202 
THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
Would tempt the muse to sing the rural game ; 
How, in his mid career, the spaniel, struck 
Stiff by the tainted gale, with open nose. 
Outstretched, and, finely sensible, draws full, 
Fearful, and cautious, on the latent prey ; 
As in the sun the circling covey bask 
Their varied plumes, and, watchful every way, 
Through the rough stubble turn the secret eye. 
Caught in the meshy snare, in vain they beat 
Their idle wings, entangled more and more ; 
Nor on the surges of the boundless air, 
Tho' borne triumphant, are they safe ; the gun, 
Glanc'd just, and sudden, from the fowler's eye, 
Overtakes their sounding pinions ; and again. 
Immediate, brings them from the towering wings. 
Dead to the ground ; or drives them, wide dispersed, 
Wounded, and wheeling various, down the wind. 
These are not subjects for the peaceful Muse, 
Nor will she stain with such her spotless song ; 
Then most delighted, when she social sees 
The whole mix'd animal creation round 
Alive and happy. Tis no joy to her. 
This falsely cheerful, barbarous game of death ; 
This rage of pleasure, which the restless youth 
Awakes, impatient, with the gleaming morn, 
