Ballads | Page 4

as gay, as Dian's horn,
Or tender, as Apollo's lute.
Then, at his side, his sovereign fair
Appear'd the rising day to greet,

Uniting to his dulcet air
Devotion's song divinely sweet.
A fund of joys, that never waste,
Nature to this sweet pair had given;

Invention, harmony, and taste,
And fancy, brightest gift of Heaven!
In quest of many a new device,
Thro' pathless scenes they joy'd to
roam,
Composing songs most wildly sweet,
Heard, with parental

pride, at home.
Delighted in a wood to rove,
That near their native city spread;

There of its gayest flowers they wove,
A garland for each other's
head.
One morn when this dear task was done,
And just as each the other
crown'd,
Seeking deep, shade to 'scape the sun,
A piteous spectacle
they found.
It was a dead disfigur'd fawn,
Its milk white haunch some monster
tore;
It perish'd in that morning's dawn,
Nor had the sun yet dried
its gore!
Cornelia, nature's genuine child,
Caress'd the dead, with pity pale;

It's mangled limb, with gesture mild,
She shrouded in her sea-green
veil.
The sympathetic pair agreed,
To form a grave without a spade;

Bury their fawn beneath a tree,
And chaunt a requiem to his shade.
Fortunio had a rustic knife,
With this their feeling task they plann'd,

And often in a friendly strife,
They claim'd it from each other's
hand.
But ere their tedious toil advanc'd,
Towards its kind and tender end,

Cornelia, as her quick eye glanc'd,
Saw, what escap'd her toiling
friend.
It was a sight that well might shake,
A little heart of stouter mould;

A sight, that made Cornelia quake,
And all her quivering fibres cold!
A furious Stag advancing sprung,
Eager along the echoing wood,

As if vindictive for his young,
To reach the spot, where now they
stood.

Cornelia scarce could stand, for she
Began her guardian to entreat;

Seizing his busy arm, to flee
Far from the fawn before her feet.
The youth her painful terror saw,
And with a manly sterness said,
In
a firm voice, inspiring awe,
"Cornelia I must be obeyed."
"True love is brave, whate'er may chance--
Behind this tree's
protecting bole
Stand thou--nor fear the Stag's advance,
But trust to
thy Fortunio's soul!"
The faithful maid, in double dread,
Fear'd to offend him more than
death;
And now, as near the fierce foe sped,
Behind the tree, she
pants for breath.
Yet peeping thence in fond alarm,
Most trembling for her guardian's
life,
She looks, expecting that his arm
Would brandish his defensive
knife.
Amazement kept the trembler mute,
To see him hurl it far away,

And from his bosom pluck his flute,
And fearlessly begin to play.
The furious parent of the dead,
Marking him near his blood-stain'd
young,
Aim'd at his breast with hostile head,
As near the dauntless
boy he sprung.
But ere the branching horns could reach,
That object of ill-founded
ire,
Sounds of resistless magic teach
Submission to the savage sire.
The young musician richly pour'd
Notes from his pipe, so wond'rous
sweet,
A rav'nous pard must have ador'd,
And melted at the
minstrel's feet.
So softly plaintive was the strain,
No living thing unmov'd could hear,

What took from terror all its pain,
And mixt delight with sorrow's
tear.

The Stag with a pathetic grace
Look'd up, most eloquently mute;

And sighing in Fortunio's face,
Now lick'd the hand, that held his
flute.
Cornelia saw, with blest relief,
The scene that every fear dismist;

And sharing all his love and grief,
Her foe, so humaniz'd, she kist.
Then by her brave musician's side,
She fondly claspt his honour'd
hand.
"And give me credit now," she cried,
"For staying at thy stern
command."
"Henceforth, tho' plung'd in perils new,
I shrink from none, if thou art
near,
But feel our sacred maxim true,
That perfect love will cast out
fear!"
"This Stag to thee will ever shew
The gratitude, thy strains inspire!

And those, who soothe a parent's woe,
Are dear to Heaven's
all-soothing sire."
"Our duty to this hapless fawn
We will perform, and often fly
To
hail his grave at early dawn;
Youth and misfortune claim a sigh!"
The lovely nymph prophetic spoke;
The Stag, as taught by powers
above,
Oft met them at their fav'rite oak,
And seem'd to bless their
tender love.
Here oft the little fair retir'd;
Here lov'd from gayer scenes withdrawn,

To breathe, what harmony inspir'd--
A dirge to memorize the fawn!

THE STORK.
BALLAD THE FIFTH.
Who can forget fair freedom's bird,
That has her genuine praises
heard,
Confirm'd by frequent proof?
The patriot stork is sure to

share
The brave Batavian's generous care,
While breeding on his
roof,
In all her early, brightest, days,
When Holland won immortal praise

Her Spanish tyrant's dread!
She play'd not her heroic part
With
spirit, nobler than the heart,
Of one mild bird she bred.
It was a female Stork, whose mind
Shew'd all the mother, bravely
kind,
In trial's fiercest hour;
This bird had blest her happy lot,

High-nested on a fisher's cot,
As stedfast as a tower.
Her host, a man benignly mild,
Was happy in a darling child
Who
now had woman's air;
Her face intelligent and sweet,
And her soft
bosom was the seat
Of kind courageous care.
The lovely girl was call'd Catau,
She joy'd to make her neat hearth
glow,
For her returning sire;
When from his distant toil he hied,

To banquet by his daughter's side,
Before his evening