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But when the huntsman, with distended cheek,
'Gan 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 graz'd,
All huddling into phalanx, stood and gaz'd,
Admiring, terrified, the novel ftrain,
Then cours'd the field around, and cours'dit round again;
But, recolle&ting with a sudden thought,
That flight in circles urg'd advanc'd 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 ev'ry 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 largeness of the skies;
But with precision nicer still, the mind
He scans of ev'ry loco-motive kind;
Birds of all feather, beasts of ev'ry name,
That serve mankind, or fhun them, wild or tame;
The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears
Have, all, articulation in his ears ;

He spells them true by intuition's light,
And needs no gloffary to set him right.

This truth premis'd was needful as a text,
To win due credence to what follows Dext.

Awhile they mus'd; surveying ev'ry face, Thou hadit fuppos'd them of fuperior race; Their periwigs of wool, and fears combin'd, Stamp'd on each countenance such marks of mind, That fage 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 reft, A ram, the ewes and wethers, sad, address’d.

Friends! we have liv'd too long. I never heard 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 sightest fear. Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders rolld 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 Aray'd,
And being loft, 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 fave? 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; 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 the fpake, 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 courfe.
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 (Live till to morrow) will have pass'd away.

THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY.

NO FABLE.

The noon was shady, and soft airs

Swept Ouse's silent tide,
When, feap'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 fight
Pursued the swallow o’er the meads

With scarce a lower 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.

* Sir Robert Gunning's daughters.

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