This truth premis'd was needful as a text, To win due credence to what follows next.

Awhile they mus'd; surveying ev'ry face,

Thou hadst suppos'd them of superior race;
Their periwigs of wool, and fears combin'd,
Stamp'd on each countenance such marks of mind,
That sage they seem'd, as lawyers o'er a doubt,
Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzle out;
Or academic tutors, teaching youths,

Sure ne'er to want them, mathematic truths;
When thus a mutton, statelier than the rest,
A ram, the ewes and wethers, sad, address'd.

Friends! we have liv'd too long. I never heard Sounds such as these, so worthy to be fear'd. Could I believe, that winds for ages pent

In earth's dark womb have found at last a vent,
And from their prison-house below arise,
With all these hideous howlings to the skies,
I could be much compos'd, nor should appear
For such a cause to feel the slightest fear.

Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders roll'd

All night, me resting quiet in the fold.
Or heard we that tremendous bray alone,
I could expound the melancholy tone;
Should deem it by our old companion made,
The ass; for he, we know, has lately stray'd,
And being lost, perhaps, and wand'ring wide,
Might be suppos'd to clamour for a guide.

But ah! those dreadful yells what soul can hear,
That owns a carcase, and not quake for fear?
Dæmons produce them doubtless, brazen-claw'd
And fang'd with brass the dæmons are abroad;
I hold it, therefore, wisest and most fit,
That, life to save, we leap into the pit.

Him answer'd then his loving mate and true,

But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe.

How? leap into the pit our life to save? To save our life leap all into the grave? For can we find it less? Contemplate first The depth how awful! falling there we burst;

Or should the brambles, interpos'd, our fall
In part abate, that happiness were small;
For with a race like theirs no chance I see

Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we. Meantime, noise kills not. Be it Dapple's bray, Or be it not, or be it whose it may,

And rush those other sounds, that seem by tongues Of dæmons utter'd, from whatever lungs, Sounds are but sounds, and till the cause appear, We have at least commodious standing here; Come, fiend, come, fury, giant, monster, blast From earth or hell, we can but plunge at last. While thus she spake, I fainter heard the peals, For Reynard, close attended at his heels,

By panting dog, tir'd man, and spatter'd horse, Through mere good fortune, took a diff'rent

course.

The flock grew calm again, and I, the road

Following that led me to my own abode,

Much wonder'd that the silly sheep had found Such cause of terror in an empty sound,

So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound.

MORAL.

Beware of desp'rate steps. The darkest day (Left till to-morrow) will have pass'd away.

THE

DOG AND THE WATER-LILY.

NO FABLE.

THE noon was shady, and soft airs

Swept Ouse's silent tide,

When, scap'd from literary cares,

I wander'd on his side.

My spaniel, prettiest of his race,

And high in pedigree,

(Two nymphs,' adorn'd with ev'ry grace,

That spaniel found for me)

Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds,

Now starting into sight

Pursued the swallow o'er the meads
With scarce a slower flight.

It was the time when Ouse display'd

His lilies newly blown;

Their beauties I intent survey'd,
And one I wish'd my own.

With cane extended far I sought

To steer it close to land;

But still the prize, though nearly caught, Escap'd my eager hand.

P Sir Robert Gunning's daughters.