39
Struck through the brain, depriv'd of both his eyes,
The vanquish'd bird must combat till he dies;
Must faintly peck at his victorious foe,
And reel and stagger at each feeble blow;
When fall'n, the savage grasps his dabbled plumes,
His blood-stain'd arms, for other deaths assumes;
And damns the Craven-fowl, that lost his stake,
And only bled and perish'd for his sake.
Such are our Peasants, those to whom we yield
Glories unsought, the Fathers of the Field;
And these who take from our reluctant hands
What Burn advises or the Bench commands.
Our Farmers round, well-pleas'd with constant gain,
Like other farmers, flourish and complain.—
These are our Groups, our Portraits next appear,
And close our Exhibition for the Year.
The vanquish'd bird must combat till he dies;
Must faintly peck at his victorious foe,
And reel and stagger at each feeble blow;
When fall'n, the savage grasps his dabbled plumes,
His blood-stain'd arms, for other deaths assumes;
And damns the Craven-fowl, that lost his stake,
And only bled and perish'd for his sake.
Such are our Peasants, those to whom we yield
Glories unsought, the Fathers of the Field;
And these who take from our reluctant hands
What Burn advises or the Bench commands.
Our Farmers round, well-pleas'd with constant gain,
Like other farmers, flourish and complain.—
These are our Groups, our Portraits next appear,
And close our Exhibition for the Year.
