Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE GOLDFINCHES, by RICHARD JAGO


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE GOLDFINCHES, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: To you, whose groves protect the feather'd quires
Last Line: And there in silent sadness inly mourned.
Subject(s): Goldfinches; Grief; Shenstone, William (1714-1763); Sorrow; Sadness


TO you, whose groves protect the feather'd quires,
Who lend their artless notes a willing ear,
To you, whom pity moves, and taste inspires,
The Doric strain belongs, O Shenstone, hear.

'Twas gentle spring, when all the tuneful race,
By nature taught, in nuptial leagues combine,
A goldfinch joy'd to meet the warm embrace,
And hearts and fortunes with her mate to join.

Through Nature's spacious walks at large they rang'd,
No settled haunts, no fix'd abode their aim;
As chance or fancy led, their path they chang'd,
Themselves, in every varied scene, the same.

Till on a day to weighty cares resign'd,
With mutual choice, alternate they agreed,
On rambling thoughts no more to turn their mind,
But settle soberly, and raise a breed.

All in a garden, on a currant-bush,
With wond'rous art they built their waving seat,
In the next orchard lived a friendly thrush,
Not distant far, a woodlark's soft retreat.

Here blest with ease, and in each other blest,
With early songs they wak'd the sprightly groves,
'Till time matured their bliss, and crown'd their nest
With infant pledges of their faithful loves;

And now what transport glowed in either's eye,
What equal fondness dealt th' allotted food!
What joy each other's likeness to descry,
And future sonnets in the chirping brood!

But ah! what earthly happiness can last?
How does the fairest purpose often fail?
A truant school-boy's wantonness could blast
Their rising hopes, and leave them both to wail.

The most ungentle of his tribe was he;
No gen'rous precept ever touch'd his heart:
With concords false and hideous prosody
He scrawl'd his task, and blunder'd o'er his part.

On barb'rous plunder bent, with savage eye
He mark'd where wrapt in down the younglings lay,
Then rushing seiz'd the wretched family,
And bore them in his impious hands away.

But how shall I relate in numbers rude
The pangs for poor Chrysomitris decreed!
When from a neighb'ring spray aghast she viewed
The savage ruffian's inauspicious deed!

So, wrapt in grief, some heart-struck matron stands,
While horrid flame devour her children's room!
On heav'n she calls, and wrings her trembling hands,
Constrain'd to see, but not prevent their doom.

"O grief of griefs! with shrieking voice she cried,
What sight is this that I have lived to see?
O! that I had a maiden goldfinch died,
From love's false joys, and bitter sorrows free!

"Was it for this, alas! with weary bill,
Was it for this, I poised th' unwieldy straw?
For this I pick'd the moss from yonder hill?
Nor shunned the pond'rous chat along to draw?

"Was it for this, I cull'd the wool with care;
And strove with all my skill our work to crown?
For this, with pain I bent the stubborn hair;
And lin'd our cradle with the thistle's down?

"Was it for this my freedom I resigned,
And ceased to rove from beauteous plain to plain?
For this I sat at home whole days confined,
And bore the scorching heat, and pealing rain?

"Was it for this my watchful eyes grow dim?
The crimson roses on my cheek turn pale?
Pale is my golden plumage, once so trim;
And all my wonted spirits 'gin to fail.

"O plund'rer vile; O more than weezel fell!
More treach'rous than the cat with prudish face!
More fierce than kites, whom with the furies dwell!
More pilf'ring than the cuckoo's prowling race!

"For thee may plum or gooseberry never grow,
Nor juicy currant cool thy clammy throat:
But bloody birch twigs work thee shameful woe,
Nor ever goldfinch cheer thee with her note!"

Thus sang the mournful bird her piteous tale,
The piteous tale her mournful mate returned;
Then side by side they sought the distant vale,
And there in silent sadness inly mourned.





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