That Confcience, which to all their crimes was
Now calls aloud, and cries to persecute :
No rigor of the laws to be releas'd,
And much the lefs, because it was their Lord's request:
They thought it great their fovereign to controul, And nam'd their pride, nobility of foul.
'Tis true, the Pigeons, and their prince elect, Were short of power, their purpose to effect: But with their quills did all the hurt they could, And cuff'd the tender Chickens from their food: And much the Buzzard in their caufe did ftir, Tho naming not the patron, to infer
With all refpect, he was a grofs idolater.
But when th' imperial owner did espy,
That thus they turn'd his grace to villany,
Not fuff'ring wrath to difcompofe his mind,
He ftrove a temper for th' extremes to find.
So to be just, as he might still be kind;
Then, all maturely weigh'd, pronounc'd a doom
Of facred ftrength for every age to come.
By this the doves their wealth and state poffefs,
No rights infring'd, but licence to opprefs:
power have they as factious lawyers long.
To crowns afcrib'd, that kings can do no wrong.
But fince his own domestic birds have try'd
The dire effects of their deftructive pride,
He deems that proof a measure to the rest,
Concluding well within his kingly breast,
His fowls of nature too unjustly were oppreft.
He therefore makes all birds of every fect
Free of his farm, with promise to respect,
Their feveral kinds alike, and equally protect.
His gracious edict the fame franchise yields
To all the wild increase of woods and fields,
And who in rocks aloof, and who in steeples
builds:
To Crows the like impartial grace affords,
And Choughs and Daws, and fuch republic birds
Secur'd with ample privilege to feed,
Each has his district, and his bounds decreed:
Combin'd in common int'reft with his own,
But not to pass the Pigeons Rubicon.
Here ends the reign of his pretended Dove;
All prophecies accomplish'd from above,
For Shiloh comes the fceptre to remove.
Reduc'd from her imperial high abode,
Like Dionyfius to a private rod,
The paffive church, that with pretended grace
Did her diftinctive mark in duty place,
Now touch'd, reviles her Maker to his face.
What after happen'd is not hard to guess: The small beginnings had a large increase, And arts and wealth fucceed the secret spoils of peace.
"Tis faid, the Doves repented, tho too late, Become the fmiths of their own foolish fate: Nor did their owner haften their ill hour; But, funk in credit, they decreas'd in power: Like fnows in warmth that mildly pass away, Diffolving in the filence of decay.
The Buzzard, not content with equal place,
Invites the feather'd Nimrods of his race;
To hide the thinnefs of their flock from fight,
And all together make a feeming goodly flight:
But each have fep'rate int'refts of their own;
Two Czars are one too many for a throne.
Nor can th' ufurper long abftain from food
Already he has tafted Pigeons blood:
And may be tempted to his former fare,
When this indulgent lord fhall late to heaven
Bare benting times, and moulting months may
When, lagging late, they cannot reach their home; Or rent in fchifm (for fo their fate decrees) Like the tumultuous college of the bees,
They fight their quarrel, by themselves oppreft; The tyrant smiles below, and waits the falling feast.
Thus did the gentle Hind her fable end,
Nor would the Panther blame it, nor commend
But, with affected yawnings at the close,
Seem'd to require her natural repose:
For now the streaky light began to peep;
And setting stars admonish'd both to fleep.
The dame withdrew, and, wishing to her guest
The peace of heaven, betook herself to reft.
Ten thousand angels on her flumbers wait,
With glorious visions of her future state.
Preventing angels met it half the way,
And fent us back to praise, who came to pray.
Juft on the day, when the high-mounted fun
Did fartheft in its northern progrefs run,
He bended forward, and even ftretch'd the sphere
Beyond the limits of the lengthen'd year,
To view a brighter fun in Britain born;
That was the business of his longest morn;
The glorious object feen, 'twas time to turn.
Departing Spring could only stay to shed
Her gloomy beauties on the genial bed,
But left the manly fummer in her stead,
With timely fruit the longing land to chear,
And to fulfil the promise of the year.
Betwixt two feafons comes th' aufpicious heir,
This age to bloffom, and the next to bear.
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