TYRANT FLYCATCHER, OR KING BIRD. 
223 
For now abroad a band of ruffians prey, 
The Crow, the Cuckoo, and th’ insidious Jay ; 
These, in the owner’s absence, all destroy, 
And murder every hope, and every joy. 
Soft sits his brooding mate, her guardian he, 
Perch’d on the top of some tall neighb’ring tree ; 
Thence, from the thicket to the concave skies, 
His watchful eye around unceasing flies. 
Wrens, Thrushes, Warblers, startled at his note, 
Fly in affright the consecrated spot. 
He drives the plund’ring Jay , with honest scorn, 
Back to his woods ; the Mocker, to his thorn ; 
Sweeps round the Cuckoo, as the thief retreats ; 
Attacks the Crow ; the diving Hawk defeats ; 
Darts on the Eagle downwards from afar, 
And, ’midst the clouds, prolongs the whirling war. 
All danger o’er, he hastens back elate, 
To guard his post, and feed his faithful mate. 
Behold him now, his little family flown, 
Meek, unassuming, silent, and alone ; 
Lured by the well-known hum of fav’rite bees, 
As slow he hovers o’er the garden trees ; 
(For all have failings, passions, whims that lead, 
Some fav’rite wish, some appetite to feed ;) 
Straight he alights, and, from the pear tree, spies 
The circling stream of humming insects rise ; 
Selects his prey ; darts on the busy brood, 
And shrilly twitters o’er his sav’ry food. 
Ah ! ill-timed triumph ! direful note to thee, 
That guides thy murderer to the fatal tree ; 
See where he skulks ! and takes his gloomy stand, 
The deep-charged musket hanging in his hand ; 
And, gaunt for blood, he leans it on a rest, 
Prepared, and pointed at thy snow white breast. 
Ah, friend ! good friend ! forbear that barb’rous deed, 
Against it valour, goodness, pity, plead ; 
If e’er a family’s griefs, a widow’s woe, 
Have reach’d thy soul, in mercy let him go ! 
Yet, should the tear of pity nought avail. 
Let interest speak, let gratitude prevail ; 
Kill not thy friend, who thy whole harvest shields, 
And sweeps ten thousand vermin from thy fields ; 
