But let the' abetters of the Panther's crime
Learn to make fairer wars another time.
Some characters may sure be found to write
Among her sons; for 'tis no common sight,
A spotted dame, and all her offspring white.
The Savage, though she saw her plea controll'd,
Yet would not wholly seem to quit her hold,
But offer'd fairly to compound the strife,
And judged conversion by the convert's life.
'Tis true, (she said) I think it somewhat strange
So few should follow profitable change;
For present joys are more to flesh and blood
Than a dull prospect of a distant good.
'Twas well alluded by a son of mine,
(I hope to quote him, is not to purloin)
Two magnets, Heaven and earth, allure to bless ;
The larger loadstone that, the nearer this;
The weak attraction of the greater fails;
We nod awhile, but neighbourhood prevails;
But when the greater proves the nearer too,
I wonder more your converts come so slow:
Methinks in those, who firm with me remain,
It shows a nobler principle than gain.'

Your inference would be strong, (the Hind
replied,)

If your's were in effect the suffering side;
Your clergy's sons their own in peace possess,
Nor are their prospects in reversion less :
My proselytes are struck with awful dread;
Your bloody comet-laws hang blazing o'er their
head;

The respite they enjoy but only lent,

The best they have to hope, protracted punishment.
Be judge yourself, if interest may prevail,
Which motives, your's or mine, will turn the scale.

While pride and pomp allure, and plenteous ease, That is, 'till man's predominant passions cease, Admire no longer at my slow increase.

By education most have been misled;

So they believe, because they so were bred:
The priest continues what the nurse began,
And thus the child imposes on the man. of Pope
The rest I named before, nor need repeat;
But interest is the most prevailing cheat,
The sly seducer both of age and youth,
They study that, and think they study truth.
When interest fortifies an argument,

Weak reason serves to gain the will's assent:
For souls, already warp'd, receive an easy bent.
Add long prescription of establish'd laws,
And pique of honour to maintain a cause;
And shame of change, and fear of future ill,
And zeal, the blind conductor of the will;
And, chief among the still-mistaking crowd,
The fame of teachers obstinate and proud,
And, more than all, the private judge allow'd;
Disdain of Fathers, which the dance began ;
And last, uncertain whose the narrower span,
The clown unread, and half-read gentleman.'
To this the Panther, with a scornful smile;
Yet still you travel with unwearied toil,
And range around the realm without control,
Among my sons for proselytes to prowl,
And here and there you snap some silly soul.
You hinted fears of future change in state;
Pray Heaven you did not prophesy your fate.
Perhaps, you think your time of triumph near,
But may mistake the season of the year;
The Swallows' fortune gives you cause to fear."

For charity, (replied the Matron) tell What sad mischance those pretty birds befel.'

Nay, no mischance (the savage Dame replied) But want of wit in their unerring guide, And eager haste, and gaudy hopes, and giddy pride. Yet, wishing timely warning may prevail, Make you the moral, and I'll tell the tale.

The Swallow, privileged above the rest
Of all the birds, as man's familiar guest,
Pursues the sun in summer, brisk and bold,
But wisely shuns the persecuting cold:

Is well to chancels and to chimneys known,
Though 'tis not thought she feeds on smoke alone.
From hence she has been held of heavenly line,
Endued with particles of soul divine:
This merry chorister had long possess'd
Her summer seat, and feather'd well her nest,
Till frowning skies began to change their cheer,
And Time turn'd up the wrong side of the year;
The shedding trees began the ground to strow
With yellow leaves, and bitter blasts to blow:
Sad auguries of winter thence she drew,
Which by instinct, or prophecy, she knew ;
When prudence warn'd her to remove betimes,
And seek a better heaven, and warmer climes.
Her sons were summon'd on a steeple's height,
And, call'd in common-council, vote a flight;
The day was named, the next that should be fair,
All to the general rendezvous repair

They try their fluttering wings, and trust themselves in air:

But whether upward to the moon they go,
Or dream the winter out in caves below,

Or hawk at flies elsewhere concerns us not to know.

Southwards, you may be sure, they bent their flight,
And harbour'd in a hollow rock at night;
Next morn they rose, and set up every sail;
The wind was fair, but blew a mackerel gale;
The sickly young sat shivering on the shore,
Abhorr'd salt water, never seen before,
And pray'd their tender mothers to delay
The passage, and expect a fairer day.
With these the Martin readily concurr'd,
A church-begot and church-believing bird;
Of little body, but of lofty mind,
Round-bellied, for a dignity design'd,
And much a dunce, as Martins are by kind:
Yet often quoted canon-laws and code,
And Fathers which he never understood;
But little learning needs in noble blood:
For sooth to say, the Swallow brought him in
Her household-chaplain, and her next of kin ;
In superstition silly to excess,

And casting schemes by planetary guess ;
In fine, short-wing'd, unfit himself to fly,
His fear foretold foul weather in the sky.

Besides, a Raven from a wither'd oak,
Left of their lodging, was observed to croak.
That omen liked him not; so his advice
Was present safety bought at any price;
A seeming pious care, that cover'd cowardice.
To strengthen this, he told a boding dream
Of rising waters, and a troubled stream,
Sure signs of anguish, dangers, and distress,
With something more not lawful to express,
By which he slily seem'd to intimate
Some secret revelation of their fate:
For he concluded, once upon a time,
He found a leaf inscribed with sacred rhyme.

Whose antique characters did well denote
The Sibyl's hand of the Cumaan grot:
The mad divineress had plainly writ,
A time should come (but many ages yet)
In which, sinister destinies ordain,

A dame should drown with all her feather'd train,
And seas from thence be call'd the Chelidonian

main.

At this some shook for fear, the more devout Arose, and bless'd themselves from head to foot.

'Tis true, some stagers of the wiser sort
Made all these idle wonderments their sport:
They said, their only danger was delay,
And he who heard what every fool could say,
Would never fix his thought, but trim his time away.
The passage yet was good; the wind, 'tis true,
Was somewhat high, but that was nothing new,
No more than usual equinoxes blew.

The sun, already from the scales declined,
Gave little hopes of better days behind,

[wind. But change from bad to worse of weather and of Nor need they fear the dampness of the sky Should flag their wings, and hinder them to fly, 'Twas only water thrown on sails too dry. But, least of all, philosophy presumesOf truth in dreams from melancholy fumes; Perhaps the Martin, housed in holy ground, Might think of ghosts that walk their midnight round,

Till grosser atoms tumbling in the stream
Of fancy, madly met, and clubb'd into a dream:
As little weight his vain presages bear
Of ill effect to such alone who fear:
Most prophecies are of a piece with these,
Each Nostradamus can foretel with ease: