The foe she flies. Let cavillers deny more, 'Tis Heaven directs, and stratagems inspires, Beyond the short extent of human thought. But hold-I see her from the covert break; Sad on yon little eminence she sits; Intent she listens with one ear erect, Pond'ring, and doubtful what new course to take, And how to escape the fierce blood-thirsty crew, That still urge on, and still in volleys loud, Insult her woes, and mock her sore distress. As now in louder peals, the loaded winds Bring on the gath'ring storm, her fears prevail; And o'er the plain, and o'er the mountain's ridge, Away she flies; nor ships with wind and tide, And all their canvas wings, scud half so fast. Once more, ye jovial train, your courage try, And each clean courser's speed. We scour along, In pleasing hurry and confusion tossed; Painfully panting, there we breathe a while; Hangs in the rear, till some important point Sinking he finds; then to the head he springs, With thirst of glory fired, and wins the prize. Huntsman, take heed; they stop in full career. Yon crowding flocks, that at a distance graze, Have haply soiled the turf. See that old hound, How busily he works, but dares not trust more They're checked-hold back with speed-on either hand They flourish round-even yet persist-'Tis right, Away they spring; the rustling stubbles bend Beneath the driving storm. Now the poor chase Begins to flag, to her last shifts reduced. From brake to brake she flies, and visits all Her well-known haunts, where once she ranged secure, With love and plenty blessed. See! there she goes, She reels along, and by her gait betrays Her inward weakness. See, how black she looks! The sweat that clogs the obstructed pores, scarce leaves A languid scent. And now in open view And yet a moment lives; till round inclosed So when the furious Bacchanals assailed Returned their clamorous rage; distressed he flies, Shifting from place to place, but flies in vain ; For eager they pursue, till panting, faint, 807.-PRAISE OF A COUNTRY LIFE. O happy, if ye knew your happy state, Ye rangers of the fields! whom Nature boon Cheers with her smiles, and every element Conspires to bless. What, if no heroes frown From marble pedestals; nor Raphael's works, Nor Titian's lively tints, adorn our walls? Yet these the meanest of us may behold; And at another's cost may feast at will Our wondering eyes; what can the owner more ? But vain, alas! is wealth, not graced with See, there he comes, the exalted idol comes! The circle's formed, and all his fawning slaves Devoutly bow to earth; from every mouth He mingles with the throng, outcast, undone, The pageant of a day; without one friend To soothe his tortured mind; all, all are fled. For though they basked in his meridian ray, The insects vanish, as his beams decline. Not such our friends; for here no dark design, No wicked interest bribes the venal heart; Soft complaisance, and wit from malice free, Smoothe every brow, and glow on every cheek. O happiness sincere! what wretch would groan Beneath the galling load of power, or walk Upon the slippery pavements of the great, Who thus could reign, unenvied and secure? Ye guardian powers who make mankind your care, Give me to know wise Nature's hidden depths, Trace each mysterious cause, with judgment read The expanded volume, and submiss adore But if my Each towering hill, each humble vale below, Shall hear my cheering voice, my hounds shall wake The lazy morn, and glad the horizon round. William Somerville.-Born 1682, Died 1742. 808.-A FAIRY TALE. In Britain's isle and Arthur's days, His mountain back mote well be said, This creature dared to love. He felt the charms of Edith's eyes, Could ladies look within: 'Twas near an old enchanted court, His heart was drear, his hope was cross'd, 'Twas late, 'twas far, the path was lost That reach'd the neighbour-town; With weary steps he quits the shades, Resolved, the darkling dome he treads, And drops his limbs adown. Now whilst he gazed, a gallant drest In flaunting robes above the rest, With awful accent cried : "What mortal of a wretched mind, Whose sighs infect the balmy wind, Has here presumed to hide ?" At this the swain, whose venturous soul No fears of magic art control, Advanced in open sight: "Nor have I cause of dreed," he said, "Who view, by no presumption led, Your revels of the night. 'Twas grief, for scorn of faithful love, Exalt thy love-dejected heart, To make thee grief resign; Be little Mable thine." He spoke, and all a sudden there The monarch leads the queen: With Edwin of the Green. The dauncing past, the board was laid, But now, to please the fairy king, Some wind and tumble like an ape, Till one at last, that Robin hight, From thence, "Reverse my charm," he cries, "And let it fairly now suffice The gambol has been shown." Here ended all the phantom-play; The whirling wind that bore the crowd Then screaming all at once they fly, Poor Edwin falls to floor; Forlorn his state, and dark the place, Was never wight in such a case Through all the land before. But soon as Dan Apollo rose, The story told, sir Topaz moved, At close of eve he leaves his home, As there he bides, it so befell, But certes sorely sunk with woe His spirits in him die : Hangs flagging in the sky." With that sir Topaz, hapless youth! In accents faultering, ay for ruth, Entreats them pity graunt; For als he been a mister wight Betray'd by wandering in the night To tread the circled haunt; "Ah, losel vile," at once they roar: "And little skill'd of fairie lore, Thy cause to come, we know: Now has thy kestrel courage fell; And fairies, since a lye you tell, Are free to work thee woe." Then Will, who bears the whispy fire To trail the swains among the mire, The caitiff upward flung; There, like a tortoise, in a shop He dangled from the chamber-top, Where whilome Edwin hung. The revel now proceeds apace, Deftly they frisk it o'er the place, They sit, they drink, and eat; The time with frolic mirth beguile, And poor sir Topaz hangs the while Till all the rout retreat. By this the stars began to wink, Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay, Then deem'd the dole was o'er; This tale a Sybil-nurse ared; And some are born with none. "But virtue can itself advance To what the favourite fools of chance Virtue can gain the odds of Fate, Upon th' unworthy mind." Thomas Parnell.-Born 1679, Died 1717. 809.-THE HERMIT. Far in a wild, unknown to public view, Remote from men, with God he pass'd the days, Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. rose; That Vice should triumph, Virtue, Vice obey, This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway: His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, And skies beneath with answering colours glow: But if a stone the gentle sea divide, To find if books, or swains, report it right A youth came posting o'er a crossing way; "And hail, my son," the reverend sire replied; Words follow'd words, from question answer flow'd, And talk of various kind deceived the road; Now sunk the Sun; the closing hour of day Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides of grass. It chanced the noble master of the dome Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day, Along the wide canals the zephyrs play: Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, And shake the neighbouring wood to banish sleep. Up rise the guests, obedient to the call: Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch So seem'd the sire; when far upon the road, And much he wish'd, but durst not ask to part : Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard, That generous actions meet a base reward. While thus they pass, the Sun his glory shrouds, The changing skies hang out their sable clouds; A sound in air presaged approaching rain, To seek for shelter at a neighbouring seat. Its owner's temper, timorous and severe, Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; The nimble lightning mix'd with showers began, And o'er their heads loud rolling thunders And when the tempest first appear'd to cease, A ready warning bid them part in peace. With still remark the pondering hermit view'd, In one so rich, a life so poor and rude; "And why should such," within himself he cried, "Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside ?" But what new marks of wonder soon take place In every settling feature of his face; That cup, the generous landlord own'd before, The weather courts them from the poor retreat, And the glad master bolts the wary gate. While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought With all the travel of uncertain thought; Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes, Again the wanderers want a place to lie, Content, and not to praise, but virtue kind. Hither the walkers turn with weary feet, Then bless the mansion, and the master greet: Their greeting fair, bestow'd with modest guise, The courteous master hears, and thus replies: "Without a vain, without a grudging heart, To him who gives us all, I yield a part: Warn'd by a bell, and close the hours with prayer. At length the world, renew'd by calm repose, Was strong for toil, the dappled Morn arose ; Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept, Near the closed cradle where an infant slept, And writhed his neck: the landlord's little pride, O strange return! grew black, and gasp'd, and died. Horrour of horrours! what! his only son! How look'd our hermit when the fact was done; Not Hell, though Hell's black jaws in sunder part, And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart. Confused, and struck with silence at the deed, He flies, but trembling, fails to fly with speed. His steps the youth pursues; the country lay Perplex'd with roads, a servant show'd the way: A river cross'd the path; the passage o'er Was nice to find; the servant trod before; Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied, And deep the waves beneath the bending glide. |