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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 pretty 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,
Can make his instrument of music speak,

And from within the wood that crash was heard,
Though not a hound from whom it burst appear'd,
The sheep recumbent, and the sheep that grazed,
All huddling into phalanx, stood and gaz'd,
Admiring, terrified, the novel strain,

Then cursed the field around, and cursed it round agai
But, recollecting with a sudden thought,

That flight of circles urged advanced them nought,
They gather'd close around the old pit's brink,
And thought again-but knew not what to think.
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 flowers rejoicing all;
Knows what the freshness of their hue implies,
How glad they catch the largess of the skies ;
But, with precision nicer still the mind

He scans of every locomotive kind;
Birds of all feather, beasts of every 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 intutition'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.

A while they mused: surveying every face,
Thou hadst supposed them of superior 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 academic tutors, teaching youths,
Sure ne'er to want them, mathematic truths;
When thus a mutton, statelier than the rest,
A ram, the ewes and wethers sad address'd.

Friends! we have lived too long. I never hear'd 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 roll'd
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 carcass, and not quake with fear?
Demons produce them doubtless, brazen-claw'd
And fang'd with brass the demons 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 P
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 commodions 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 desperate steps. The darkest day,
Live till to-morrow, will have pass'd away.

THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND THE SENSITIVE PLANT.

AN oyster, cast upon the shore,
Was heard, though never heard before,
Complaining in a speech well worded-
And worthy thus to be recorded:-

Ah hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell
For ever in my native shell,

Ordain'd to move when others please,
Not for my own content or ease;
But toss'd and buffetted about,
Now in the water and now out.
'Twere better to be born a stone,
Of ruder shape, and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And sensibilities so fine!

I envy that unfeeling shrub,
Fast rooted against every rub.

The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the sneer with scorn enough;
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,
And with asperity replied.

When, cry the botanists, and stare,
Did plants call'd sensitive grow there?
No matter when-a poet's muse is

To make them grow just where he chooses
You shapeless nothing in a dish,

You that are but almost a fish,

I scorn your coarse insinuation,
And have most plentiful occasion,
To wish myself the rock I view,
Or such another dolt as you:

For many a grave and learned clerk,
And many a gay unletter'd spark,
With curious touch examines me,
If I can feel as well as he;

And when I bend, retire, and shrink,
Says-Well, 'tis more than one would think!
Thus life is spent (oh! fle upon't!)
In being touch'd, and crying-Don't!
A poet, in his evening walk,

O'erheard and check'd this idle talk.
And your fine sense, he said, and yours,
Whatever evil it endures,

Deserves not, if so soon offended,
Much to be pitied or commended.
Disputes, though short, are far too long,
Where both alike are in the wrong;
Your feelings in their full amount,
Are all upon your own account.

You, in your grotto-work enclos'd,
Complain of being thus expos'd;
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,
Wherever driven by wind or tide,
Exempt from every ill beside.

And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Who reckon every touch a blemish,
If all the plants that can be found
Embellishing the scene around,

Should droop and wither where they grow,
You would not feel at all-not you.
The noblest minds their virtue prove

By pity, sympathy, and love;
These, these are feelings truly fine,
And prove their owner half divine.

His censure reach'd them as he dealt it,
And each by shrinking show'd he felt it.

AN EPISTLE

ΤΟ

AN AFFLICTED PROTESTANT LADY IN FRANCE.

MADAM,

A STRANGER's purpose in these lays
Is to congratulate, and not to praise :
To give the creature her Creator's due
Were sin in me, and an offence to you.
From man to man, or even to woman paid,
Praise is the medium of a knavish trade,
A coin by craft for folly's use design'd,
Spurious, and only current with the blind.

The path of sorrow, and that path alone,
Leads to the land were sorrow is unknown;
No trav'ller ever reach'd that bless'd abode,
Who found not thorns and briers in his road,
The world may dance along the flowery plain,
Cheer'd as they go by many a sprightly strain,
Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread,
With unshod feet they yet securely tread,
Admonish'd, scorn the caution and the friend
Bent upon pleasure, heedless of its end.

But he, who knew what human hearts would prove,
How slow to learn the dictates of his love,
That, hard by nature and of stubborn will
A life of ease would make them harder stil,
In pity to the souls his grace design'd
To rescue from the ruins of mankind,
Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years,
And said, Go, spend them in the vale of tears,
O balmy gales of soul-reviving air!

O salutary streams, that murmur there!
These flowing from the fount of grace above,
Those breathed from the lips of everlasting love.
The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys;
And sudden sorrow nips their springing joys:
An envious world will interpose its frown,
To mar delights superior to its own;

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