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The birds of passage quit our English shore, By various routs the feather'd myriad moves; The Becca-Fica seeks Italian groves,
No more a Wheat-ear; while the soaring files Of sea-fowl gather round the Hebrid-isles. But if by bird-lime touch'd, unplumed, confined, Some poor ill-fated straggler stays behind, Driven from his transient perch, beneath your eaves On his unshelter'd head the tempest raves, While drooping round, redoubling every pain, His Mate and Nestlings ask his help in vain. 34 So we, the buskin and the sock who wear,And "strut and fret," our little season here, Dismiss'd at length, as Fortune bids divide — Some (lucky rogues!) sit down on Thames's side; Others to Liffy's western banks proceed, And some — driven far a-field, across the Tweed; But pinion'd here, alas! I cannot fly: The hapless, unplumed, lingering straggler I! Unless the healing pity you bestow, Shall imp my shatter'd wings — and let me go. Hard in his fate, whom evil stars have led To seek in scenic art precarious bread, While still, thro' wild vicissitudes afloat, An Hero now, and now a Sans Culotte!
That eleemosinary bread he gains Mingling — with real distresses — mimic pains, 35 See in our group, a pale, lank Falstaff stare!Much needs he stuffing: — while young Ammon there Rehearses — in a garret — ten feet square! And as his soft Statira sighs content, Roxana comes not — but a dun for rent! Here shiv'ring Edgar, in his blanket roll'd, Exclaims — with too much reason, "Tom's a-cold"! And vainly tries his sorrows to divert, While Goneril or Regan — wash his shirt! Lo! fresh from Calais, Edward! mighty king! Revolves — a mutton chop upon a string! And Hotspur, plucking "honour from the moon," Feed a sick infant with a pewter spoon! More blest the Fisher, who undaunted braves In his small bark, the impetuous winds and waves; 36 For though he plough the sea when others sleep,
He draws, like Glendower, spirits from the deep! And while the storm howls round, amidst his trouble, Bright moonshine still illuminates the cobble! Pale with her fears for him, some fair Poissarde, Watches his nearing boat; with fond regard Smiles when she sees his little canvas handing, And clasps her dripping lover on his landing. More blest the Peasant, who, with nervous toil Hews the rough oak, or breaks the stubborn soil: Weary, indeed, he sees the evening come, But then, the rude, yet tranquil hut, his home, Receives tits rustic inmate; then are his, Secure repose, and dear domestic bliss! The orchard's blushing fruit, the garden's store, The pendant hop, that mantles round the door, 37 Are his: — and while the cheerful faggots burn,"His lisping children hail their fire's return!"
But wandering Players, "unhousel'd, unanneal'd," And unappointed, scour life's common field, A flying squadron! — disappointment cross 'em, And the campaign concludes, perhaps, at Horsham!
Oh! ye, whose timely bounty deigns to shed Compassion's balm upon my luckless head, Benevolence, with warm and glowing breast, And soft, celestial mercy, double blest!
Smile on the generous act! — where means are given, To aid the wretched — is to merit Heaven. |
