas well alluded by a son of mine (I hope to quote him is not to purloin), Two magnets, heaven and earth, allure to bliss; The larger loadstone that, the nearer this: The weak attraction of the greater fails; 370 We nod a while, but neighbourhood prevails: But when the greater proves the nearer too, I wonder more your converts come so slow.

Methinks in those who firm with me remain, It shows a n.o.bler principle than gain.

Your inference would be strong, the Hind replied, If yours were in effect the suffering side: Your clergy's sons their own in peace possess, Nor are their prospects in reversion less.

My proselytes are struck with awful dread; 380 Your b.l.o.o.d.y comet-laws hang blazing o'er their head; The respite they enjoy but only lent, The best they have to hope, protracted punishment.

Be judge yourself, if interest may prevail, Which motives, yours or mine, will turn the scale.

While pride and pomp allure, and plenteous ease, That is, till man's predominant pa.s.sions cease, Admire no longer at my slow increase.

By education most have been misled; So they believe, because they so were bred. 390 The priest continues what the nurse began, And thus the child imposes on the man.

The rest I named before, nor need repeat: But interest is the most prevailing cheat, The sly seducer both of age and youth; They study that, and think they study truth.

When interest fortifies an argument, Weak reason serves to gain the will's a.s.sent; For souls, already warp'd, receive an easy bent.

Add long prescription of establish'd laws, 400 And pique of honour to maintain a cause, And shame of change, and fear of future ill, And zeal, the blind conductor of the will; And chief among the still-mistaking crowd, The fame of teachers obstinate and proud, And, more than all, the private judge allow'd; Disdain of Fathers which the dance began, And last, uncertain whose the narrower span, The clown unread, and half-read gentleman.

To this the Panther, with a scornful smile: 410 Yet still you travel with unwearied toil, And range around the realm without control, Among my sons for proselytes to prowl, And here and there you snap some silly soul.

You hinted fears of future change in state; Pray heaven you did not prophesy your fate!

Perhaps you think your time of triumph near, But may mistake the season of the year; The Swallow's[125] fortune gives you cause to fear.

For charity, replied the matron, tell 420 What sad mischance those pretty birds befell.

Nay, no mischance, the savage dame replied, But want of wit in their unerring guide, And eager haste, and gaudy hopes, and giddy pride.

Yet, wishing timely warning may prevail, Make you the moral, and I'll tell the tale.

The Swallow, privileged above the rest Of all the birds, as man's familiar guest, Pursues the sun in summer, brisk and bold, But wisely shuns the persecuting cold: 430 Is well to chancels and to chimneys known, Though 'tis not thought she feeds on smoke alone.

From hence she has been held of heavenly line, Endued with particles of soul divine.

This merry chorister had long possess'd Her summer seat, and feather'd well her nest: Till frowning skies began to change their cheer, And time turn'd up the wrong side of the year; The shedding trees began the ground to strow With yellow leaves, and bitter blasts to blow. 440 Sad auguries of winter thence she drew, Which by instinct, or prophecy, she knew: When prudence warn'd her to remove betimes, And seek a better heaven, and warmer climes.

Her sons were summon'd on a steeple's height, And, call'd in common council, vote a flight; The day was named, the next that should be fair: All to the general rendezvous repair, They try their fluttering wings, and trust themselves in air.

But whether upward to the moon they go, 450 Or dream the winter out in caves below, Or hawk at flies elsewhere, concerns us not to know.

Southwards, you may be sure, they bent their flight, And harbour'd in a hollow rock at night: Next morn they rose, and set up every sail; The wind was fair, but blew a mackerel gale: The sickly young sat shivering on the sh.o.r.e, Abhorr'd salt water never seen before, And pray'd their tender mothers to delay The pa.s.sage, and expect a fairer day. 460

With these the Martin readily concurr'd, A church-begot, and church-believing bird; Of little body, but of lofty mind, Round-bellied, for a dignity design'd, And much a dunce, as Martins are by kind.

Yet often quoted Canon-laws, and Code, And Fathers which he never understood; But little learning needs in n.o.ble blood.

For, sooth to say, the Swallow brought him in, Her household chaplain, and her next of kin: 470 In superst.i.tion silly to excess, And casting schemes by planetary guess: In fine, short-wing'd, unfit himself to fly, His fears foretold foul weather in the sky.

Besides, a Raven from a wither'd oak, Left of their lodging, was observed to croak.

That omen liked him not; so his advice Was present safety, bought at any price; A seeming pious care, that cover'd cowardice.

To strengthen this, he told a boding dream 480 Of rising waters, and a troubled stream, Sure signs of anguish, dangers, and distress, With something more, not lawful to express: By which he slily seem'd to intimate Some secret revelation of their fate.

For he concluded, once upon a time, He found a leaf inscribed with sacred rhyme, Whose antique characters did well denote The Sibyl's hand of the c.u.maean grot: The mad divineress had plainly writ, 490 A time should come (but many ages yet), In which, sinister destinies ordain, A dame should drown with all her feather'd train, And seas from thence be call'd the Chelidonian main.

At this, some shook for fear, the more devout Arose, and bless'd themselves from head to foot.

'Tis true, some stagers of the wiser sort Made all these idle wonderments their sport: They said, their only danger was delay, And he, who heard what every fool could say, 500 Would never fix his thought, but trim his time away.

The pa.s.sage yet was good; the wind, 'tis true, Was somewhat high, but that was nothing new, No more than usual equinoxes blew.

The sun, already from the Scales declined, Gave little hopes of better days behind, But change, from bad to worse, of weather and of wind.

Nor need they fear the dampness of the sky Should flag their wings, and hinder them to fly 'Twas only water thrown on sails too dry. 510 But, least of all, philosophy presumes Of truth in dreams, from melancholy fumes: Perhaps the Martin, housed in holy ground, Might think of ghosts that walk their midnight round, Till grosser atoms, tumbling in the stream Of fancy, madly met, and clubb'd into a dream: As little weight his vain presages bear, Of ill effect to such alone who fear: Most prophecies are of a piece with these, Each Nostradamus can foretell with ease: 520 Not naming persons, and confounding times, One casual truth supports a thousand lying rhymes.

The advice was true; but fear had seized the most, And all good counsel is on cowards lost.

The question crudely put to shun delay, 'Twas carried by the major part to stay.

His point thus gain'd, Sir Martin dated thence His power, and from a priest became a prince.

He order'd all things with a busy care, And cells and refectories did prepare, 530 And large provisions laid of winter fare: But now and then let fall a word or two Of hope, that Heaven some miracle might show, And for their sakes the sun should backward go; Against the laws of nature upward climb, 535 And, mounted on the Ram, renew the prime: For which two proofs in sacred story lay, Of Ahaz' dial, and of Joshua's day.

In expectation of such times as these, A chapel housed them, truly call'd of ease: 540 For Martin much devotion did not ask: They pray'd sometimes, and that was all their task.

It happen'd, as beyond the reach of wit Blind prophecies may have a lucky hit, That this accomplish'd, or at least in part, Gave great repute to their new Merlin's art.

Some Swifts, the giants of the Swallow kind, Large-limb'd, stout-hearted, but of stupid mind (For Swisses, or for Gibeonites design'd), These lubbers, peeping through a broken pane, 550 To suck fresh air, survey'd the neighbouring plain; And saw (but scarcely could believe their eyes) New blossoms flourish, and new flowers arise; As G.o.d had been abroad, and, walking there, Had left his footsteps, and reform'd the year: The sunny hills from far were seen to glow With glittering beams, and in the meads below The burnish'd brooks appear'd with liquid gold to flow.

At last they heard the foolish Cuckoo sing, Whose note proclaim'd the holiday of spring. 560

No longer doubting, all prepare to fly, And repossess their patrimonial sky.

The priest before them did his wings display; And that good omens might attend their way, As luck would have it, 'twas St Martin's day.

Who but the Swallow triumphs now alone?

The canopy of heaven is all her own: Her youthful offspring to their haunts repair, And glide along in glades, and skim in air, And dip for insects in the purling springs, 570 And stoop on rivers to refresh their wings.

Their mothers think a fair provision made, That every son can live upon his trade: And, now the careful charge is off their hands, Look out for husbands, and new nuptial bands: The youthful widow longs to be supplied; But first the lover is by lawyers tied To settle jointure-chimneys on the bride.

So thick they couple, in so short a s.p.a.ce, That Martin's marriage-offerings rise apace.

Their ancient houses running to decay, Are furbish'd up, and cemented with clay; 580 They teem already; store of eggs are laid, And brooding mothers call Lucina's aid.

Fame spreads the news, and foreign fowls appear In flocks to greet the new returning year, To bless the founder, and partake the cheer.

And now 'twas time (so fast their numbers rise) To plant abroad, and people colonies.

The youth drawn forth, as Martin had desired 590 (For so their cruel destiny required), Were sent far off on an ill-fated day; The rest would needs conduct them on their way, And Martin went, because he fear'd alone to stay.

So long they flew with inconsiderate haste, That now their afternoon began to waste; And, what was ominous, that very morn The sun was enter'd into Capricorn; Which, by their bad astronomer's account, That week the Virgin balance should remount. 600 An infant moon eclipsed him in his way, And hid the small remainders of his day.

The crowd, amazed, pursued no certain mark; But birds met birds, and jostled in the dark: Few mind the public in a panic fright; And fear increased the horror of the night.

Night came, but unattended with repose; Alone she came, no sleep their eyes to close: Alone, and black she came; no friendly stars arose.

What should they do, beset with dangers round, 610 No neighbouring dorp,[126] no lodging to be found, But bleaky plains, and bare unhospitable ground.

The latter brood, who just began to fly, Sick-feather'd, and unpractised in the sky, For succour to their helpless mother call: She spread her wings; some few beneath them crawl; She spread them wider yet, but could not cover all.

To augment their woes, the winds began to move, Debate in air, for empty fields above, Till Boreas got the skies, and pour'd amain 620 His rattling hailstones mix'd with snow and rain.

The joyless morning late arose, and found A dreadful desolation reign around-- Some buried in the snow, some frozen to the ground.

The rest were struggling still with death, and lay The Crows' and Ravens' rights, an undefended prey: Excepting Martin's race; for they and he Had gain'd the shelter of a hollow tree: But soon discover'd by a st.u.r.dy clown, He headed all the rabble of a town, 630 And finish'd them with bats, or poll'd them down.

Martin himself was caught alive, and tried For treasonous crimes, because the laws provide No Martin there in winter shall abide.

High on an oak, which never leaf shall bear, He breathed his last, exposed to open air; And there his corpse, unbless'd, is hanging still, To show the change of winds with his prophetic bill.

The patience of the Hind did almost fail; For well she mark'd the malice of the tale;[127] 640 Which ribald art their Church to Luther owes; In malice it began, by malice grows; He sow'd the Serpent's teeth, an iron-harvest rose.

But most in Martin's character and fate, She saw her slander'd sons, the Panther's hate, The people's rage, the persecuting state: Then said, I take the advice in friendly part; You clear your conscience, or at least your heart: Perhaps you fail'd in your foreseeing skill, For Swallows are unlucky birds to kill: 650 As for my sons, the family is bless'd, Whose every child is equal to the rest; No Church reform'd can boast a blameless line; Such Martins build in yours, and more than mine: Or else an old fanatic[128] author lies, Who summ'd their scandals up by centuries.

But through your parable I plainly see The b.l.o.o.d.y laws, the crowd's barbarity; The sunshine that offends the purblind sight: Had some their wishes, it would soon be night. 660 Mistake me not; the charge concerns not you: Your sons are malcontents, but yet are true, As far as non-resistance makes them so; But that's a word of neutral sense, you know, A pa.s.sive term, which no relief will bring, But trims betwixt a rebel and a king.

Rest well a.s.sured, the Pardelis replied, My sons would all support the regal side, Though Heaven forbid the cause by battle should be tried.

The matron answer'd with a loud Amen, 670 And thus pursued her argument again.

If, as you say, and as I hope no less, Your sons will practise what yourselves profess, What angry power prevents our present peace?

The Lion, studious of our common good, Desires (and kings' desires are ill withstood) To join our nations in a lasting love; The bars betwixt are easy to remove; For sanguinary laws were never made above.

If you condemn that prince of tyranny, 680 Whose mandate forced your Gallic friends to fly, Make not a worse example of your own; Or cease to rail at causeless rigour shown, And let the guiltless person throw the stone.

His blunted sword your suffering brotherhood Have seldom felt; he stops it short of blood: But you have ground the persecuting knife, And set it to a razor edge on life.

Cursed be the wit, which cruelty refines, Or to his father's rod the scorpion's joins! 690 Your finger is more gross than the great monarch's loins.

But you, perhaps, remove that b.l.o.o.d.y note, And stick it on the first reformer's coat.