Classic Poem

An American Fable

When fair Intention has been slighted,
And kind Address but ill requited;
The gentler Style, essay'd vain,
Demands a somewhat different Strain.
In solemn Notes, the Turtle Dove ,
Perform'd his Music in the Grove,
Whilst all the Warblers of the Wood,
Of sweetest Voice, Attention shew'd.
Not far off a malicious Crow ,
The gentle Dove 's invet'rate Foe,
To his Tribe, and Associate kind,
That perch'd around, explain'd his Mind.
" I swear I hate those dismal Strains,
They're perfect Discord to my Brains.
Perhaps he thinks our Hearts to move?
Shall ever Crows such Warblers love?
Shall we forget our ancient Few'd,
Our hatred against all his Blood?
Now raise th' whole Posse of the Air;
If possible, our War to share.
Our Kindred certainly will aid,
And other Allies will accede,
Demean him thro' the feather'd Race,
Impute t' him every Thing that's base.
And what you say, say oft and long,
That renders an Impeachment strong.
As for the Music of his Notes,
I hope that we have likewise Throats.
And when our Consorts he provokes,
If he has Cooings, we have Croaks:
And, more, to fortify our Cause,
Have we not Beaks? Have we not Claws? "
The Birds which Rage and Rapine love,
By a hoarse Cry seem'd to approve.
A Red Bird , who th' Harangue o'er-heard,
Provok'd, thus his Dissent prefer'd.
" Thou, who, with thy associate Race,
Are Foes to Harmony and Peace;
No Birds wh' are good, from thee expect
Aught, but of Enmity th' Effect.
The bad Birds may improve their Parts,
From the incendiary Arts;
And learn, from thy presuming Pride,
To ravage and defame beside.
'Tis well known, that your Meaning such is,
And that as well as Croaks y'have Clutches.
Against the Dove , 'gainst all that's Good,
Your base Conspiracy's avow'd.
Who-e'er was by his Song annoy'd?
Not thus his gentle Notes employ'd.
But Malice tunes thy hobbling Song,
And both the Notes and Sense are wrong.
While you bear such a Mind unblest,
Your Punishment is in your Breast.
Can'st thou not change? Say, can a Crow
It's Colour quit, and candid grow?
In the same Forest, whilst the Range,
The same Air breath'd, — Canst thou not change? "
Here paus'd the Red Bird , as to weigh
What he intended yet to say;
Perhaps, in doubt, if to advance; or
Wait for a While th' Opponent's Answer.
Mean Time, the Crow , " Thou senseless Ninny,
Who'd think such prating had been in ye,
Have you been learning in some Cage,
Or College to become so sage?
No doubt, you for a Champion suit,
And y'are an Orator to boot,
But prithee, Red Pate , now, go on.
Our Colour, — that you was upon.
I can't pretend with you to scold,
The Red Bird cry'd, I'm not so bold.
Nor is it that your Colour's bad,
Some lovely Birds are darkly clad.
'Tis not your Feather that's the Flaw,
But the black Malice in your Maw.
From that 'tis you'd do well to vary,
But y'are not to be alter'd, — are ye?
Not thou. — Time, Virtue may complain,
Sense, Echo, th' Air, the Grove, in vain.
Can Obstinacy have the Force
To make Wrong Right, by a long Course?
Some Birds, who oft false Notes renew,
'Tis said, at length conceit them true.
The Mind, long set on base Intent,
Can it recover from its bent?
The Tree of crooked growth, 'tis late
To think again to set it strait,
Perhaps a Panther may be tam'd,
And wicked Spite, grown old, reclaim'd. "
" Confound your Similies, " the Crow
Exclaim'd, and seem'd with Rage to glow.
Flutt'ring he shook his Head, and peck'd,
And croak's more hoarse for being check'd,
" Will none, he cry'd, here, take my Part,
And tear yon little Wretch's Heart? "
A rustling Buz to War did cry: —
An Eagle darted from on high: —
" Be gone, he said, base Crew, be gone; —
Thou little noble Bird, come on;
Come on my Pinions, — Thou shalt be
Secure: for, now, to thee, to thee
To raise upon my Wings 'tis giv'n,
And thus I bear thee up to Heav'n. "
'Tis said the Crow was struck with Dread,
As th' Eagle brush'd just o'er his Head,
And, since, on any, the least Fright,
Enquires, is that an Eagle 's Flight?
The Moral — Something, on that Head,
It seems, must still of Course be said.
The various Birds, of different Note,
According to their Natures, vote.
All kinds are in the human Brood,
Strange Mixture of what's bad and good!
Passion provok'd may, sometimes do ill,
Malice perpetually is cruel.
Who cherish it, indulge a Cancer,
Contaminating by its Rancour.
In vain, soft Music is addrest,
While that Tarant'la stings the Breast.
'Twere good, in Time, then, to restrain,
What is productive of such Bane.
At least, let those of sound Complexion,
Beware of such a base Infection;
Nor, to promote a vile Intrigue,
Become Partakers in its Plague:
And such a Wickedness not new is,
That some are fond to spread their Lues.
The gentle Birds may still suppose,
To meet with Enmity from Crows ,
Yet, let them not the Air upbraid,
The Red Bird found an Eagle 's Aid.