ODE XIII. (Nymphs of the forests, that young oaks…)

Nymphs of the forests, that young oaks protect From noxious blasts, and the blue thunder's dart, O how securely might ye dwell In Britain's peaceful shades Far from grim wolves, or tiger's midnight roar, Or crimson-crested serpent's hungry hiss, But that our savage swains pollute With murder your retreats! How oft' your birds have undeserving bled, Linnet, or warbling thrush, or moaning dove, Pleasant with gayly-glist'ring wings, Or early-mounting lark! While in sweet converse in a round you sit On the green turf, or in the woodbine-bower, If chance the thund'ring Gun be heard, To grots and caves ye run, Fearful as when LODONA fled from PAN, Or DAPHNE panting from enamour'd SOL, Or fair SABRINA to the flood Her snowy beauties gave: When will dread Man his Tyrannies forego, When cease to bathe his barbarous hands in blood, His subjects helpless, harmless, weak, Delighting to destroy? More pleasant far to shield their tender young From churlish swains, that violate their nests, And, wand'ring morn or eve, to hear Their welcome to the Spring.