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But corn was hous'd, and beans were in the stack;
The sun, accomplishing his early march, His lamp now planted on Heav'n's topmost arch, When, exercise and air my only aim, And heedless whither, to that field I came, Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was found, Or with the high-rais'd horn's melodious clang All Kilwick* and all Dinglederry* rang.
Sheep graz’d the field ; some with soft bosom press'd The herb as soft, while nibbling stray'd the rest ; . Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook, Struggling, detain'd in many a petty nook. All seem'd so peaceful, that, from them convey'd, To me their peace by kind contagion spread.
But when the huntsman with distended cheek,
* Two woods belonging to John Throckmorton, Esq.
The man to solitude accustom'd long Perceives in every thing that lives a tongue, Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees, Have speech for him, and understood with ease; After long drought when rains abundant fall, He hears the herbs and flow'rs rejoicing all; Knows what the freshness of their hue implies, How glad they catch the largess of the skies ; But, with precision nicei still, the mind He scans of ev'ry locomotive kind; Birds of all feather, beasts of ev'ry name, That serve mankind, or shun them, wild or tame; The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears Have all articulation in his ears ; He spells them true by intuition's light, And needs no glossary to set him right.
This truth premis'd was needful as a text, To win due credence to what follows next.
Awhile they mus'd; surveying ev'ry face, Thou hadst suppos'd them of superiour race; Their periwigs of wool, and fears combin'd Stamp'd on each countenance such marks of mind, That sage they seem'd as lawyers o'er a doubt, Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzle out; Or academick tutors, teaching youths, Sure ne'er to want them, mathematick truths ; When thus a mutton, statelier than the rest, A ram, the ewes and wethers sad, address’d.
Friends! we have liv'd too long. I never heard Sounds such as these, so worthy to be fear'd. Could I believe, that winds for ages pent In Earth's dark womb have found at last a vent, And from their prison-house below arise, With all these hideous howlings to the skies, I could be much compos'd, nor should appear, For such a cause, to feel the slightest fear.
Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders rollid
Him answer'd then his loving mate and true,
How ! leap into the pit our life to save ? To save our life leap all into the grave ? For can we find it less ? Contemplate first The depth how awful ! falling there we burst; Or should the brambles, interpos’d, our fall In part abate, that happiness were small : For with a race like theirs no chance I see Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we. Meantime, noise kills not. Be it Dapple's bray, Or be it not, or be it whose it may, And rush those other sounds, that seem by tongues Of demons utter'd from whatever lungs, Sounds are but sounds, and till the cause appear, We have at least commodious standing here. Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blast From Earth or Hell, we can but plunge at last.
While chus she spake, I fainter heard the peals, For Reynard, close attended at his heels By panting dog, tir'd man, and spatter'd horse, Through mere good fortune, took a diff'rent course
The flock grew calm again, and I the road
MORAL. Beware of desp'rate steps. The darkest day, Live till to-morrow, will have pass'd away.
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Counsel of her country's gods.
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Full of rage, and full of grief
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,
All the terrours of our tongues.
Rome shall perish_write that word
In the blood that she hast spillid;
Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground Hark! the Gaul is at her gates !
VI. Other Romans shall arise,
Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.
From the forests of guir land,
VIII. Regions Cæsar never knew
Thy posterity shall sway;
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Of his sweet but awful lyre.
She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow; Rush'd to battle, fought, and died;
Dying hurl'd them at the foe.