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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? 100
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: 110
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. 120
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
Foll'wing, that led me to my own abode,
Much wonder'd, that the silly sheep had found
Such cause of terrour in an empty sound

So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound.

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MORAL.

Beware of desp'rate steps. The darkest day, Live till to morrow, will have pass'd away.

BOADICEA.

AN ODE.

WHEN the British warrior queen,

Bleeding from the Roman rods,

Sought, with an indignant mien,

Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath the spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Ev'ry burning word he spoke

Full of rage, and full of grief.

Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, "Tis because resentment ties

All the terrours of our tongues.

Rome shall perish—write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renown'd,

Tramples on a thousand states;

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground

Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

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Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name;

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
Harmony the path to fame.

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Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride,

Felt them in her bosom glow:

Rush'd to battle, fought, and died;

Dying hurl'd them at the foe.

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