288 president's address. 



Cut down the virginal forests, drove a share 



O'er barren waves, and tracked the pathless air. 



Where'er he made his dwelling, far and wide 



The ancient speechless tenants pined and died ; 



First the wild beasts, and then the gentler herds 



Of antlered game, and last of all the birds. 



These, by the new-built town from woodlands chased, 



Soon proved attractive to the city taste. 



The truant schoolboy sought their mossy nests ; 



The milliner their plumes and curving breasts. 



Others, preferred from their Seven-Dials Court, 



Made for the gentler gun club generous sport ; 



While cooks and beauties claimed an even share — 



Cooks for their pies, and beauties for their hair. 



In short, by such proscription, one by one, 



Cut off to improve man's cookery, clothes, or gun, 



The holiday of birds is most distinctly done. 



No swallows skim our pools ; no wagtail's seen, 



The dainty stepping duchess of the green ; 



Walk a long day in June through cherries ripe, 



But never hope to hear a blackbird pipe. 



Who loves at eve the home-returning rooks, 



Who monkish daws, remote in cloistered nooks, 



Who the light owl, with great white wings outspread, 



He loves in vain — for all the birds are dead ! 



If it were well that lives so bright and gay 



Should thus be quenched, is not for me to say : 



Men are progressive animals, — but hear 



From this extinction what results appear. 



The birds being gone, the caterpillars freed 



From all restraints, began to enlarge their breed. 



The chaffer in the wheat his larvae laid ; 



Dark weevils, mustering like the Cossack, preyed 



Upon each leaf, and blackened every blade. 



Scorched up, as though by arson, sword, or plague, 



Our land lies sickening through every league ; 



Our children pine beneath the winged curse, 



Our cattle starve upon the hills — nay worse, 



The foe, swoll'n up to monstrous size, now seems 



Hideous and huge as nightmares in our dreams. 



Food they no longer find in fruit or flower, 



But, pressed for sustenance, must now devour 



Man, man himself ! The caterpillar soon 



Will be the last live thing beneath the moon !* 



The Marsden gathering brought to a close, for the season, our 



* The Paradise of Birds, pp. 15-17. 



