And crowd beneath the fond inviting breast,
And wings outstretching, quivering with delight.
They grow apace; but still not far they range,
Till on their pinions plumes begin to shoot;
Then, by the wary parents led, they dare
To skirt the earing crofts; at last, full fledged,
They try their timorous wings, bending their flight
Home to their natal spot, and pant amid the ferns.
Oft by the side of sheep-fold, on the ground
Bared by the frequent hoof, they love to lie
And bask. O, I would never tire to look
On such a scene of peacefulness as this!
But nearer as I draw, with cautious step,
Curious to mark their ways, at once alarmed,
They spring; the startled lambs, with bickering haste,
Flee to their mother's side, and gaze around:
Far o'er yon whins the covey wing their way,
And, wheeling round the broomy know, elude
My following eye.-Fear not, ye harmless race;
In me no longer shall ye find a foe!
Even when each pulse beat high with bounding health,
Ere yet the stream of life, in sluggish flow,
Began to flag, and prematurely stop
With ever-boding pause, even then my
Was never in the sport; even then I felt,-
Pleasure from pain was pleasure much alloyed.
Alas, he comes! yes, yonder comes your foe, With sure determined eye, and in his hand The two-fold tube, formed for a double death. Full soon his spaniel, ranging far and wide, Will lead his footsteps to the very spot, The covert thick, in which, falsely secure, Ye lurking sit, close huddled, wing to wing: Yes, near and nearer still the spaniel draws, Retracing oft, and crossing oft his course, Till, all at once, scent-struck, with pendant tongue, And lifted paw, stiffened he panting stands. Forward, encouraged by the sportsman's voice, He hesitating creeps; when, flush, the game Upsprings, and, from the levelled turning tubes, The glance, once and again, bursts through the smoke.
Nor, 'mid the rigours of the wintry day, Does savage man the enfeebled pinion spare; Then not for sport, but bread, with hawk-like eye, That needs no setter's aid, the fowler gaunt Roams in the snowy fields, and downward looks, Tracing the triple claw, that leads him on, Oft looking forward, to some thawing spring, Where, 'mid the withered ushes he discerns His destined prey; sidelong he stooping steps, Wary, and, with a never-erring aim,
Scatters the flock wide fluttering in the snow ;-
The purpled snow records the cruel deed.
With earliest spring, while yet in mountain cleughs Lingers the frozen wreath, when yeanling lambs, Upon the little heath-encircled patch
Of smoothest sward, totter,-the GORCOCK'S call
Is heard from out the mist, high on the hill;
But not till when the tiny heather bud
Appears, are struck the spring-time leagues of love.
Remote from shepherd's hut, or trampled fold,
The new-joined pair their lowly mansion pitch,
Perhaps beneath the juniper's rough shoots;
Or castled on some plat of tufted heath,
Surrounded by a narrow sable moat
Of swampy moss. Within the fabric rude,
Or e'er the new moon waxes to the full,
The assiduous dam eight spotted spheroids sees,
And feels beneath her heart, fluttering with joy.
Nor long she sits, till, with redoubled joy,
Around her she beholds an active brood
Run to and fro, or through her covering wings
Their downy heads look out; and much she loves
To pluck the heather crops, not for herself,
But for their little bills. Thus, by degrees,
She teaches them to find the food, which God
Has spread for them amid the desart wild,
And seeming barrenness. Now they essay
Their full-plumed wings, and, whirring, spurn the ground;
But soon alight fast by yon moss-grown cairn,
Round which the berries blae (a beauteous tint
Of purple, deeper dyed with darkest blue)
Lurk 'mid the small round leaves. Enjoy the hour,
While yet ye may, ye unoffending flock!
For not far distant now the bloody morn,
When man's protection, selfishly bestowed,
Shall be withdrawn, and murder roam at will.
Low in the east, the purple tinge of dawn
Steals upward o'er the clouds that overhang
The welkin's verge. Upon the mountain side,
The wakening covey quit their mother's wing,
And spread around: Lost in the mist,
They hear her call, and, quick returning, bless
A mother's eye. Meantime, the sportsman keen
Comes forth; and, heedless of the winning smile
Of infant day, pleading on mercy's side,
Anticipates, with eager joy, the sum
Of slaughter, that, ere evening hour, he'll boast
To have achieved;-and many a gory wing,
Ere evening hour, exultingly he sees,
Drop, fluttering, 'mid the heath,-even 'mid the bush,
Beneath whose blooms the brooding mother sat,
Till round her she beheld her downy young.
At last mild twilight veils the insatiate eye, And stops the game of death. The frequent shot Resounds no more: Silence again resumes Her lonely reign; save that the mother's call Is heard repeated oft, a plaintive note! Mournful she gathers in her brood, dispersed By savage sport, and o'er the remuant spreads Fondly her wings; close nestling 'neath her breast, They cherished cower amid the purple blooms.
While thus the heathfowl covey, day by day,
Is lessened, till, perhaps, one drooping bird
Survives, the PLOVER safe her airy scream
Circling repeats, then to a distance flies,
And, querulous, still returns, importunate;
Yet still escapes, unworthy of an aim.
Amid the marsh's rushy skirts, her nest
Is slightly strewn; four eggs, of olive hue,
Spotted with black, she broods upon: her young,
Soon as discumbered of the fragile shell,
Run lively round their dam. She, if or dog,
intrude upon her bleak domain,
Skims, clamouring loud, close at their feet, with wing Stooping, as if impeded by a wound;
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