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Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders roll'd

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All night, me resting quiet in the fold.
Or heard we that tremendous bray alone,
I could expound the melancholy tone;
Should deem it by our old companion made,
The ass; for he, we know, has lately stray’d,
And being lost, perhaps, and wand'ring wide,
Might be suppos'd to clamour for a guide.
But ah! those dreadful yells what soul can hear,
That owns a carcase, and not quake for fear?
Dæmons produce them doubtless, brazen-claw'd
And fang'd with brass the dæmons are abroad;
I hold it, therefore, wisest and most fit,
That, life to save, we leap into the pit.

Him answer'd then his loving mate and true,
But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe.

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;

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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 dæmons 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 thus 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
Following that led me to my own abode,

Much wonder'd that the silly sheep had found
Such cause of terror in an empty sound,
So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound.

MORAL.

Beware of desp'rate steps. The darkest day (Left till to-morrow) will have pass'd away.

THE

DOG AND THE WATER-LILY.

NO FAB L E.

The noon was shady, and soft airs

Swept Ouse's silent tide,
When, scap'd from literary cares,

I wander'd on his side.

My spaniel, prettiest of his race,

And high in pedigree, (Two nymphs, adorn’d with ev'ry grace,

That spaniel found for me)

Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds,

Now starting into sight

Pursued the swallow o'er the meads

With scarce a slower flight.

It was the time when Ouse display'd

His lilies newly blown;
Their beauties I intent survey'd,

And one I wish'd my own.

With cane extended far I sought

To steer it close to land; But still the prize, though nearly caught,

Escap'd my eager hand. .

P Sir Robert Gunning's daughters.

Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains

With fixt consid'rate face,

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And puzzling sat his puppy brains

To comprehend the case.

But with a chirrup clear and strong,

Dispersing all his dream,
I thence withdrew, and follow'd long

The windings of the stream.

My ramble finish'd, I return'd.

Beau trotting far before
The floating wreath again discern'd,

And plunging left the shore.

I saw him with that lily cropp'd

Impatient swim to meet
My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd

The treasure at my feet.

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