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 strain,

Then cours'd the field around, and cours'd it round again;

But, recollecting 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 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 flow'rs 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 ev'ry locomotive kind;

Birds of all feather, beasts of ev'ry 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 intuition'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.

Awhile they mus'd; surveying ev'ry face, Thou hadst suppos'd 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 weathers 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 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 for 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 truc 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! For who can 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 sce 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 commodious standing here. Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blast From Earth or Hell, we can but plunge at last.

While thus she spake, 1 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
Foll' wing, 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 awar.

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LADY

AUSTEN.

[Dec. 17, 1781.]

DEAR ANNA-between friend and friend, Prose answers every common end; Serves, in a plain and homely way, T'express th' occurrence of the day; Our health, the weather, and the news; What walks we take, what books we choose And all the floating thoughts we find Upon the surface of the mind.

But when a poet takes the pen,
Far more alive than other men,
He feels a gentle tingling come
Down to his finger and his thumb,
Deriv'd from nature's noblest part,
The centre of a glowing heart:
And this is what the world, who knows
No flights above the pitch of prose,
His more sublime vagaries slighting,
Denominates an itch for writing.
No wonder I, who scribble rhyme