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A shady mantle clothes; his curled brows
Frown on the gentle stream, which calmly flows,
While winds and storms his lofty forehead beat;
The common fate of all that's high or great.
Low at his foot a spacious plain is plac'd,
Between the mountain and the stream embrac'd,
Which shade and shelter from the hill derives,
While the kind river wealth and beauty gives,
And in the mixture of all these appears
Variety, which all the rest endears.

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

BORN, 1618; DIED, 1667.

DESCRIPTION OF THE CREATION.

THEY sung how God spoke-out the world's vast ball
From nothing; and from nowhere call'd forth all.
No nature yet, or place for't to possess,
But an unbottom'd gulph of emptiness;
Full of himself, th' Almighty sate, his own
Palace, and without solitude, alone.

But he was goodness whole, and all things will'd;
Which ere they were, his active word fulfill'd;
And their astonish'd heads o' th' sudden rear'd;
An unshaped kind of something first appear'd,
Confessing it's new being, and undrest,
As if it stepp'd in haste before the rest;
Yet, buried in this matter's darksome womb,
Lay the rich seeds of ev'ry thing to come;
From hence the cheerful flame leap'd up so high,

Close at its heels the nimble air did fly;

Dull earth with his own weight did downwards pierce To the fix'd navel of the universe,

And was quite lost in waters; till God said

To the proud sea, "Shrink in your insolent head;

THE HAMLET.

379

See how the gaping earth has made you place!"
That durst not murmur, but shrunk in apace :
Since when his bounds are set; at which in vain
He foams and rages, and turns back again.
With richer stuff he bade heaven's fabric shine,
And from him a quick spring of light divine
Swell'd up the sun, from whence his cherishing flame
Fills the whole world, like him from whom it came.
He smooth'd the rough-cast moon's imperfect mould,
And comb'd her beamy locks with sacred gold:
"Be thou," said he, "Queen of the mournful night!"
And as he spake, she rose, clad o'er in light,
With thousand stars attending in her train,
With her they rise, with her they set again.
Then herbs peep'd forth, now trees admiring stood,
And smelling flowers painted the infant wood;
Then flocks of birds through the glad air did flee,
Joyful, and safe before man's luxury;
Singing their Maker in their untaught lays;
Nay, the mute fish witness no less his praise;
For those he made, and cloth'd with silver scales,
From minnows to those living islands, whales.
Beasts, too, were his command; what could he more?
Yes, man he could, the bond of all before;
In him he all things with strange order hurl'd,
In him that full abridgment of the world!

THOMAS WARTON.
BORN, 1687; DIED, 1745.

TIIE HAMLET.

THE hinds how blest, who ne'er beguil'd

To quit their hamlet's hawthorn-wild,
Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main,
For splendid care and guilty gain!

When morning's twilight-tinctur'd beam Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam, They rove abroad in ether blue,

To dip the scythe in fragrant dew;
The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell,
That nodding shades a craggy dell.

'Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear,
While nature's sweetest notes they hear,
On green untrodden banks they view
The hyacinth's neglected hue.

In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds,
They spy the squirrel's airy bounds;
And startle from her ashen spray,
Across the glen, the screaming jay.
Each native charm their steps explore
Of solitude's sequester'd store.

For them the moon, with cloudless ray,
Mounts to illume their homeward way;
Their weary spirits to relieve,

The meadows' incense breathe at eve.
No riot mars the simple fare,

That o'er a glimm'ring hearth they share;
But when the curfew's measur'd roar,

Duly, the darkening valleys o'er,
Has echoed from the distant town,
They wish no beds of cygnet-down,
No trophied canopies, to close
Their drooping eyes in quick repose.

Their little sons, who spread the bloom
Of health around the clay-built room;
Or through the primros'd coppice stray,
Or gambol in the new-mown hay;
Or quaintly braid the cowslip twine,
Or drive afield the tardy kine ;

COUNTRY SPORTS.

Or hasten from the sultry hill,
To loiter at the shady rill;

Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest,
To rob the ancient raven's nest.

Their humble porch with honey'd flowers
The curling woodbine's shade embowers :
From the small garden's thymy mound
Their bees in busy swarms resound:
Nor fell disease, before his time,
Hastes to consume life's golden prime :
But when their temples long have wore
The silver crown of tresses hoar;
As studious still calm peace to keep,
Beneath a flow'ry turf they sleep.

381

ALEXANDER POPE.

BORN, 1688; DIED, 1744.

COUNTRY SPORTS.

YE vigorous swains! while youth ferments your blood,
And purer spirits swell the sprightly flood,

Now range the hills, the gameful woods beset,
Wind the shrill horn, or spread the waving net.
When milder autumn summer's heat succeeds,
And in the new-shorn field the partridge feeds;
Before his lord the ready spaniel bounds,
Panting with hope, he tries the furrowed grounds;
But when the tainted gales the game betray,
Couch'd close he lies, and meditates the prey :
Secure they trust th' unfaithful field beset,
Till hovering o'er them sweeps the swelling net.

See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs,
And mounts exulting on triumphant wings :
Short is his joy, he feels the fiery wound,

Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.

Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes,
His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes,
The vivid green his shining plumes unfold,
His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold?

Nor yet when moist Arcturus clouds the sky,
The woods and fields their pleasing toil deny.
To plains with well-breathed beagles we repair,
And trace the mazes of the circling hare
(Beasts, urged by us, their fellow-beasts pursue,
And learn of man each other to undo):

With slaughtering guns th' unwearied fowler roves,
When frosts have whiten'd all the naked groves;
Where doves in flocks the leafless trees o'ershade,
And lonely woodcocks haunt the watery glade.
He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye;
Straight a short thunder breaks the frozen sky:
Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath,
The clam'rous lapwings feel the leaden death;
Oft as the mounting larks their notes prepare,
They fall, and leave their little lives in air.

In genial spring, beneath the quiv'ring shade, Where cooling vapours breathe along the mead, The patient fisher takes his silent stand, Intent, his angle trembling in his hand : With looks unmoved, he hopes the scaly breed, And eyes the dancing cork and bending reed. Our plenteous streams a various race supply, The bright-eyed perch, with fins of Tyrian dye, The silver eel, in shining volumes roll'd, The yellow carp, in scales bedropped with gold, Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains, And pikes, the tyrants of the watery plains.

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