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Struck through the brain, depriv'd of both his eyes,The vanquish'd bird must combat till he dies;Must faintly peck at his victorious foe,And reel and stagger at each feeble blow;When fall'n, the savage grasps his dabbled plumes,His blood-stain'd arms, for other deaths assumes;And damns the Craven-fowl, that lost his stake,And only bled and perish'd for his sake.Such are our Peasants, those to whom we yieldGlories unsought, the Fathers of the Field;And these who take from our reluctant handsWhat Burn advises or the Bench commands.Our Farmers round, well-pleas'd with constant gain,Like other farmers, flourish and complain.—These are our Groups, our Portraits next appear,And close our Exhibition for the Year.
