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What ftripling neat, of visage fweet,
In trimmeft guise array'd,
First the neighing fteed assay'd? His hand a taper switch adorns, his heel Sparkles refulgent with elaftic fteel:
The whiles he wins his whiffling way.
Prancing, ambling round and round,
By hill, and dale, and mead, and greenswerd gay :
Till fated with the pleasing ride,
From the lofty fteed difmounting,
He lies along, enwrapt in conscious pride, By gurgling rill or cryftal fountain.
Lo! next, a Bard, fecure of praise,
His felf-complacent countenance difplays.
His broad muftachios, ting'd with golden dye,
Flame, like a meteor, to the troubled air :
Proud his demeanor, and his eagle eye O'erhung with lavish lid, yet fhone with glorious. glare.
The grizzle grace
Of bushy peruke fhadow'd o'er his face.
In large wide boots, whofe pond'rous weight Would fink each wight of modern date, He rides, well-pleas'd. So large a pair Not Garagantua's felf might wear; Not he, of nature fierce and cruel,
Who, if we truft to ancient ballad, Devour'd three pilgrims in a fallad; Nor he of the fame germane, hight Pantagruel.
Acccutred thus, the advent'rous youth
Seeks not the level lawn, or velvet mead,
Faft by whofe fide clear ftreams meand'ring
But urges on amain the fiery fteed
Up Snowdon's fhaggy fide, or Cambrian rock uncouth :
Where the venerable herd
Of goats, with long and fapient beard,
And wanton kidlings their blithe revels keep;
Now down the vale he's toft,
Now flashes on the fight again,
Now in the Palpable Obfcure quite loft. IV. I. Man's feeble race eternal dangers wait, With high or low, all, all, is woe, Disease, mifchance, pale fear and dubious fate. But, o'er every peril bounding Ambition views not all the ills furrounding,
And, tip-toe on the mountain's fteep,
Reflects not on the yawning deep.
See, fee, he foars! with mighty wings outspread,
The Courfer quits the plain.
The Bard, who shrouds
His Lyric glory in the clouds,
He topples headlong from the giddy height,
Deep in the Cambrian Gulph immerg'd in endless night.
O Steed Divine! what daring fpirit
Rides thee now? tho' he inherit
Nor the pride nor felf-opinion,
Which elate the mighty pair,
Each of Tafte the fav'rite minion,
Prancing thro' the defart air;