WHEN highest Jove his fharp artillery forms,
And opes his cloudy magazine of storms,
In winter's bleak uncomfortable reign,
A fnowy inundation hides the plain;
He ftills the winds, and bids the skies to fleep;
Then pours the filent tempeft, thick and deep:
And first the mountain tops are cover'd o'er,
Then the green fields, and then the fandy fhore:
Bent with the weight the nodding woods are feen,
And one bright waste hides all the works of men ;
The circling feas, alone absorbing all,
Drink the diffolving fleeces as they fall.
WHEN fome big torrent from a mountain's brow Bursts, pours, and thunders down the vale below; O'erwhelms the fields, lays waste the golden grain, And headlong sweeps the forests to the main ; Stunn'd at the din, the swain, with lift'ning ears, From fome steep rock the founding ruin hears.
44 The Caged Lark.-The Beagle and Fawn,
THE CAGED LARK,
THE tuneful lark, who from his nest
Ere yet well-fledged is ftol'n away,
With care attended, and careft,
Will fometimes fing the livelong day:
Yet ftill his native field he mourns,
His gaoler hatés, his kindness frorns,
For freedom pants, for freedom burns.
That darling freedom once obtain❜d,
Unfkill'd, untaught to fearch for prey,
He mourns the liberty he gain'd,
And hungry pines his hours away.
Helpless the little wand'rer flies,
Then homeward turns his longing eyes,
And, warbling out his grief, he dies.
THRO' the deep foreft, o'er the vale and lawn,
The well-breathed beagle drives the flying fawn.
In vain he tries the covert of the brakes,
Or deep beneath the trembling thicket shakes;
Sure of the vapour in the tainted dews,
The certain hound his various maze pursues.
POPE'S HOMER,
THE wanton courfer oft, with reins unbound, Breaks from his ftall, and beats the trembling ground:
Pamper'd and proud, he feeks the wonted tides,
And laves, in height of blood, his fhining fides:
His head, now freed, he toffes to the skies;
His mane dishevel'd o'er his shoulders flies;
He fnuffs the females in the diftant plain,
And springs exulting to his fields again.
How gaily a failor's life paffes,
Who roams o'er the watery main !
No treasure he ever amaffes,
But cheerfully spends all his gain.
The world is a beautiful garden
Enrich'd with the bleffings of life,
The toiler with plenty rewarding,
Which plenty too often breeds ftrife.
The Midfummer Wish.
When terrible tempefts affail us,
And mountainous billows affright,
No grandeur or wealth can avail us,
But skilful industry steers right,
The various bleffings of nature
In various countries we try;
No mortal than us can be greater,
Who merrily live till we die.
THE MIDSUMMER WISH.
WAFT me, fome foft and cooling breeze,
To Windfor's fhady kind retreat,
Where fylvan scenes, wide-spreading trees,
Repel the dogftar's raging heat:
Where tufted grafs and moffy beds
Afford a rural calm repose;
Where woodbines hang their dewy heads,
And fragrant fweets around difclose.
Old oozy Thames, that flows faft bly,
Along the fmiling valley plays;
His glaffy furface cheers the eye,
And thro' the flow'ry meadow ftrays
His fertile banks with herbage green,
His vales with golden plenty fwell;
Where'er his purer ftreams are seen,
The Gods of health and pleasure dwell.
Let me thy clear, thy yielding wave
With naked arm once more divide,
In thee my glowing bofom lave,
And cut the gently rolling tide.
THE fiery courfer, when he hears from far
The sprightly trumpets, and the shouts of war,
Pricks up his ears, and, trembling with delight,
Shifts place, and paws, and hopes the promis'd
fight:
On his right shoulder his thick mane reclin'd
Ruffles at speed, and dances in the wind.
Eager he stands-then, starting with a bound,
He turns the turf, and shakes the folid ground.
Fire from his eyes, clouds from his noftrils flow,
He bears his rider headlong on the foe.
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