The grant being pass'd, the ravenous boar
A desert of the forest made:

Up by the roots vast oaks he tore,

And low on earth the princely cedars laid.

This act of violence and wrong

Alarum'd all the savage race;

With loud complaints to court they throng, Stripp'd of their shades, and ancient resting-place. With generous rage the lion shook,

And vow'd the boar should dearly pay;
'I hate (quoth he) a down-cast look,
That robs the public in a friendly way.
Unhappy groves, my empire's pride
Lov'd solitudes, ye shades divine!
The rage of tempests ye defied,
Condemn'd to perish by a sordid swine.
'Ye rural deities, and powers unknown,
What can so great a loss suffice!
If a hung brawner will atone,
Accept friend chucky for a sacrifice.'

The Moral.

The British oak's our nation's strength and pride, With which triumphant o'er the main we ride; Insulting foes are by our navies aw'd,

A guard at home, our dreaded power abroad.

Like druids then your forests sacred keep,
Preserve with them your empire of the deep.
Subjects their prince's bounty oft abuse,
And spoil the public for their private use;
But no rapacious hand should dare deface
The royal stores of a well-timber'd chase,

THE FOX AND FLIES.

As crafty Reynard strove to swim
The torrent of a rapid stream,
To gain the further side;
Before the middle space was past,
A whirling eddy caught him fast,
And drove him with the tide.

With vain efforts and struggling spent,
Half drown'd, yet forc'd to be content,
Poor Ren a soaking lay;

Till some kind ebb should set him free,
Or chance restore that liberty

The waves had took away.

A swarm of half-starv'd haggard flies,
With fury seiz❜d the floating prize,
By raging hunger led;

With many a curse and bitter groan,
He shook his sides, and wish'd them gone,
Whilst plenteously they fed.

A hedge-hog saw his evil plight;
Touch'd with compassion at the sight,
Quoth he, To show I'm civil,
I'll brush those swigging dogs away,
That on thy blood remorseless prey,
And send them to the devil.'

'No, courteous sir,' the Fox replied,
'Let them infest and gore my hide,
With their insatiate thirst;
Since I such fatal wounds sustain,

'Twill yield some pleasure, midst the pain, To see the blood-hounds burst.'

The Moral; from Nostradamus.

'Le sang du Juste à Londres fera faute
Brusser par feu,' &c.

Thus guilty Britain to her Thames complains,
With royal blood defil'd, O cleanse my stains!
Whence plagues arise! whence dire contagions

come!

And flames that my Augusta's pride consume!'

'In vain, (saith Thames) the Regicidal breed Will swarm again; by them thy land shall bleed: Extremest curse! but so just Heaven decreed! Republicans shall Britain's treasures drain, Betray her monarch, and her church prophane; Till, gorg'd with spoils, with blood the leeches burst,

Or Tyburn add the second to the first.'

THE

POETICAL WORKS

OF

MATTHEW GREEN.

WITH

A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR,

BY

EZEKIEL SANFORD.