The Needless Alarm. A Tale.

There is a field, through which I often pass,     Thick overspread with moss and silky grass,     Adjoining close to Kilwicks echoing wood,     Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood,     Reserved to solace many a neighbouring squire,     That he may follow them through brake and brier,     Contusion hazarding of neck, or spine,     Which rural gentlemen call sport divine.     A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceald,     Runs in a bottom, and divides the field;     Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head,     But now wear crests of oven-wood instead;     And where the land slopes to its watery bourn     Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn;     Bricks line the sides, but shiverd long ago,     And horrid brambles intertwine below;     A hollow scoopd, I judge, in ancient time,     For baking earth, or burning rock to lime.     Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red,     With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, if fed;     Nor Autumn yet had brushd from every spray,     With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away;     But corn was housed, and beans were in the stack,     Now therefore issued forth the spotted pack,     With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and throats     With a whole gamut filld of heavenly notes,     For which, alas! my destiny severe,     Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear.     The sun, accomplishing his early march,     His lamp now planted on heavens topmost arch,     When exercise and air my only aim,     And heedless whither, to that field I came,     Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound     Told hill and dale that Reynards track was found,     Or with the high-raised horns melodious clang     All Kilwick and all Dinglederry[1] rang.     Sheep grazed the field; some with soft bosom pressd     The herb as soft, while nibbling strayd the rest;     Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook,     Struggling, detaind in many a petty nook.     All seemd so peaceful, that, from them conveyd,     To me their peace by kind contagion spread.     But when the huntsman, with distended cheek,     Gan make his instrument of music speak,     And from within the wood that crash was heard,     Though not a hound from whom it burst appeard,     The sheep recumbent and the sheep that grazed,     All huddling into phalanx, stood and gazed,     Admiring, terrified, the novel strain,     Then coursed the field around, and coursed it round again;     But recollecting, with a sudden thought,     That flight in circles urged advanced them nought,     They gatherd close around the old pits brink,     And thought againbut knew not what to think.     The man to solitude accustomd long,     Perceives in every thing that lives a tongue;     Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees     Have speech for him, and understood with ease;     After long drought, when rains abundant fall,     He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all;     Knows what the freshness of their hue implies,     How glad they catch the largess of the skies;     But, with precision nicer still, the mind     He scans of every locomotive kind;     Birds of all feather, beasts of every name;     That serve mankind, or shun them, wild or tame;     The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears     Have all articulation in his ears;     He spells them true by intuitions light,     And needs no glossary to set him right.     This truth premised was needful as a text,     To win due credence to what follows next.     Awhile they mused; surveying every face,     Thou hadst supposed them of superior race;     Their periwigs of wool and fears combined,     Stampd on each countenance such marks of mind,     That sage they seemd, as lawyers oer a doubt,     Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzle out;     Or academic tutors, teaching youths,     Sure neer to want them, mathematic truths;     When thus a mutton statelier than the rest,     A ram, the ewes and wethers sad addressd.     Friends! we have lived too long. I never heard     Sounds such as these, so worthy to be feard.     Could I believe, that winds for ages pent     In earths dark womb have found at last a vent,     And from their prison-house below arise,     With all these hideous howlings to the skies,     I could be much composed, nor should appear,     For such a cause to feel the slightest fear.     Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders rolld     All night, me resting quiet in the fold.     Or heard we that tremendous bray alone,     I could expound the melancholy tone;     Should deem it by our old companion made,     The ass; for he, we know, has lately strayd,     And, being lost, perhaps, and wandering wide,     Might be supposed to clamour for a guide.     But ah! those dreadful yells what soul can hear,     That owns a carcass, and not quake for fear?     Demons produce them doubtless, brazen-clawd     And fangd with brass the demons are abroad;     I hold it therefore wisest and most fit     That, life to save, we leap into the pit.     Him answerd then his loving mate and true,     But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe.     How! leap into the pit our life to save?     To save our life leap all into the grave?     For can we find it less? Contemplate first     The depth how awful! falling there, we burst:     Or should the brambles, interposed, our fall     In part abate, that happiness were small;     For with a race like theirs no chance I see     Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we.     Meantime, noise kills not. Be it Dapples bray,     Or be it not, or be it whose it may,     And rush those other sounds, that seem by tongues     Of demons utterd, from whatever lungs,     Sounds are but sounds, and, till the cause appear,     We have at least commodious standing here.     Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blast     From earth or hell, we can but plunge at last.     While thus she spake, I fainter heard the peals,     For Reynard, close attended at his heels     By panting dog, tired man, and spatterd horse,     Through mere good fortune, took a different course.     The flock grew calm again, and I, the road     Following, that led me to my own abode,     Much wonderd that the silly sheep had found     Such cause of terror in an empty sound,     So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound.     moral.     Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day,     Live till to-morrow, will have passd away.