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The Chariot Race, The Polar Winter.
Hast thou beheld, when from the goal they start,
The youthful charioteers with heaving heart
Rush to the race, and panting scarcely bear
Th' extremes of fey'rish hope and chilling fear;
Stoop to the reins, and lash with all their force?
The flying chariot kindles in the course:
And now alow, and now aloft they fly,
As borne thro' air, and seem to touch the sky.
No stop, no stay; but clouds of fand arise,
Spurn’d and cast backward on the followers' eyes.
The hindmost blows the foam upon the first.
Such is the love of praise, an honourable thirst!
The sun from far peeps with a sickly face,
Too weak the clouds and mighty fogs to chase;
When up the skies he shoots his rofy head,
Or in the ruddy ocean seeks his bed,
Swift rivers are with sudden ice constrain'd;
And studded wheels are on their back sustain'd
An hostry now for waggons, which before
Tall ships of burthen on their bosom bore.
The brazen caldrons with the frost are flaw'd;
The garment stiff with ice at hearths is thaw'd;
With axes first they cleave the wine, and thence
By weight the solid portions they dispense.
From locks uncomb'd, and from the frozen beard,
Long icicles depend, and crackling sounds are
Meantime perpetual fleet and driving snow
Obscure the skies, and hang on herds below.
The starving cattle perish in their stalls,
Huge oxen stand inclos'd in wintry walls
Of snow conceal'd; whole herds are buried there
Of mighty stags, and scarce their horns appear.
The dextrous huntsman wounds not these afar
With shafts, or darts, or makes a distant war
With dogs, or pitches toils to stop their flight;
| But close engages in unequal fight;
And, while they strive in vain to make their way
Through hills of snow, and pitifully bray,
Affaults with dint of word, or pointed spears,
Aud homeward, on his back, the burthen bears.
The men to subterranean caves retire
Secure from cold, and crowd the cheerful fire:
With trunks of elms and oaks the hearth they
Nor tempt th' inclemency of heavin abroad.
Their jovial nights in frolic and in play
They pass, to drive the tedious hours away.
THE ALPS AT DAY-BREAK.
The funbeams streak the azure skies,
And line with light the mountain's brow:
With hounds and horns the hunters rife,
And chase the toebuck thro' the snow.
The goats wind flow their wonted way,
Up craggy steeps and ridges rude;
Mark'd by the wild wolf for his prey,
From desert cave or hanging wood.
And while the torrent thunders loud,
And as the echoing cliffs reply,
The huts peep o'er the morning cloud,
Perch'd, like an eagle's nest, on high.
SEE the young olive in the sylvan scene,
Crown'd by fresh fountains with eternal green,
Lifts the gay head in snowy flow'rets fair,
And plays and dances to the gentle air,
When lo a whirlwind from high heay'n invades
The tender plant, and withers all its shades;
It lies uprooted from its genial bed,
A lovely ruin, now defaced and dead.
MINE be a cot beside a hill;
A bee-hive's hum fall footh my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a-fall shall linger near.
The swallow, oft, beneath
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft fhall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.
$2 Pity.Afcending the Alps.
Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing,
In russet gown and apron blue.
PITY. No radiant pearl which crested fortune wears, No gem that twinkling hangs from beauty's ears, Not the bright itars which night's blue arch adorn, Nor riling suns that gild the vernal morn, Shine with such lustre as the tear that breaks For others' woe dowa virtue's manly cheeks.
PLEASED at the first the tow'ring Alps we try,
Mount o'er che vales, and seem to tread the sky;
Th' eternal snows appear already past,
And the first clouds and mountains feem the last.
But, those attain'd, we tremble to survey
The growing labours of the lengthen'd way;
Th' increasing profpe&t tires our wand'ring eges;
Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise.