Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, FABLE: THE OWL, by NATHANIEL COTTON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

FABLE: THE OWL, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: It seems, an owl, in days of yore
Last Line: And fills his purse, and thins the town.
Subject(s): Birds; Fables; Owls; Allegories


IT seems, an Owl, in days of yore,
Had turn'd a thousand volumes o'er:
His fame for literature extends,
And strikes the ears of partial friends.
They weigh'd the learning of the fowl,
And thought him a prodigious Owl!
From such applause what could betide?
It only cocker'd him in pride.
Extoll'd for sciences and arts,
His bosom burn'd to show his parts;
(No wonder that an Owl of spirit
Mistook his vanity for merit.)
He shows insatiate thirst of praise,
Ambitious of the poet's bays:
Perch'd on Parnassus all night long,
He hoots a sonnet or a song;
And while the village hear his note,
They curse the screaming whoreson's throat.
Amidst the darkness of the night,
Our feather'd poet wings his flight,
And, as capricious fate ordains,
A chimney's treacherous summit gains;
Which much impair'd by wind and weather,
Down fall the bricks and bird together.
The Owl expands his azure eyes,
And sees a Non-con's study rise;
The walls were deck'd with hallow'd bands
Of worthies, by the' engraver's hands;
All champions for the good old cause!
Whose conscience interfer'd with laws;
But yet no foes to king or people,
Though mortal foes to church and steeple.
Baxter, with apostolic grace,
Display'd his mezzotinto face;
While here and there some luckier saint
Attain'd to dignity of paint.
Rang'd in proportion to their size,
The books by due gradations rise.
Here the good Fathers lodg'd their trust;
There zealous Calvin slept in dust:
Here Poole his learned treasures keeps;
There Fox o'er dying martyrs weeps;
While reams on reams insatiate drink
Whole deluges of Henry's ink.
Columns of sermons pil'd on high
Attract the bird's admiring eye.
Those works a good old age acquir'd,
Which had in manuscript expir'd;
For manuscripts, of fleeting date,
Seldom survive their infant state.
The healthiest live not half their days,
But die a thousand various ways;
Sometimes ingloriously applied
To purposes the Muse shall hide.
Or, should they meet no fate below,
How oft tobacco proves their foe!
Or else some cook purloins a leaf
To singe her fowl, or save her beef;
But sermons 'scape both fate and fire,
By congregational desire.
Display'd at large upon the table
Was Bunyan's much-admired fable;
And as his Pilgrim sprawling lay,
It chanc'd the Owl advanc'd that way.
The bird explores the pious dream,
And plays a visionary scheme;
Determin'd, as he read the sage,
To copy from the tinker's page.
The thief now quits his learn'd abode,
And scales aloft the sooty road;
Flies to Parnassus' top once more,
Resolv'd to dream as well as snore;
And what he dreamt by day, the wight
In writing o'er, consumes the night.
Plum'd with conceit he calls aloud,
And thus bespeaks the purblind crowd;
Say not, that man alone's a poet,
Poets are Owls—my verse shall show it.
And while he read his labour'd lays,
His blue-eyed brothers hooted praise.
But now his female mate by turns
With pity and with choler burns;
When thus her consort she address'd,
And all her various thoughts express'd.
'Why, prithee, husband, rant no more,
'Tis time to give these follies o'er.
Be wise, and follow my advice——
Go——catch your family some mice
'Twere better to resume your trade,
And spend your nights in ambuscade.
What! if you fatten by your schemes,
And fare luxuriously in dreams!
While you ideal mice are carving,
I and my family are starving.
Reflect upon our nuptial hours,
Where will you find a brood like our's?
Our offspring might become a queen,
For finer Owlets ne'er were seen!'
''Ods—blue!' the surly hob reply'd,
'I'll amply for my heirs provide.
Why, Madge! when Colley Cibber dies,
Thou'lt see thy mate a laureate rise;
For never poets held this place,
Except descendants of our race.'
'But soft,' the female sage rejoin'd—
'Say you abjur'd the purring kind;
And nobly left inglorious rats
To vulgar owls, or sordid cats.
Say, you the healing art essay'd,
And piddled in the doctor's trade;
At least you'd earn us good provisions,
And better this than scribbling visions.
A due regard to me, or self,
Would always make you dream of pelf;
And when you dreamt your nights away,
You'd realize your dreams by day.
Hence far superior gains would rise,
And I be fat, and you be wise.'
'But, Madge, though I applaud your scheme,
You'd wish my patients still to dream!
Waking they'd laugh at my vocation,
Or disapprove my education;
And they detest your solemn hob,
Or take me for professor L——.'
Equipt with powder and with pill,
He takes his licence out to kill.
Practis'd in all a doctor's airs,
To Batson's senate he repairs,
Dress'd in his flowing wig of knowledge,
To greet his brethren of the college;
Takes up the papers of the day,
Perhaps for want of what to say;
Through every column he pursues,
Alike advertisements and news;
O'er lists of cures with rapture runs,
Wrought by Apollo's natural sons;
Admires the rich Hibernian stock
Of doctors Henry, Ward, and Rock.
He dwells on each illustrious name,
And sighs at once for fees and fame.
Now, like the doctors of to-day,
Retains his puffers too in pay.
Around his reputation flew,
His practice with his credit grew.
At length the court receives the sage,
And lordlings in his cause engage.
He dupes, beside plebeian fowls,
The whole nobility of owls.
Thus every where he gains renown,
And fills his purse, and thins the town.





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