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Folding the Flocks.

133

FOLDING THE FLOCKS.

SHEPHERDS all, and maidens fair,
Fold your flocks up; for the air
'Gins to thicken, and the sun
Already his great course hath run.
See the dew-drops, how they kiss
Ev'ry little flow'r that is;
Hanging on their velvet heads
Like a string of crystal beads.
See the heavy clouds low falling,
And bright Hefperus down calling
The dead night from under ground;
At whose rifing, mifts unfound,
Damps, and vapours, fly apace,
Hov'ring o'er the smiling face
Of these pastures, where they come,
Striking dead both bud and bloom :
Therefore, from fuch danger lock
Ev'ry one his loved flock,

And let your dogs lie loose without,
Left the wolf come as a scout

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From the mountain, and, ere day,

Bear a lamb or kid away;

Or the crafty thievish fox

Break upon your fimple flocks.

FLETCHER.

VILLAGE SOUNDS.

SWEET was the found, when oft at ev'ning's clofe

Up yonder hill the village murmur rose!
There, as I pafs'd with careless fleps and flow,
The mingling notes came soften'd from below:
The fwain refponfive as the milk-maid fung;
The fober herd that low'd to meet their young:
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool;
The playful children juft let loose from school;
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring
wind;

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind:
Thefe, all, in foft confufion fought the fhade,
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.

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GOLDSMITH.

A Storm in Harvest.

135

A STORM IN HARVEST.

Ev'N when the farmer, now fecure of fear,
Sends in the fwains to spoil the finish'd year;
Ev'n when the reaper fills his greedy hands,
And binds the golden fheaves in brittle bands;
Oft have I feen a fudden storm arise

From all the warring winds that sweep the skies.
The heavy harvest from the root is torn,
And whirl'd aloft the lighter ftubble borne;
With fuch a force the flying rack is driv❜n,
And fuch a winter wears the face of heav'n:
The lofty skies at once come pouring down,
The promis'd crop and golden labours drown.
The dikes are fill'd, and, with a roaring found,'
The rifing rivers float the nether ground;
And rocks the bellowing voice of boiling feas
rebound.

The father of the gods his glory shrouds,
Involv'd in tempefts and a night of clouds;
And from the middle darkness flashing out,
By fits he deals his fiery bolts about.

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Deep horror feizes ev'ry human breast,
Their pride is humbled, and their fear confest :
While he from high his rolling thunder throws,
And fires the mountains with repeated blows:
The rocks are from their old foundations rent;
The winds redouble, and the rains augment:
The waves in heaps are dafh'd against the fhore,
And now the woods and now the billows roar.
DRYDEN'S VIRGIL.

DAY-BREAK.

SEE, the day begins to break,

And the light shoots like a streak

Of fubtle fire; the wind blows cold,
While the morning doth unfold;
Now the birds begin to roufe,
And the squirrel from the boughs
Leaps, to get him nuts and fruit;
The early lark, that erft was mute,
Carols in the rifing day

Many a note and many a lay.

FLETCHER.

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SWEET rural scene

Of flocks and green!

At careless ease my limbs are fpread;
All nature ftill,

But yonder rill!

And lift'ning pines nod o'er my head:

In profpect wide

The boundless tide!

Waves cease to foam, and winds to roar:

Without a breeze,

The curling feas

Dance on in measure to the fhore.

Through nature wide,

Is nought defcried

So rich in pleasure and surprise;
When all ferene,

How fweet the scene!

How dreadful when the billows rife!

When tempefts cease,

And, hufh'd in peace,

The

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