To save from finger wet the letters fair: The work so gay, that on their back is seen, St George's high achievements does declare; On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been, Kens the forthcoming rod, unpleasing sight, I ween!

Ah! luckless he, and born beneath the beam
Of evil star! it irks me whilst I write !
As erst the bard by Mulla's silver stream,
Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight,
Sigh'd as he sung, and did in tears indite,
For brandishing the rod, she doth begin

To loose the brogues, the stripling's late de-
light!

And down they drop; appears his dainty skin, Fair as the furry-coat of whitest ermilin.

O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure, His little sister doth his peril see : All playful as she sate, she grows demure; She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee; She meditates a prayer to set him free: Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny, (If gentle pardon could with dames agree) To her sad grief that swells in either eye, And wrings her so that all for pity she could die.

No longer can she now her shrieks command;
And hardly she forbears, through awful fear,
To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous hand,
To stay harsh justice in its mid career.
On thee she calls, on thee her parent dear!

(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 Abhorreth 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.
O, 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 Phoebus 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
INDOLENCE.

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'd,

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

play.