John Bidlake
1755–1814
 1794 | John Bidlake, To the Red-Breast in Poetical Works [First Edition: Poems, London, 1794] 2nd ed. (London, 1804); Online at Google Books.
To the Red-Breast
SWEET bird! companion of mankind,
I hail thee with a grateful mind,
As to my cot thou drawest near:
O enter then! devoid of fear,
And peck the crumbs of scatter'd bread
Which wanton waste has idly shed;
For He, who makes thee e'er his care,
Bids man for deeds of mercy spare;
Bids lux'ry stay its mad career,
And learn the aching heart to cheer;
For e'en the refuse of its store
May bless the hungry and the poor;
While God has nothing made in vain,
Nor wastes on earth a single grain
Which does not feed,—so great his care!—
Some commoner of earth or air.
Then peck at ease, and take thy fill,
For Winter frowns, and all is chill;
Fast falls the snow, and cold the skies,
And all below in ruin lies.…
O may thy warbled pray'r ascend
To Him who taught me to defend
From harm, not only thee, but all
Who might on my protection call!
For in his works I learnt to spare,
Where love and mercy blended are:
Then may our Maker shelter me,
As I, poor bird, would shelter thee!
1794 | John Bidlake, Written at Mount Edgcumbe in Poetical Works [First Edition: Poems, London, 1794] 2nd ed. (London, 1804); Online at Google Books.
Written at Mount Edgcumbe
Ah! shun not us, ye timid race!
We never urge the savage chase;
We would not stain your spotted sides
With cruel murder's crimson tides;
For us you may in safety wear
Your branching antlers, void of care;
Or thro' the woods, each vacant day,
Or o'er the fragrant lawns, still play:
We would not bid the insect die,
Nor wound the gaily plumag'd fly.
Man lives the tyrant of the field;
But more, by hard unkindness steel'd,
On his own race destruction brings:
Ingratitude's deceitful stings,
And Avarice, to pity cold;
Ambition proud, and Conquest bold;
Revenge that never sleeps, and Pride,
And War, in bloody garments dyed
1796 | John Bidlake, To the Sea [London, 1796] in Poetical Works (London, 1804); Online at Google Books.
To the Sea
Here let the muse the fisher's wiles deplore;
Cruel delight! from native beds to drag
The wounded fools, and spoil their silv'ry scales,
And spotted pride, writh'd on the tort'rous hook,
In patient suff'rance dumb. Thrice blest be he
Who pity shows to the poor brutal race,
Consign'd by him, the parent of all good,
Who shelters all, to reason's manly rule,
And mild humanity's parental care !…
1800 | John Bidlake, The Summer's Eve [London, 1800] in Poetical Works (London, 1804); Online at Google Books.
The Summer's Eve
Peace! Peace ! the vegetable banquet spreads.
Peace bids fair Culture to the steepy brow
Lead the stout ox, and drive the advent'rous plough.
Peace gives glad harvests in the shelter'd vale,
To laugh in light, and wanton in the gale.
Peace the kind nurse of every useful art
That man to man endears, and mends the heart;
Peace the fond mother of the joyous train
That jocund dance round Plenty's loaded wain:
Peace, child of Wisdom, every bliss bestows;
And war alone from vice and folly flows.
Blest Sabbath, hail ! thou day of earthly peace,
That bid'st awhile the poor man's labour cease!
All hail, king harbinger of heav'nly rest!
Thou Wisdom's friends ! thou balm of Sorrow's breast!
That giv'st the unpitied brute, by labour waste,
A periodic pause of pain to taste!
Then the meek ox, releas'd from patient toil,
May press the turf, or crop the flow'ry soil;
And the lean ass, with blows and sorrow worn,
May saunt'ring pace the green-hedg'd lane forlorn;
Though still with slavery's badge his loaded feet
Drag galling chains along his rude retreat:
The thistle's scanty leaf, the briery wastes,
Are all the luxury his respite tastes.
Contented as thou crop'st the casual weeds,
For man's ingratitude my bosom bleeds.
Spenser and the Tradition: English Poetry 1579-1830: A Gathering of Text, Biography and Criticism, compiled by David Hill Radcliffe, Virginia Tech, s.v. "Commentary for John Bidlake".
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