Ballads, Founded on Anecdotes Relating to Animals Part 7

The boy had his father obey'd, And ran for his rustic abode; And oft turning, that father survey'd, And hardly remember'd his road.

But when, with a burst of delight.

His father he saw in a tree, He lost all his sense of affright, And his terror was turn'd into glee.

Then quick to his mother he sped, And quickly his story he told: As she heard it, she shudder'd with dread; But love made her suddenly bold.

She remember'd, that oft to her boy She a lesson of archery gave: Then the bow she resolv'd to employ, And by courage his father to save.

Soon forth from a curious old chest A bundle of arrows she drew; The gift of a warrior, their guest, And ting'd with a poisonous glue!

With a bow, that the chief us'd alone, Which her arm could not easily draw: This bow she preferr'd to her own, In these moments of hope and of awe.

And now they both haste from their cot, The stripling his mother before, And keenly he shew'd her the spot, As the bow he exultingly bore.

More cautious as now they advance, The boy, to his eager desire, Espied, with a love-guided glance, The half-shrouded head of his sire.

He leapt, with a rapturous joy; But, marking the Lion below, In silence the spirited boy Made ready the powerful bow.

From his mother an arrow he caught, In hope's youthful extacy hot; And softly said, quick as his thought, "O grant to my hand the first shot."

His entreaty she could not refuse, Yet hardly had time to consent; Impatient his aim not to lose, The stripling the bow would have bent.

He labour'd to bend it in vain; It surpa.s.s'd all the strength of his years: The brave boy full of anguish and pain, Let it fall to the ground with his tears.

His father beheld him with grief, Seeing both, he yet more and more grieves, While his eyes, as in search of relief, Look forth from his refuge of leaves.

But Boulla, who caught his keen eye, Now grasp'd her adventurous bow, And, with prayers addrest to the sky, She aim'd at the Lion below.

Good angels! her arrow direct!

On its flight these dear beings depend, Whose kindness, by danger uncheck'd, Has deserv'd to find Heaven their friend.

See the beast! Lo! his eye-b.a.l.l.s yet burn, On his prey he still gloats, with a yawn, Yet the woman he does not discern; And her bow is undauntedly drawn.

O love! it is thine to impart Such force, as none else can bestow-- She has shot with the strength of her heart, She has pierced her infuriate foe.

While his jaws were enormously spread, (The truth of her archery see!) Thro' his cheek her sure arrow has sped; It fastens his flesh to the tree.

Too soon of her conquest secure, She runs within reach of his claw, But in tortures he cannot endure, He has struck her to earth with his paw.

Lo! anxious the peasant descends: Good peasant no more be afraid!

Heaven sent her the bravest of friends, In the boy who has rush'd to her aid.

Before thou couldst spring to the ground, Her boy made her triumph complete; And contriving a marvellous wound, He has stretch'd her foe dead at her feet.

From the tree by his struggles releas'd, While he roll'd in his own blood afloat Brave Demba ran up to the beast, And darted ten shafts in his throat.

Their poisons collected afford Lethargic relief to his pangs; And Death! of all nature the lord!

Thy shadows now rest on his fangs.

Now love! thy own fancy employ!

For words are too feeble to trace The father, the mother, the boy, In triumph's extatic embrace.

THE SWAN.

BALLAD THE TENTH.

Kind Heaven will oft a lesson give If mortals are inclined to learn; To shew how simplest things that live, To kindness make a rich return.

Tho' fiction speaks of dying notes, Sung by the swan in death resign'd; Is there a tribe, that flies or floats, Of sense, or feeling, less refin'd?

Yet simple as this bird we deem, My faithful ballad shall attest, One Swan displayed on Thames's stream, A feeling and a friendly breast

Cecilia liv'd on Thames's bank, A young and lovely married fair; To creatures kind of every rank, A favourite Swan had own'd her care.

Her lord, a merchant, frank and young, By probity was known to thrive; Their bliss enliven'd every tongue, They were the happiest pair alive;

For to increase their nuptial joy And their domestic scene adorn; Heaven crown'd their blessings with a boy, A finer boy was never born.

His sportive life had only run To six short months, how brief a date!

When gay Cecilia's darling son, Was threaten'd with a deadly fate!

Her garden had a terrace fair, Beneath it, full the river flow'd, There she enjoyed the evening air, Her favourite Swan there proudly row'd.

The mother in her active arms, To make her boy benignly mild; And n.o.bly proof 'gainst all alarms, There oft would exercise her child.

A boat-house by the terrace side, Shelter'd a small and simple boat: And sometimes half way o'er the tide Chain'd to its home, it us'd to float.

Here she, her infant, and her maid, Sport with the Swan, and give it bread; While her gay boy, of nought afraid, With lively transport sees it fed.

'Tis June--a sultry tempest wild Impends, Cecilia would retire, But checks herself to teach her child, The vivid light'ning to admire.

Her n.o.ble mind delights to rear In early fort.i.tude, her boy; That he the voice of G.o.d may hear, With admiration's awful joy!

While to regain the vessel's shed, Her maid an active pilot stands; She to the music o'er her head, Dances the child with dauntless hands.

But whirlwinds rise: the vessel reel'd, Heaven! the sweet parent is o'erthrown: Her falling head she fails to s.h.i.+eld, Attentive to her child alone.

Tis the tornado's ruthless blast; The mother stunn'd, the babe it bears Far from her senseless frame! aghast The maid, in speechless horror glares!

Yet swiftly to its proper sh.o.r.e, The whirlwind now the vessel drives, Where by the elemental roar Alarm'd, Cecilia's lord arrives.