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النشر الإلكتروني

38

The Lion and the Fawns.

At first within the yard confin’d,
He flies and hides from all mankind;
Now bolder grown, with fixt amaze,
And distant awe, prefumes to gaze;
Munches the linen on the lines,
And on a hood or apron dines:
He steals my little master's bread,
Follows the servants to be fed :
Nearer and nearer now he stands,
To feel the praise of patting hands;
Examines ev'ry fist for meat,
And, though repuls'd, disdains retreat;
Attacks again with levellid horns,
And man, that was his terror, scorns.

GAY

THE LION AND TỈE FAWNS.

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

The

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The Deer and Savage Beasts.

39

The frighted hind beholds, and dares not stay, But swift thro' rustling thickets bursts her way ; All drown'd in sweat, 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 spear From the blind thicket wounds a stately deer, Down his cleft side while fresh the blood distills, He bounds aloft, and scuds from hills to hills; Till life's warm vapour issuing thro' the wound, Wild mountain wolves the fainting beast sur

round. 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.

POPE'S HOMER,

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40

The Ass. Harvet.

THE ASS.

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

POPE'S HOMER.

HARVEST.

The rufset field rose high with waving graio ;
With bended Gckles stand the reaper train ;
Here, stretch'd in ranks the levelld swarths are

found, Sheaves heap'd on fheaves here thicken up the

ground. With sweeping stroke the mowers ftrow the lands; The gath'rers follow, and colledt in bands; And last the children, in whose arms are borne (Too short to gripe them) the brown fheaves of corn.

The

The Piedmontese and his Marmot.

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The rustic monarch of the field descries
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 repast, the women's care.

POPE'S HOMER,

THE PIEDMONTESE AND HIS MARMOT.

From my dear native moorlands, for many a day
Thro' fields and throcities I've wander'd away.
Tho'I merrily fing, yet forlorn is my lot;
I'm a poor Piedmontese, and I show a marmot,
This pretty marmot in a mountain's steep fide
Made a burrow, himself and his young ones to hide.
The bottom they cover'd with moss and with hay,
And stopp'd up the entrance, and snugly they lay.
They carelessly slept till the cold winter blast,
And the hail, and the deep drifting snow-shower

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

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 hasten back to his cot The poor Piedinontese with his harmless marmot.

ORIGINAL.

MOONLIGHT.

When the fair moon, refulgent lamp of night,
O'er heav'n's clear azure spreads her sacred light;
When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,
Apd not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn 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 shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise,
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies :
The conscious swains, rejoicing in the fight,
Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.

POPE'S HOMER,

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