The Cock-Fighters Garland.[1]

Musehide his name of whom I sing,     Lest his surviving house thou bring     For his sake into scorn,     Nor speak the school from which he drew     The much or little that he knew,     Nor place where he was born.     That such a man once was, may seem     Worthy of record (if the theme     Perchance may credit win)     For proof to man, what man may prove,     If grace depart, and demons move     The source of guilt within.     This man (for since the howling wild     Disclaims him, man he must be styled)     Wanted no good below,     Gentle he was, if gentle birth     Could make him such, and he had worth,     If wealth can worth bestow.     In social talk and ready jest,     He shone superior at the feast,     And qualities of mind,     Illustrious in the eyes of those     Whose gay society he chose,     Possessd of every kind.     Methinks I see him powderd red,     With bushy locks on his well-dressd head     Wingd broad on either side,     The mossy rosebud not so sweet;     His steeds superb, his carriage neat,     As luxury could provide.     Can such be cruel? Such can be     Cruel as hell, and so was he;     A tyrant entertaind     With barbarous sports, whose fell delight     Was to encourage mortal fight     Twixt birds to battle traind.     One featherd champion he possessd,     His darling far beyond the rest,     Which never knew disgrace,     Nor eer had fought but he made flow     The life-blood of his fiercest foe,     The Csar of his race.     It chanced at last, when, on a day,     He pushd him to the desperate fray,     His courage droopd, he fled.     The master stormd, the prize was lost,     And, instant, frantic at the cost,     He doomd his favourite dead.     He seized him fast, and from the pit     Flew to the kitchen, snatchd the spit,     And, Bring me cord, he cried;     The cord was brought, and, at his word,     To that dire implement the bird,     Alive and struggling, tied.     The horrid sequel asks a veil;     And all the terrors of the tale     That can be shall be sunk     Led by the sufferers screams aright     His shockd companions view the sight,     And him with fury drunk.     All, suppliant, beg a milder fate     For the old warrior at the grate:     He, deaf to pitys call,     Whirld round him rapid as a wheel     His culinary club of steel,     Death menacing on all.     But vengeance hung not far remote,     For while he stretchd his clamorous throat,     And heaven and earth defied,     Big with a curse too closely pent,     That struggled vainly for a vent,     He totterd, reeld, and died.     Tis not for us, with rash surmise,     To point the judgment of the skies;     But judgments plain as this,     That, sent for mans instruction, bring     A written label on their wing,     Tis hard to read amiss.