The Tale of Alleyne, Part II

'Twas now the morning that precedes The boly of the year, When from the cottage to the green The rustic tribes repair.

And what their aim!—Oh! glorious orb! Withhold thy radiance bright, Nor view the sons of Christian land In barb'rous deeds delight.

More fell than all the savage race, That roam the pathless wood, Is man, who, tyrant-like, imbrues His hands in harmless blood.

Was it, when this fair world arose, At GOD's almighty word, Was it for this that man was made O'er all creation lord?

No, monster, no—GOD needs must view, With anger and disdain, His fair and useful creatures feel Unnecessary pain.

O! ye, my brethren, ye, who boast Of gentle hearts, forbear To come yon ruthless rabble nigh, Whose shoutings rend the air.

Restrain, unfeeling crew, restrain The more than savage sound, Nor with that feather'd victim's blood Pollute the verdant ground.

Remember how with chearful strain He hail'd each op'ning morn, And call'd the peasant from his bed, To reap his ripen'd corn.

How was he wont around yon barn To lead his speckled train, And from the thresher's lofty stroke Select each scatter'd grain!

How would he watch his broodlings feed With true parental pride, And proudly range th' adjacent field, His feather'd dames beside!

Now brought to glut an impious crew, With cordage harsh opprest, Mute is that throat that crow'd so loud, And shrunk that martial crest.

Exulting madly o'er their prey, The senseless rabble roar, Loud as the prowling wolves that stray O'er Afric's torrid shore.

The wolf, at hunger's call alone Destroys the fleecy brood, But man, the delegate of heav'n, In sport sheds guiltless blood.

Oh! if our HEAV'NLY FATHER's breast A sorrow can pervade, It is, when he beholds his trust So impiously betray'd.

Now throng the boorish tribes apace, To view the ruthless play, And clownish HOBBINOL was there, And OLIVER the gay.

And sullen RUSTAN in the rout Enjoy'd the savage scene; RUSTAN with cruel temper fram'd, And gloomy, low'ring mien.

Time was, that he was known to all The poorest of the poor, When suddenly the hind appear'd Possess'd of wond'rous store:

Yet tranquil thought, or chearful look No treasure could impart, Some strange reflection lurk'd within, And prey'd upon his heart.

Among the neighb'ring village-swains As one forlorn he mov'd, Alike, by aged and by young, Unsought, and unbelov'd.

Aloof from the devoted bird His station RUSTAN took, Yet at the feather'd victim leer'd With fell malicious look.

Ah! grievous task!—and must the Muse Unwillingly declare, (Howe'er averse to cruel scenes) That ALLEYNE too was there!

ALLEYNE, in ev'ry rural sport The boldest and the best, False shame and strong request impell'd To mingle with the rest.

False shame, that oft the wisest wight Betrays with subtle art, And with despotic pow'r perverts The graces of the heart.

Lo! now, the hapless bird is plac'd Amid the rout accurs'd, And ALLEYNE, the pernicious cast, By lot must level first.

But gentle pity bids him scorn To meditate a harm Against dejected Chanticleer, Once tenant of the farm.

Wide from the bird the weapon took A vague and random course, And surly RUSTAN's leg receiv'd Its full collected force.

He roars—he screams—the shatter'd limb With blood deep-stains the ground; "I sink—I die;" the suff'rer cries, "And ALLEYNE gives the wound."

In sad variety of pain, (Full many a tedious day) Alike of body and of mind, Tormented RUSTAN lay.

At closing night in vain he calls On sleep to seal his eyes, That med'cine to the pious heart, To guilt its balm denies.

Each moment in his haggard sight The spectre, Death, appears, With more than common terror arm'd, His pointed dart he rears.

The holy Priest, to RUSTAN call'd, With pitying eye beholds His dying pangs, while thus the wretch His hidden guilt unfolds.

"The dreadful hour of just revenge "At length, I see, is come; "'Tis GOD, not ALLEYNE, gives the blow, "And calls me to my doom.

"Long since, his honest father's steps "I, guilty wretch, pursued, "Despoil'd him of his well-earn'd gold, "And slew him in the wood.

"The torments of this wasting heart, "Since then, no tongue can tell; "Remembrance of the bitter deed "Still made my mind a hell.

"But ALLEYNE here my heir I make, "Be his my ill-got store! "This poor atonement, Lord, accept!" He groan'd, and spoke no more.

Thenceforth unclouded happiness In ALLEYNE'S dwelling reign'd, For soon, by fair and honest suit, His LUCY'S hand he gain'd.

And many years of mutual love This couple did enjoy, And years of bliss his mother shar'd, With ALLEYNE, her GOOD BOY!