Of horrid profpect, fhag the trackless plain :
Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid
Beneath the formless wild; but wanders on
From hill to dale, still more and more aftray;
Impatient flouncing thro' the drifted heaps, 285
Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts ofhome
Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth
In many a vain attempt. How finks his foul!
What black despair, what horror fills his heart!
When for the dusky spot, which fancy feign'd 295
His tufted cottage rifing thro' the fnow,
He meets the roughness of the middle waste,
Far from the track, and bleft abode of Man;
While round him night refistless closes fast,
And every tempeft, howling o'er his head,
Renders the favage wilderness more wild.
Then throng the bufy fhapes into his mind,
Of cover'd pits, unfathomably deep,
A dire defcent! beyond the power of froft,
Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge,
Smooth'd up with fnow; and, what is land, unknown,
What water, of the still unfrozen fpring,
In the loose marsh or solitary lake,
Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils.
These check his fearful steps; and down he finks 305 Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift,
Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death,
Mix'd with the tender anguish Nature shoots
Thro' the wrung bofom of the dying Man,
His wife, his children, and his friends unfeen. 310
In vain for him th' officious wife prepares
The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm;
In vain his little children, peeping out
Into the mingling ftorm, demand their fire,
With tears of artlefs innocence. Alas!
Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold,
Nor friends, nor facred home. On every nerve
The deadly Winter feizes; fhuts up fenfe;
And, o'er his inmoft vitals creeping cold,
Lays him along the fnows, a ftiffened corse,
Stretch'd out, and bleaching in the northern blaft.
AH little think the gay licentious proud,, Whom pleasure, power, and affluence furround They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth, And wanton, often cruel, riot waste;
Ah little think they, while they dance along,
How many feel, this very moment, death
And all the fad variety of pain.
How many fink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring flame. How many bleed, 330
By shameful variance betwixt Man and Man.
How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms;,
Shut from the common air, and common use
Of their own limbs. How many drink the cup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of mifery. Sore pierc'd by wintry winds,
How many fhrink into the fordid hut
Of cheerlefs poverty. How many shake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,
Unbounded paffion, madnefs, guilt, remorfe; 340
Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life,
They furnish matter for the tragic Muse.
Even in the vale, where wifdom loves to dwell,
With friendship, peace, and contemplation join'd,
How many, rack'd with honest paffions, droop 3455
In deep retir'd diftrefs. How many stand
Around the death-bed of their dearest friends,
And point the parting anguish. Thought fond Man
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills,
That one incessant struggle render life,
One scene of toil, of fuffering, and of fate,
Vice in his high career would stand appall'd,
And heedless rambling Impulse learn to think;
The confcious heart of Charity would warm,
And her wide with Benevolence dilate;
The focial tear would rife, the focial figh;
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss,
Refining ftill, the focial paffions work...
AND here can I forget the generous *band, 359/ Who, touch'd with human woe, redressive search'd. Into the horrors of the gloomy jail?
Unpitied, and unheard, where mifery moans;
Where fickness pines; where thirst and hunger burn,
And poor misfortune feels the lash of vice.
While in the land of liberty, the land
Whofe every street and public meeting glow.
With open freedom, little tyrants rag'd;
The Jail Committee, in the Year 1729.-
1.5.
Snatch'd the lean morfel from the ftarving mouth;
Tore from cold wintry limbs the tatter'd weed;
Even robb'd them of the last of comforts, fleep; 370
The free-born BRITON to the dungeon chain'd,
Or, as the luft of cruelty prevail'd,
At pleasure mark'd him with inglorious stripes;
And crush'd out lives, by fecret barbarous ways,
That for their country would have toil'd, or bled. 375
O great defign! if executed well,
With patient care, and wisdom-temper'd zeal.
Ye fons of mercy! yet refume the fearch;
Drag forth the legal monsters into light,
Wrench from their hands oppreffion's iron rod,
And bid the cruel feel the pains they give.
Much ftill untouch'd remains; in this rank age,
Much is the patriot's weeding hand requir'd.
The toils of law, (what dark infidious Men
Have cumbròus added to purplex the truth, 385
And lengthen fimple justice into trade)
How glorious were the day! that saw these broke,
And every Man within the reach of right.
By wintry famine rous'd, from all the tract
Of horrid mountains which the fhining Alp, 390
And wavy Appenine, and Pyrenees,
Branch out ftupendous into distant lands;
Cruel as death, and hungry as the grave!
Burning for blood! bony, and ghaunt, and grim!
Affembling wolves in raging troops defcend;
And, pouring o'er the country, bear along,
Keen as the north-wind fweeps the gloffy fnow.
All is their prize. They fasten on the steed,
Prefs him to earth, and pierce his mighty heart.
Nor can the bull his awful front defend,
Or shake the murdering favages away.
Rapacious, at the mother's throat they fly,
And tear the screaming infant from her breast.
The godlike face of Man avails him nought.
Even beauty, force divine! at whofe bright glance
The generous lion stands in foftened gaze,
Here bleeds, a hapless undiftinguish'd prey.
But if, appriz'd of the fevere attack,
The country be fhut up, lur'd by the scent,
On church yards drear (inhuman to relate!)
The difappointed prowlers fall, and dig
The shrouded body from the grave; o'er which,
Mix'd with foul fhades, and frighted ghofts, they howl.
AMONG thofe hilly regions, where embrac'd
In peaceful vales the happy Grifons dwell;
Oft, rushing sudden from the loaded cliffs,
Mountains of fnow their gathering terrors roll.
From steep to fteep, loud-thundering down they come,
A wintry wafte in dire commotion all;
And herds, and flocks, and travellers, and fwains, 420
And fometimes whole brigades of marching troops,
Or hamlets fleeping in the dead of night,
Are deep beneath the fmothering ruin whelm'd.
Now, all amid the rigours of the year,
In the wild depth of Winter, while without
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