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One's eye was beat out of his head,-
This limp'd away, that lay for dead,-
Here mourn'd a broken back, and there a belly.

Amongst the fmitten, it was found
Their beauteous queen receiv'd a wound;
The blow gave ev'ry heart a figh,
And drew a tear from ev'ry eye :—
At length king Croak got up, and thus begun-
"My lads, you think this very pretty fun!

"Your pebbles round us fly as thick as hops, Have warmly complimented all our chops;To you, I guess that thefe are pleasant stones!

And fo they might be to us frogs,

You damn'd, young, good-for-nothing dogs!
But that they are fo hard,-they break our bones."
Peter! thou mark'it the meaning of this fable-
So put thy Pegafus into the ftable;
Nor wanton, thus with cruel pride,
Mad, Jehu-like, o'er harmless people ride.


To drop the metaphor-the Fair *, Whose works thy Mufe forbore to spare, Is bleft with talents Envy muft approve;

And didst thou know her heart, thou'dst say"Perdition catch the idle lay!" Then strike thy lyre to Innocence and Love. "Poh! poh! cry'd Satire, with a smile, "Where is the glorious freedom of our ifle, If not permitted to call names?" Methought the argument had weightWas logical, conclufive, neat ;So once more forth, volcanic Peter flames!



[From the fame Publication.]

whofe air Delights, yet gives a thoufand woes; My day declines in dark defpair,

And night hath loft her sweet repose;

Yet who, alas! like me was blest,

To others, ere thy charms were known;
When Fancy told my raptur'd breaft,
That Cynthia fmil'd on me alone.

* Mrs. Cofway.


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I think too, that a man would be a fool,
For trees, to copy legs of a joint-ftool;

Or ev❜n by them to reprefent a flump:
As alfo broom-fticks,—which tho' well he ig
Each with an old fox-colour'd wig,

Muft make a very poor autumnal clump.

You'll fay-" Yet fuch ones, oft a perfon fees.
In many an artist's trees;

And in fome paintings, we have all beheld;
Green bays hath furely fat for a green field;
Bolters for mountains, hills, and wheaten mows;
Cats for ram-goats;-and curs, for bulls and cows."


All this, my lads, I freely grant ;

But better things from you I want.

As Shakspeare fays, (a bard I much approve)
• Lift, lift, Oh! litt,'-if thou doft Painting love.

Claude painted in the open air !-
Therefore to Wales at once repair;
Where fcenes of true magnificence you'll find:


Befides this great advantage-if in debt,
You'll have with creditors no tête-à-tête :

So leave the bull-dog bailiffs all behind;
Who hunt you, with what nofe they may,
Must hunt for needles in a stack of hay.


[From the "Tafk," in the Second Volume of Mr. COWPER's Poems.}

V'N the favor'd ifles


So lately found, although the constant fun
Cheer all their feasons with a grateful fmile,
Can boast but little virtue; and inert
Through plenty, lofe in morals what they gain
In manners, victims of luxurious cafe.
These therefore I can pity, placed remote
From all that science traces, art invents,
Or inspiration teaches; and inclosed
In boundlefs oceans never to be pass'd
By navigators uninformed as they,
Or plough'd perhaps by British bark again.
But far beyond the rest, and with most cause,
Thee, gentle favage *, whom no love of thee
Or thine, but curiofity perhaps,

Or elfe vain-glory, prompted us to draw
Forth from thy native bow'rs, to show thee here
With what fuperior skill we can abuse
The gifts of Providence, and fquander life.
The dream is past. And thou hast found again
Thy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams,
And homestall thatch'd with leaves. But haft thou found
Their former charms? And having seen our state,
Our palaces, our ladies, and our pomp

Of equipage, our gardens, and our sports,
And heard our mufic; are thy fimple friends,
Thy fimple fare, and all thy plain delights,
As dear to thee as once? And have thy joys
Loft nothing by comparison with ours?
Rude as thou art (for we return'd thee rude
And ignorant, except of outward show)
I cannot think thee yet fo dull of heart
And spiritless, as never to regret
Sweets tafted here, and left as foon as known.
Methinks I fee thee ftraying on the beach,
And asking of the furge that bathes thy foot,

• Omai.

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If ever it has wash'd our distant shore.
I fee thee weep, and thine are honest tears,
A patriot's for his country. Thou art fad
At thought of her forlorn and abject state,
From which no power of thine can raise her up.
Thus Fancy paints thee, and though apt to err,
Perhaps errs ittle, when he paints thee thus.
She tells me too that duly ev'ry morn
Thou climb'it the mountain top, with eager eye
Exploring far and wide the wat'ry waste
For fight of fhip from England.
Seen in the dim horizon turns thee pale
With conflict of contending hopes and fears.
But comes at last the dull and dusky eve,
And fends thee to thy cabin, well prepar'd
To dream all night of what the day denied.
Alas! expect it not. We found no bait
To tempt us in thy country. Doing good,
Difinterested good, is not our trade.
We travel far, 'tis true, but not for nought,
And must be brib'd to compass earth again
By other hopes and richer fruits than yours.

Ev'ry speck


[From the fame Poem.]

H for a lodge in fome vaft wilderness,
Some boundless contiguity of fhade,
Where rumour of oppreffion and deceit,
Of unsuccessful or fuccefsful war,


Might never reach me more. My car is pain'd,
My foul is fick with ev'ry day's report
Of wrong and outrage with which earth is fill'd.
There is no fleh in man's obdurate heart,
It does not feel for man. The natʼral bond
Of brotherhood is fever'd as the flax
That falls afunder at the touch of fire.
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin
Not colour'd like his own, and having pow'r
T'inforce the wrong, for fuch a worthy cause
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.
Lands interfected by a narrow frith
Abhor each other. Mountains interpofed,
Make enemies of nations who had elfe,
Like kindred drops been mingled into one.
Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys;
And worse than all, and moft to be deplored,
As human nature's broadeft, fouleft blot,




Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his fweat
With stripes, that mercy with a bleeding heart
Weeps when fhe fees inflicted on a beat.
Then what is man? And what man seeing this,
And having human feelings, does not blush
And hang his head, to think himself a man?
I would not have a flave to till my ground,
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth
That finews bought and fold have ever earn'd.
No dear as freedom is, and in my heart's
Juft eftimation priz'd above all price,
I had much rather be myself the flave,

And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him.
We have no flaves at home-Then why abroad?
And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave,
That parts us, are emancipate and loos'd.
Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs
Receive our air, that moment they are free,
They touch our country, and their fhackles fall.
That's noble, and befpeaks a nation proud
And jealous of the bleffing. Spread it then,
And let it circulate through ev'ry vein
Of all your empire. That where Britain's power
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.



[From the fame Poem.]


LAS for Sicily! rude fragments now

Lie fcatter'd where the shapely column ftood.
Her palaces are duft. In all her streets
The voice of finging and the fprightly chord
Are filent Revelry, and dance, and how
Suffer a fyncope and folemn paufe,
While God performs upon the trembling stage
Of his own works, his dreadful part alone.
How does the earth receive him ?-With what figns
Of gratulation and delight, her king?
Pours the not all her choiceft fruits abroad,
Her fweetest flow'rs, her aromatic gums,
Difclofing paradife where'er he treads?

She quakes at his approach. Her hollow womb,
Conceiving thunders through a thoufand deeps
And fiery caverns, roars beneath his foot.
The hills move lightly and the mountains fmoke,
For he has touch'd them. From th' extremeft point
Of elevation down into th' abyfs,

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