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38

The Lion and the Farns

At first within the yard confin'd,

He flies and hides from all mankind;

Now bolder

grown, with fixt amaze,

And diftant awe, prefumes to gaze;
Munches the linen on the lines,
And on a hood or apron dines:
He fteals my little master's bread,
Follows the fervants to be fed:
Nearer and nearer now he ftands,
To feel the praise of patting hands;
Examines ev'ry fist for meat,

And, though repuls'd, difdains retreat;
Attacks again with levell'd horns,
And man, that was his terror, fcorns.

GAY

THE LION AND THE FAWNS.

WHEN the grim lion ranging o'er the lawns Finds, on fome graffy lare, the couching fawns, Their bones he cracks, their reeking vitals draws, And grinds the quiv'ring flesh with bloody jaws.

The

The Deer and Savage Beafts.

39

The frighted hind beholds, and dares not stay, But fwift thro' ruftling thickets burfts her way; All drown'd in fweat, the panting mother flies, And the big tears roll trickling from her eyes.

POPE'S HOMER.

THE DEER AND SAVAGE BEASTS.

WHEN the keen huntsman with a flying fpear From the blind thicket wounds a stately deer, Down his cleft fide while fresh the blood diftills, He bounds aloft, and fcuds from hills to hills; Till life's warm vapour iffuing thro' the wound, Wild mountain wolves the fainting beaft furround.

Just as their jaws his proftrate limbs invade,

The lion rushes thro' the woodland shade :

The wolves, tho' hungry, fcour difpers'd away; The lordly favage vindicates his prey.

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40

The Afs-Harveft.

THE ASS.

THE tardy afs, with heavy strength endued,
In a wide field by troops of boys pursued,
Tho' round his fides a wooden tempeft rain,
Crops the wide harvest, and lays waste the plain.
Thick on his fide the hollow blows refound:
The patient animal maintains his ground,
Scarce from the field with all their efforts chas'd,
And stirs but flowly when he stirs at last.

POPE'S HOMER.

HARVEST.

THE ruffet field rofe high with waving grain;
With bended fickles ftand the reaper train ;

Here, ftretch'd in ranks the levell'd fwarths are

found,

Sheaves heap'd on fheaves here thicken up the ground.

With fweeping ftroke the mowers ftrow the lands; The gath'rers follow, and collect in bands;

And laft the children, in whofe arms are borne (Toe short to gripe them) the brown fheaves of

- cora.

The

The Piedmontefe and his Marmot.

The ruftic monarch of the field defcries

With filent glee the heaps around him rise,
A ready banquet on the turf is laid;
Beneath an ample oak's extended shade
The victim ox the sturdy youth prepare;
The reapers' due repaft, the women's care.

41

POPE'S HOMER,

THE PIEDMONTESE AND HIS MARMOT.

FROM my dear native moorlands, for many a day
Thro' fields and thro' cities I 've wander'd away.
Tho' I merrily fing, yet forlorn is my lɔt;
I'm a poor Piedmontese, and I show a marmot.
This pretty marmot in a mountain's steep fide
Made a burrow, himfelf and his young ones to hide.
The bottom they cover'd with mofs and with hay,
And stopp'd up the entrance, and fnugly they lay.
They carelessly flept till the cold winter blast,
And the hail, and the deep drifting fnow-shower
was paft;

But the warbling of April awoke them again.
To crop the young plants, and to frisk on the plain.

E 3

Then

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Then I caught this poor fellow, and taught him to dance,

And we liv'd by his tricks as we rambled thro France.

But he droops and grows drowsy as onward we

roam,

And he and his master both pine for their home. Let your charity then haften back to his cot

The poor

Piedmontefe with his harmless marmot.

ORIGINAL.

MOONLIGHT.

WHEN the fair moon, refulgent lamp of night,
O'er heav'n's clear azure fpreads her facred light;
When not a breath disturbs the deep ferene,
And not a cloud o'ercafts the folemn scene;
Around her throne the vivid planets roll,
And itars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole,
O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,
And tip with filver ev'ry mountain's head.
Then fhine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise,
A flood of glory burfts from all the skies:
The conscious fwains, rejoicing in the fight,
Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.
POPE'S HOMER.

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