« PrejšnjaNaprej »
His heart's best chord was yet in ture,
Unsnapp'd by cold severity; Touch'd was that chord-his dim eye beam’d
Suffused sensibility: “ 'Tis just, (he said,) that where thou ly's,
“The careless thepherd boy should he; “ Thou dy'st, poor fool! for want of food;
“ I fall, for fuff'ring thee to die. “ But, O my master!"_broken-Short
Was ev'ry half-word now he spoke• Severe has been thy constant will,
“ And galling sure thy heavy yoke. “ But yet, • in all my best,' have I
“ Without a 'plaint my hardfhips bore ; “ Rufus !—may all my pangs be paft
“ Maser!--my suff'rings are no more. “ A warmer couch haft thou to press,
“ Secure from cramping frofts thy feet; " And could'st thou boast fo free a breaft,
“ Thou yet might'st die a death as sweet. “ My trusty dog-that wilful look
“ Ís all that makes my poor heart heave; “ But hie thee home-proclaim me dead,
Forget to think-and cease to grieve." So saying, shrunk the hapless youth
Beneath the chilling grasp of death; And clasping poor Tray's shaggy neck,
Sigh’d gently forth his parting breath. His faithful, fond, fagacious dog,
Hung watchful o'er his master's clay; And many a moan the old fool made,
And many a thing he strove to say. He paw'd him with his hard-worn foot,
He lick'd him with his fcarce warm tongue; His cold nose strove to catch his breath,
As to his clos'd lips close it clung. But not a sign of lurking life,
Thro' all his frame, he found to creep;
He knew not what it was to die,
But knew his master did not sleep.
Through many a long and dismal night;
To meet his toil ere morning light.
He never patter'd tow'rds his bed;
But straight he firr’d, or rais'd his head.
His loving master's kind replies;
“ The cock has crow'd, my mafer, rise."
To howlings chang'd, alone can tell
When fruitless prov'd its fimple spell.
And quickly laid its victim low!
Their common bed the colder snow!
Heav'n-born Hope! best friend of Mis’ry's child,
Thou gift transcendent of the Pow’rs on high! Oh! deign to visit one, whose heart, despoild
Of ev'ry joy, on thee would ftill rely!
And long by wanton Fortune been deceiv’d,
“ To-inorrow all will be retriev'd.” Depriv'd of thee, ah! whither shall I go?
See, fell Despair with haggard eye appears!
Oh! save me! fave me! but one smile below,
To daunt that fiend, and diffipate my fears.
BY THE SAME.
NUBDU'D by Grief, low at thy injur'd shrine, 0
; Nor more shall I at Fate's decrees repine,
Since thy propitious hand can yieid me all. The primrose pale, that blooms beneath the thorn, Protected
from elemental shock; While from the cloud-encircled hills are torn
The lofty cedar and the knotted oak.
In life's fequester'd vale unnotic'd dwell;
And ev'ry lawless gust of passion quell.. To prescient Heav'n's all-potent will refign'd, In folitude serene I'll more than pleasure find!
BY THE SAME.
Unknown to avarice or lavish glee, There joyful spend the circling year in peace,
Divine Contentment! while I dwell with thee. , On Alpine hills behold the sun-beat hind,
Remote from care, amid his flock repose, While pleasing dreams of fancy foothe his mind,
And light-wing'd Zephyrus around him blows.
No thought ambitious fires his tranquil soul,
No parsimonious luft of wealth is there; The gifts of Nature all these thoughts control,
And for celestial scenes his mind prepare.-'Tis mild Contentment that becalms his breast;Oh! then, beneath thy shade with Virtue let me rest!
O place the swallow on yon turfy bed,
Much will he struggle, but can never sise; Go raise him even with the daisy's head,
And the poor twitt'rer like an arrow flies. So oft, through life, the man of pow'rs and worth,
Haply the cat'rer for an infant train, Like Burns, must struggle on the bare-worn earth,
While all his efforts to arise are vain.
Juft from the surface lift the suff'ring wight,
affluent ! go, your hands out-Aretch, And, from despair's dark verge, oh! raise the woe
Go then, ye
THE COACH AND CART.
Was standing at the open gate,
- Thou .
* Faugh! what a horrid scent you bring-
Befpatter'd my new-painted wheels
Keep distance due, nor dare approach
With modeft tone, the Cart reply'd,
My labour's the fupport of thee! “ Did I not early toil, and late, “ Thou soon wouldst drop thy boasted state " Did I not groan beneath manure, “ The equipage would not be sure“ And thould I not the mart attend,
Thy dignity would have an end" I grant thou hast some little use; “ But why throw out such low abufe? 6 Learn reason-act thy proper part " We both are servants Coach and Cart..