WHEN highest Jove his sharp artillery forms,
And opes his cloudy magazine of storms,
In winter's bleak uncomfortable reign,
A snowy inundation hides the plain;
He stills the winds, and bids the skies to sleep; "Then pours the silent tempest, thick and deep:
And first the mountain tops are cover'd o'er,
Then the green fields, and then the sandy shore ; Bent with the weight the nodding woods are seen, And one bright waste hides all the works of men; The circling seas, alone absorbing all,
- Drink the dissolving fleeces as they fall.
WHEN Some 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 list'ning ears, From some steep rock the sounding ruin hears. PITT'S VIRGIL.
44 The Caged Lark.—The Beagle and Fawn.
THE CAGED LARK.
THE tuneful lark, who from his nest
Ere yet well-fledged is stol'n away,
With care attended, and carest,
Will sometimes sing the livelong day:
Yet still his native field he mourns,
His gaoler hates, his kindness scorns,
For freedom pants, for freedom burns.
That darling freedom once obtain'd,
Unskill'd, untaught to search 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 forest, o'er the vale and lawn,
The well-breathed beagle drives the fiying 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 courser oft, with reins unbound, Breaks from his stall and beats the trembling ground:
Pamper'd and proud, he seeks the wonted tides,
And laves, in height of blood, his shining sides:
His head, now freed, he tosses to the skies;
His mane dishevel'd o'er his shoulders flies;
He snuffs his females in the distant plain,
And springs exulting to his fields again.
How gaily a sailor's life passes,
Who roams o'er the watery main!
No treasure he ever amasses,
But cheerfully spends all his gain.
The world is a beautiful garden
Enrich'd with the blessings of life,
The toiler with plenty rewarding,
Which plenty too often breeds strife.
The Midsummer Wish.
When terrible tempests assail us,
And mountainous billows affright,
No grandeur or wealth can avail us,
But skilful industry steers right.
The various blessings 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, some soft and cooling breeze,
To Windsor's shady kind retreat,
Where sylvan scenes, wide-spreading trees,
Repel the dogstar's raging heat:
Where tufted grass and mossy beds
Afford a rural calm repose;
Where woodbines hang their dewy heads,
And fragrant sweets around disclose.
Old oozy Thames, that flows fast by,
Along the smiling valley plays;
His glassy surface cheers the eye,
And thro' the flow'ry meadow strays.
His fertile banks with herbage green,
His vales with golden plenty swell;
Where'er his purer streams 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 bosom lave,
And cut the gently rolling tide.
THE fiery courser, 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 name 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 solid ground.
Fire from his eyes, clouds from his nostrils flow,
He bears his rider headlong on the foe.
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