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The cottage by such feats as these
Grown to a church by just degrees,
The hermits then defir'd their hoft
To ak for what he fancy'd most.
Philemon, having paus'd a while,
Return'd 'em thanks in homely style;
Then said, my house is grown so fine,
Methinks, I still would call it mine :
I'm old, and fain would live at ease;
Make me the parson, if you please.
He spoke ; and presently he feels
His grazier's coat fall down his heels;
He sees, yet hardly can believe,
About each arm a pudding-sleeve ;
His waistcoat to a caffock
And both assum'd a fable hue ;
But, being old, continued just
As thread bare, and as full of dust.
His talk was now of tythes and dues ;
He smok'd his pipe, and read the news ;
Knew how to preach old sermons next,
Vamp'd in the preface and the text;
At christ’nings well could act his part,
And had the service all by heart;
Wish'd women might have children faft,
And thought whose fow had farrow'd last;
Against Dissenters would repine,
And stood up firm for Right Divine;
Found his head fill’d with many a system:
But classic authors,--he ne'er miss'd'em.
Thus having furbish'd up a parfon,
Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on.
Instead of home-spun coifs, were seen
Good pinners edg'd with colberteen ;
Her petticoat, transform’d a-pace,
Became black fattin flounc'd with lace.
Plain goody would no longer down;
'Twas madam, in her grogram gown.
Philemon was in great surprize,
And hardly could believe his eyes,
Amaz'd to see her look fo prim;
And the admir'd as much at him.
Thus happy in their change of life
Were fev’ral years this man and wife ;
When on a day which prov'd their lait,
Discoursing o'er old stories patt,
They went by chance amidst their talk
To the church-yard to take a walk;
When Baucis haftily cry'd out,
My dear, I see your forehead sprout !
Sprout! quoth the man ; what's this
I hope you don't believe me jealous :
But yet, methinks, I feel it true;
And really yours is budding toc-
Nay,—now I cannot fiir my foot ;
It feels as if 'twere taking root.
Description would but tire my muse;
In short, they both were turn’d to yews.
Old goodman Dobson of the green;
Remembers he the trees has seen;
He'll talk of them from noon till night,
And goes with folks to fhew the fight;
On Sundays, after ev’ning pray'r,
He gathers all the parish there;
Points out the place of either yew;
Here Baucis, there Philemon grew :
Till once a parson of our town
To mend his barn cut Baucis down;
At which 'tis hard to be believ'd
How much the other tree was griev’d,
Grew scrubby, dy'd a-top, was stunted ;
So the next parfon stubb’d and burnt it.
The Story of TERIBAZUS and ARIANA,
MID the van of Persia was a youth
Nam'd Teribazus, not for golden stores,
Nor for wide pastures, travers'd o'er with herds,
With bleating thousands, or with bounding steeds,
Nor yet for pow'r, nor splendid honours fam’d.
Rich was his mind in ev'ry art divine,
And through the paths of science had he walk'd
The votary of wisdom. In the
When tender down invests the ruddy cheek,
He with the Magi turn’d the hallow'd page
Of Zoroastres; then his tow'ring foul
High on the plumes of contemplation foar'd,
And from the lofty Babylonian fane
With learn’d Chaldæans trac'd the mystic sphere ;
There number'd o'er the vivid fires, that gleam
Upon the dusky boíom of the night.
Nor on the sands of Ganges were unheard
The Indian sages from fequefter'd bow'rs,
While, as attention wonder'd, they disclos’d
The pow'rs of nature ; whether in the woods,
The fruitful glebe, or flow'r, or healing plant,
The limpid waters, or the ambient air,
Or in the purer element of fire.
The fertile plains, where great Sefoftris reign’d,
Mysterious Ægypt, next the youth survey'd
From Elephantis, where impetuous Nile
Precipitates his waters, to the sea,
Which far below receives the fev’nfold stream.
Thence o’er th' Ionic coast he stray’d, nor país'd
Milétus by, which once inraptur'd heard
The tongue of Thales ; nor Priene's walls,
Where wisdom dwelt with Bias ; nor the seat
Of Pittacus along the Lesbian fhore.
Here too melodious numbers charm’d his ear,
Which flow'd from Orpheus, and Musæus old,
And thee, O father of immortal verse,
Mæonides, whose strains through' ev'ry age
Time with his own eternal lip shall sing.
Back to his native Susa then he turn'd
His wandring steps. His merit soon was dear
To Hyperanthes generous and good.
And Ariana, from Darius sprung
With Hyperanthes, of th' imperial race,
Which rul’d th' extent of Afia, in disdain
Of all her greatneis oft an humble ear
To him would bend, and listen to his voice.
Her charms, her mind, her virtue he explor'd
Admiring. Soon was admiration chang'd
To love, nor lov'd he sooner, than despair’d.
But unreveal'd and filent was his pain ;
Nor yet in solitary shades he roam’d,
Nor Thun'd reiort; but o'er his sorrows caft