Sidebilder
PDF
ePub

Come, fiend, come, fury, giant, monster, blast
From earth or hell, we can but plunge at last.

While thus the spake, I fainter heard the peals, For Reynard, clofe attended at his heels,

By panting dog, tir'd man, and fpatter'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 filly sheep had found
Such cause of terror in an empty found,
So fweet to huntfman, gentleman, and hound.

MORAL.

Beware of defp'rate steps. The darkest day (Live till to-morrow) will have pafs'd away.

THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY.

NO FABLE.

THE noon was fhady, and foft airs

Swept Oufe's filent tide,

When, fcap'd from literary cares,

I wander'd on his fide.

My fpaniel, prettiest of his race,

And high in pedigree,

(Two nymphs*, adorn'd with ev'ry grace, That fpaniel found for me)

Now wanton'd loft in flags and reeds,

Now ftarting into fight

Purfued the fwallow o'er the meads
With scarce a flower flight.

It was the time when Ouse display'd

His lilies newly blown;

Their beauties I intent furvey'd,

And one I wish'd my own.

*Sir Robert Gunning's daughters.

With cane extended far I fought

To fteer it close to land;

But ftill the prize, though nearly caught, Efcap'd my eager hand,

Beau mark'd my unfuccefsful pains
With fixt confid'rate face,
And puzzling fat his puppy brains.
To comprehend the cafe.

But with a chirrup clear and ftrong,
Difperfing 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 difcern'd,
And plunging left the fhore.

I faw him with that lily cropp'd
Impatient fwim to meet

My quick approach, and foon he dropp'd
The treasure at my feet.

Charm'd with the fight, the world, I cried,

Shall hear of this thy deed,

My dog fhall mortify the pride
Of man's fuperior breed;

But, chief, myfelf I will enjoin,
Awake at duty's call,

To fhow a love as prompt as thine
To Him who gives me all.

ON THE RECEIPT OF

MY MOTHER'S PICTURE

OUT OF NORFOLK.

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM.

OH that thofe lips had language! Life has pafs'd
With me but roughly fince I heard thee laft.
Thofe lips are thine-thy own fweet fmiles I fee,
The fame that oft in childhood folaced me;
Voice only fails, elfe, how diftinct they fay,
"Grieve not, my child, chafe all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Bleft be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here fhines on me ftill the fame.
Faithful remembrancer of one fo dear,

Oh welcome guest, though unexpected, here!
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother loft fo long.

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own;
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy fhall weave a charm for my relief-

« ForrigeFortsett »