|
|
The Cock-Fighter’s Garland.[1]
By William Cowper
Muse—hide his name of whom I sing,
Lest his surviving house thou bring
For his sake into scorn,
Nor speak the school from which he drew
The much or little that he knew,
Nor place where he was born.
That such a man once was, may seem
Worthy of record (if the theme
Perchance may credit win)
For proof to man, what man may prove,
If grace depart, and demons move
The source of guilt within.
This man (for since the howling wild
Disclaims him, man he must be styled)
Wanted no good below,
Gentle he was, if gentle birth
Could make him such, and he had worth,
If wealth can worth bestow.
In social talk and ready jest,
He shone superior at the feast,
And qualities of mind,
Illustrious in the eyes of those
Whose gay society he chose,
Possess’d of every kind.
Methinks I see him powder’d red,
With bushy locks on his well-dress’d head
Wing’d broad on either side,
The mossy rosebud not so sweet;
His steeds superb, his carriage neat,
As luxury could provide.
Can such be cruel? Such can be
Cruel as hell, and so was he;
A tyrant entertain’d
With barbarous sports, whose fell delight
Was to encourage mortal fight
‘Twixt birds to battle train’d.
One feather’d champion he possess’d,
His darling far beyond the rest,
Which never knew disgrace,
Nor e’er had fought but he made flow
The life-blood of his fiercest foe,
The Cæsar of his race.
It chanced at last, when, on a day,
He push’d him to the desperate fray,
His courage droop’d, he fled.
The master storm’d, the prize was lost,
And, instant, frantic at the cost,
He doom’d his favourite dead.
He seized him fast, and from the pit
Flew to the kitchen, snatch’d the spit,
And, Bring me cord, he cried;
The cord was brought, and, at his word,
To that dire implement the bird,
Alive and struggling, tied.
The horrid sequel asks a veil;
And all the terrors of the tale
That can be shall be sunk—
Led by the sufferer’s screams aright
His shock’d companions view the sight,
And him with fury drunk.
All, suppliant, beg a milder fate
For the old warrior at the grate:
He, deaf to pity’s call,
Whirl’d round him rapid as a wheel
His culinary club of steel,
Death menacing on all.
But vengeance hung not far remote,
For while he stretch’d his clamorous throat,
And heaven and earth defied,
Big with a curse too closely pent,
That struggled vainly for a vent,
He totter’d, reel’d, and died.
‘Tis not for us, with rash surmise,
To point the judgment of the skies;
But judgments plain as this,
That, sent for man’s instruction, bring
A written label on their wing,
‘Tis hard to read amiss.
Extra Info:
May 1789.
[1] Written on reading the following, in the obituary of the Gentleman’s Magazine for April 1789:—“At Tottenham, John Ardesolf, Esq., a young man of large fortune, and, in the splendour of his carriages and horses, rivalled by few country gentlemen. His table was that of hospitality, where, it may be said, he sacrificed too much to conviviality; but, if he had his foibles, he had his merits also, that far outweighed them. Mr. A. was very fond of cock-fighting, and had a favourite cock, upon which he had won many profitable matches. The last bet he laid upon this cock he lost; which so enraged him, that he had the bird tied to a spit and roasted alive before a large fire. The screams of the miserable animal were so affecting, that some gentlemen who were present attempted to interfere, which so enraged Mr. A., that he seized a poker, and with the most furious vehemence declared, that he would kill the first man who interposed; but, in the midst of his passionate asseverations, he fell down dead upon the spot. Such, we are assured, were the circumstances which attended the death of this great pillar of humanity.”
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 520 times.
|
|
