THE HARE CONDEMNED AND EXECUTED. THE hunted Hare, with panting breath, He wish'd, before his days were spent, Besides, in articles of love, A POETICAL EPISTLE FROM THE NIGHTINGALE* TO THE OWL; The former having heard that the latter had spoken disrespect. fully of her to the Grandees at Hampton Court. You in the Palace, Madam, have averr'd That you alone are the Athenian Bird: That no such title could to me belong, Except in fiction of poetic song: Yet, if my tale with candour you peruse, My claim to Athens you will not refuse. Like you, from Attica my honours came, And Philomela was my virgin name; Lover of melody this name bespeaks, As thus interpret all the letter'd Greeks. Pandion, my Father, was of Athens King; Hence the fam'd origin from which I spring. Of two fair daughters Pandion was possess'd, And in the Offspring was the Parent bless'd. One only Sister gave me all her heart; And, when by fortune doom'd with me to part, Though wedded to the Monarch of proud Thrace, No nuptial joys her sorrow could efface; In vain with Regal honours wealth combin'd, Still Progne wept her Sister left behind. While this corroding grief her soul oppress'd, To her dear Lord her suit she thus address'd: "Ah, Tereus, go!" she supplicating said, "To Athens go, and fetch the darling Maid! Entreat Sire his Philomel to spare, my Bring her to Thrace, and crown a Sister's prayer." On the dire errand Tereus fondly went, And wrung from Pandion lingering consent, * In this Poem Mr. Hardinge has introduced an epitome of the Tale from Ovid, which he had imitated in p. 302; and to which they may be considered as a Sequel. EDIT. While I, confiding in fraternal care, But prayers and tears, alas, were urg'd in vain! And render'd mute the guilt-betraying tongue; Then back to Thrace the coward-miscreant fled, At length ingenious Art the means contriv'd On Tereus then dread vengeance we decreed; Ferocious Progne perpetrates the deed; With madness fraught, their Infant Son she slew, And on the festive board the head she threw : Then utter'd, with a maniac's furious cries, "You Itys call'd-for thee thy Itys dies! For thy atrocious crimes thy Son has bled, And Philomel's revenge-is Itys dead! Infernal torments we for thee devis'd, And thy dear Itys was the food disguis'd; By culinary arts his limbs prepar'd, Compos'd the feast thy wanton revel shar'd! Behold those limbs, in various models cast, Have furnish'd Tereus with a fiend's repast!" Tereus with frantic rage forsook the board, And at our bosoms aim'd the threatening sword, When bless'd Enchantment interpos'd its aid, To save us both from the avenging blade. And now!-the free inhabitants of air, I mean not, Madam, to dispute your claim, * Tereus was celebrating the feast of Bacchus, and called for his darling Itys to partake of his pleasure. Historians seem to agree in assigning to Philomela the graceful act of throwing the dear boy's head in the face of the fond father; but I have ventured to give Progne the credit of it, and trust, as the story is not of modern date, I shall not be drawn into controversy by the Reviewers. And yet this emblem, once so much esteem'd, The sapient Basilisk * may vie with you, On one fair ground of semblance we unite, Both join in homage to fair Cynthia's light. Yet various haunts preclude the social ties, And keep us distant from each other's eyes; Yours-the sequester'd ivy-mantled tower, Mine the retreat of Love's harmonious bower. Our tones as various. When you take your flight, You with your dreadful note appal the night: Not love, but death, is in your boding shrieks; My song the lover's plaintive language speaks, To him I warble on the blossom'd tree, And catch the sigh he breathes-inspir'd by me. THE FAIRY'S GIFT. I dreamt that Plutus and Apollo They laugh'd, and fled; I could not hold'em, the last *The Basilisk was one of Minerva's embleins. |