O impious ufe! to natures laws oppofe'd,
Where bowels are in other bowels close'd;
Where fatten'd by their fellows fat, they thrive;
Maintain❜d by murder, and by death they live.
'Tis then for nought, that mother Earth provides
The ftores of all the fhows, and all the hides,
If men with fleshy morfels must be fed,
And chaw with bloody teeth the breatheing bread;
What else is this, but to devour our guests,
And barb'rously renew Cyclopean feafts!
We, by deftroying life, our life fustain ;
And gorge th' ungodly maw with meats obscene.
Not fo the Golden Age, who fed on fruit,
Nor durft with bloody meals their mouths pollute.
Then birds in airy space might fafely move,
And tim'rous hares on heaths fecurely rove.
Nor needed fish the guileful hooks to fear,
For all was peaceful, and that peace fincere.
Whoever was the wretch (and curfe'd be he)
That envy'd first our foods fimplicity,
Th' esfay of bloody feafts on brutes began,
And after forge'd the fword to murder man.
Had he the fharpen'd fteel alone employ'd
On beafts of prey, that other beafts destroy'd,
Or man invadeed with their fangs and paws,
This had been justify'd by natures laws,
And felf-defence: But who did feafts begin
Of flesh, he ftretch'd necesfity to fin.
To kil man-kilers man has lawful pow'r,
But not th' extended licence to devour.
Il habits gather by unfeen degrees,
As brooks make rivers, rivers run to feas.
The fow, with her broad fnout, for rooting up
Th' intrufted feed, was judge'd to spoil the crop,
And intercept the fweating farmers hope:
The covetous churl of unforgiveing kind,
Th' offender to the bloody priest refign'd:
Her hunger was no plea; for that she dye'd.
The goat came next in order to be try'd:
The goat had crop'd the tendrils of the vine:
In vengeance laity and clergy join,
Where one had loft his profit, one his wine.
Here was, at least, fome fhadow of offence.
The sheep was facrifice'd on no pretence,
But meek and unrefifting innocence.
A patient, useful, creature, born to bear
The warm, and wooly fleece that clothe'd her murderer,
And dayly to give down the milk the bred,
A tribute for the grass on which she fed.
Liveing, both food and raiment she supplies,
And is of leaft advantage when the dyes.
How did the toiling ox his death deferve,
A downright fimple drudge, and born to ferve?
O tyrant! with what justice can'ft thou hope
The promise of the year, a plenteous crop,
When thou destroy'ft the lab'ring fteer, who til'd,
And plough'd with pains, thy else ungrateful field ?
From his yet reeking neck, to draw the yoke,
That neck, with which the furly clods he broke ;
And to the hatchet yield thy husbandman,
Who finish'd autumn, and the spring began!
Nor this alone! but heaven itself to bribe,
We to the gods our impious acts ascribe;
Firft recompenfe with death their creatures toil;
Then call the blefs'd above to fhare the spoil:
The fairest victim muft the pow'rs appeafe
(So fatal 'tis fometimes too much to please):
A purple fillet his broad brows adorns,
With flowery garlands crown'd, and gilded horns,
He hears the murd'rous pray'r the priest prefers,
But underftands not 'tis his doom he hears :
Beholds the meal betwixt his temples caft,
(The fruit and products of his labours past;) And in the water views perhaps the knife, Uplifted to deprive him of his life;
Then broken up alive, his entrails fees
Torn out, for priests t'inspect the gods decrees,
From whence, o mortal man, this guft of blood
Have you derive'd, and interdicted food?
Be taught by me this dire delight to fhun,
Warn'd by my precepts, by my practice won:
And when you eat the wel-deferveing beast,
Think, on the lab'rer of your field you feaft!
Then let not piety be put to flight,
To please the tafte of glutton appetite;
But fuffer inmate fouls fecure to dwel,
Left from their feats your parents you expel;
With rabid hunger feed upon your kind,
Or from a beaft dislodge a brother's mind.
'Tis time my hard-mouth'd courfeërs to controll, Apt to run riot and transgrefs the goal; And therefor i conclude, whatever lies In earth, or flits in air, or fils the skys, All fuffer change; and we that are of foul And body mix'd, are members of the whole.
Then, when our fires, or grandfires, fhal forfake
The forms of men, and brutal figures take,
Thus house'd, fecurely let their spirits reft,
Nor violate the father in the beast,
Thy friend, thy brother, any of thy kin-
If none of these, yet there's a man within :
O fpare to make a Thyestean meal;
T'inclofe his body, and his foul expel.
Il customs by degrees to habit rise,
Il habits foon become exalted vice;
What more advance can mortals make in fin,
So near perfection, who with blood begin?
Deaf to the calf, that lyes beneath the knife,
Looks up, and from her butcher begs her life:
Deaf to the harmless kid, that ere he dyes
All methods to procure thy mercy trys,
And imitates in vain thy children's crys.
Where wil he stop, who feeds with household bread,
Then eats the poultry which before he fed ?
Let plough thy fteers; that, when they lose their breath,
To nature, not to thee, they may impute their death.
Let goats for food their loaded udders lend,
And sheep from winter-cold thy fides defend;
But neither fprindges, nets, nor fnares, employ,
And be no more ingenious to deftroy.
Free as in air, let birds on earth remain,
Nor let infidious glue their wings constrain;
Nor opening hounds the trembleing ftag affright,
Nor purple feathers intercept his flight:
Nor hooks conceal'd in baits for fish prepare,
Nor lines to heave 'em twinkling up in air.
Take not away the life you cannot give,
For all things have an equal right to live.
Kil noxious creatures, where 'tis fin to fave;
This onely juft prerogative we have:
But nourish life with vegetable food,
And shun the facrilegious taste of blood."*
The feeling Thomson has revived the humane precepts of Pythagoras in the following beautyful lines:
"And yet the wholesome herb neglected dies;
Though with the pure exhilarateing foul
Of nutriment and health, and vital powers,
Beyond the search of art, 'tis copious bleft.
For, with hot ravine fir'd, enfanguine'd man
Is now become the lion of the plain,
And worse. The wolf, who from the nightly fold
Fierce-drags the bleating prey, ne'er drunk her milk,
Nor wore her warming fleece; nor has the fteer,
At whofe ftrong cheft the deadly tyger hangs,
E'er plow'd for him. They too are temper'd high,
With hunger ftung and wild necessity,
Nor lodgeës pity in their fhaggy breast.
But Man, whom Nature form'd of milder clay,
With every kind emotion in his heart,
And taught alone to weep; while from her lap
She pours ten thousand delicacies, herbs,
And fruits, as numerous as the drops of rain,
Or beams that gave them birth: shall he, fair form!
Who wears sweet smiles, and looks erect on heaven,
E'er ftoop to mingle with the prowling herd,
And dip his tongue in gore? The beaft of prey,
Metamorphofis, B. 15, ver. 60.
|