The wind, of late breath'd gently forth, Now shifted east, and east by north; Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know, Could shelter them from rain or snow, Stepping into their nests they paddled, Themselves were chill'd, their eggs were addled; Soon every father bird and mother,
Grew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other, Parted without the least regret, Except that they had ever met, And learn'd in future to be wiser, Than to neglect a good adviser.
Misses! the tale that I relate This lesson seems to carry- Choose not only a proper mate, But proper time to marry.
THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY.
THE moon was shady, and soft airs Swept Ouse's silent tide,
When 'scap'd from literary cares,
I wandered on his side.
My spaniel, prettiest of his race, And high in pedigree,
(Two nymphs* adorn'd with every grace
That spaniel found for me.)
Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds, Now starting into sight,
Pursued the swallow o'er the meads With scarce a slower flight.
Sir Robert Gunning's daughters.
THE DOG AND THE WATER LILY.
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.
With cane extended far I sought To steer it close to land;
But still the prize, though nearly caught, Escap'd my eager hand.
Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains With fix'd consid'rate face, And puzzling set his puppy brains To comprehend the case.
But with a cherup clear and strong, Dispersing all its dream,
I thence withdrew, and follow'd long The windings of the stream.
My ramble ended, I return'd; Beau trotting far before,
The floating wreath again discern'd, And plunging left the shore.
I saw him with that lily cropp'd Impatient swim to meet
My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd The treasure at my feet.
Charm'd with the sight, the world, I cried, Shall hear of this thy deed: My dog shall mortify the pride Of man's superior breed;
But chief myself I will enjoin.
Awake at duties call,
To show a love as prompt as thine To Him who gives me all.
WHEN the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods,
Sage beneath the spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Every burning word he spoke Full of rage, and full of grief.
Princess if our aged eyes
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues.
Rome shall perish-write that word In the blood that she has spilt; Perish hopeless and abhorr'd, Deep in ruin as in guilt.
Rome for empire far renown'd, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the groundHark! the Gaul is at her gates;
Other Romans shall arise,
Heedless of a soldier's name ; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.
Then the progeny that springs
From the forests of our land
Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.
Regions Cæsar never knew Thy posterity shall sway: Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they.
Such the bard's prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre.
She, with all a monarch's pride, Felt them in herbosom glow : Rush'd to battle, fought, and died Dying, hurled them at the foe.
Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestow'd,
Shame and ruin wait for you.
THERE was a time when Etna's silent fire Slept unperceived, the mountain yet entire; When, conscious of no danger from below, She tower'd a cloud-capp'd pyramid of snow. No thunders shook with deep intestine sound The blooming groves that girdled her around. Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines, (Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines, The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assur'd, In peace upon her sloping sides matured. When on a day, like that of the last doom, A conflagration lab'ring in her womb, She teem'd and heav'd with an infernal birth, That shook the circling seas and solid earth. Dark and voluminous the vapours rise,
And hang their horrors in the neighb'ring skies,
While through the Stygian veil, that blots the day, In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play. But oh what muse, and in what powers of song, Can trace the torrent as it burns along? Havoc and devastation in the van,
It marches o'er the prostrate works of man; Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear, And all the charms of a Sicilian year.
Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass, See it an uniform'd and idle mass; Without a soil t' invite the tiller's care, Or blade, that might redeem it from despair. Yet time at length (what will not time achieve? Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce live. Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade, And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade.
O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats, O charming Paradise of short-lived sweets!
The self-same gale, that wafts the fragrance round, Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound: Again the mountain feels th' imprison'd foe, Again pours ruin on the vale below.
Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore, That only future ages can restore.
Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws, Who write in blood the merits of your cause, Who strike the blow, then plead your own defence, Glory your aim, but justice your pretence: Behold in Etna's emblematic fires
The mischief your ambitious pride inspires !
Fast by the stream, that bounds your just domain, And tells you were ye have a right to reign, A nation dwells, not envious of your throne, Studious of peace, their neighbours', and their own Ill-fated race! how deeply must they rue Their only crime, vicinity to you!
The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad, Through the ripe harvest lies their destin'd road, At every step beneath their feet they tread The life of multitudes, a nation's bread! Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dress Before them, and behind a wilderness. Famine, and Pestilence, her first-born son, Attend to finish what the sword begun;
And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn, And Folly pays resound at your return.
« PreviousContinue » |