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So now I am an orphan boy,
With nought below my heart to cheer;
No mother's love, no father's joy,
Nor kin nor kind to wipe the tear.
My lodging is the cold, cold ground;
I eat the bread of charity;

And, when the kifs of love goes round,
There is no kiss of love for me.

THELWALL.

AGAINST SLAVERY.

I WOULD not have a slave to till my ground,
To carry me, to fan me while I fleep,

And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth
That finews bought and fold have ever earn❜d.
No: dear as freedom is,

I had much rather be myself the flave,

And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him.

COWPER.

The Labour of Idleness.-Day, a Paftoral. 89

THE LABOUR OF IDLENESS.

THE wretch who digs the mine for bread,
Or ploughs, that others may be fed,
Feels lefs fatigue than that decreed

To him who cannot think or read.

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Clofe to partlet perch'd on high,
Brifkly crows, (the fhepherd's clock)
Jocund that the morning 's nigh.

Swiftly, from the mountain's brow,
Shadows, nurs'd by night, retire;
And the peeping fun-beam, now,
Paints with gold the village fpire,

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90

Day, a Paftoral.

From the low-roof'd cottage ridge
See the chatt'ring swallow spring;
Darting through the one-arch'd bridge,
Quick the dips her dappled wing.

Now the pine-tree's waving top
Gently meets the morning gale;
Kidlings, now, begin to crop
Dailies on the dewy dale.

NOON.

FERVID on the glitt'ring flood
Now the noontide radiance glows:
Drooping o'er its infant bud,
Not a dew-drop 's left the rofe.

By the brook the fhepherd dines,
From the fierce meridian heat
Shelter'd by the branching pines
Pendent o'er his graffy feat.

Cattle court the breezes bland,

Where the ftreamlet wanders cool;

Or in languid filence ftand

Midway in the marshy pool.

Not

Day, a Paftoral.

Not a leaf has leave to ftir,

Nature 's lull'd, ferene, and ftill;
Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur,
Sleeping on the heath-clad hill.

Languid is the landscape round,
Till the fresh descending shower,
Grateful to the thirsty ground,
Raifes every fainting flower.

Now the hill, the hedge, are green,
Now the warblers' throats in tune;
Blithefome is the verdant fcene,
Brighten'd by the beams of noon.

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EVENING.

O'ER the heath the heifer ftrays
Free (the furrowed tafk is done);
Now the village windows blaze,
Burnish'd by the setting fun.

Now he fets behind the hill,
Sinking from a golden sky :
Can the pencil's mimic skill
Copy the refulgent dye ?

Trudging

92

Day, a Paftoral.

Trudging as the plowmen go,
(To the smoking hamlet bound)
Giant-like their fhadows grow
Lengthen'd on the level ground.

Where the rifing foreft fpreads
Shelter for the lordly dome,
To their high-built airy beds
See the rooks returning home!

As the lark, with varied tune,
Carols to the evening loud,
Mark the mild resplendent moon
Breaking through a parted cloud!

Now the lonely howlet peeps
From the barn or twisted brake;
And the blue mift flowly creeps,
Curling on the filver lake.

As the trout, in fpeckled pride,
Playful from its bosom springs,
To the banks a ruffled tide
Verges in fucceffive rings.

CUNNINGHAM.

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