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(Ah! too remote to ward the shameful blow !) She sees no kind domestic visage near,

And soon a flood of tears begins to flow, And gives a loose at last to unavailing wo.

But, ah! what pen his piteous plight may

trace ?
Or what device his loud laments explain ?
The form uncouth of his disguised face ?
The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain ?
The plenteous shower that does his cheek dis-

tain ?
When he, in abject wise, implores the dame,
Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain ;

Or when from high she levels well her aim, And, through the thatch, his cries each falling

stroke proclaim.

The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay,
Attend, and conn their tasks with mickle care :
By turns, astonied, every twig survey,
And, from their fellow's hateful wounds, be-

ware ; Knowing, I wist, how each the same may

share ; Till fear has taught them a performance meet, And to the well-known chest the dame repair ; Whence oft with sugar'd cates she doth them

greet, And gingerbread y-rare; now, certes, doubly

sweet.

See to their seats they hye with merry glee,
And in beseemly order sitten there ;

All but the wight of bum y-galled, he
A bhorreth bench, and stool, and fourm, and

chair; (This hand in mouth y-fix'd, that rends his

hair ;) And eke with snubs profound, and heaving

breast, Convulsions intermitting, does declare

His grievous wrong; his dame's unjust behest; And scorns her offer'd love, and shuns to be

caress'd.

His eye besprent with liquid crystal shines,
His blooming face that seems a purple flower,
Which low to earth its dropping head declines,
All smear'd and sullied by a vernal shower.
0, the hard bosoms of despotic power !
All, all, but she, the author of his shame,
All, all, but she, regret this mournful hour:
Yet hence the youth, and hence the flower,

shall claim, If so I deem aright, transcending worth and fame.

Behind some door, in melancholy thought,
Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff! pines ;
Ne for his fellows' joyance careth aught,
But to the wind all merriment resigns ;
And deems it shame if he to peace inclines ;
And many a sullen look askance is sent,
Which for his dame's annoyance he designs ;

And still the more to pleasure him she's bent, The more doth he, perverse, her haviour past

resent,

But now Dan Phæbus gains the middle sky,
And liberty unbars her prison-door :
And, like a rushing torrent, out they fly,
And now the grassy cirque han cover'd o'er
With boisterous revel-rout and wild uproar ;
A thousand ways in wanton rings they run,
Heaven shield their short-lived pastimes, I im.

plore ! For well may freedom erst so dearly won, Appear to British elf more gladsome than the

sun.

Enjoy, poor imps ! enjoy your sportive trade, And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers ; For when my bones in grass-green sods are

laid ;

For never may ye taste more careless hours
In knightly castles or in ladies' bowers.
O vain to seek delight in earthly thing !
But most in courts where proud ambition

towers ; Deluded wight! who weens fair peace can

spring Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king.

JAMES THOMSON.

BORN 1700—DIED 1748.

EXTRACT FROM THE CASTLE OF

IN DOLENCE.

O MORTAL man! who livest here by toil,
Do not complain of this thy hard estate ;
That like an emmet thou must ever moil,
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date;
And, certes, there is for it reason great ;
For, though sometimes it makes thee weep and

wail, And curse thy star, and early drudge and late,

Withouten that would come an heavier bale, Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale.

In lowly dale, fast by a river's side,
With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round,
A most enchanting wizard did abide,
Than whom a fiend more fell is no where found.
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground :
And there a season atween June and May,
Half prankt with spring, with summer half

imbrown's, A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, No living wight could work, ne cared even for

play.

Was nought around but images of rest :
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between;
And Rowery beds that slumberous influence

kest, From poppies breathed ; and beds of pleasant

green, Where never yet was creeping creature seen. Meantime unnumber'd glittering streamlets

play'd, And hurled everywhere their waters sheen ; That, as they bicker'd through the sunny

glade, Though restless still themselves, a lulling mur

mur made.

Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills,
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale,
And flocks loud-bleating from the distant hills,
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale :
And now and then sweet Philomel would wail,
Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep,
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale ;

And still a coil the grasshopper did keep ; Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep.

Full in the passage of the vale, above,
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood ;
Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to

move,
As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood :
And up the hills, on either side, a wood
Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro,
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood ;

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