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A Flood. The Fly.

63

The godlike face of man avails him nought.
But if, apprised of the severe attack,
The country be shut up, lur'd by the scent, ,
On church-yards drear (inhuman to relate)
The disappointed prowlers fall, and dig
The shrouded body from the grave.

THOMSON,

A FLOOD.

When from the hills the torrents swift and strong Deluge whole fields, and sweep the trees along, Thro' ruin'd moles the rushing flood resounds, O'erwhelms the bridge, and bursts the lofty

bounds; The yellow harvests of the ripen'd year, And flutten'd vineyards, one fad waste appear; While clouds descend in sluicy sheets of rain, And all the labours of mankind are vain.

POPE,

THE FLY.

The fly about the candle gay
Dances with thoughtless hum;

G 2

But

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But short, alas ! his giddy play,

His pleafure proves his doom.

The child in such simplicity

About the bee-hive clings,
And, with one drop of honey, he

Receives a thousand stings.

TO A BEE.

Thou wert out betimes, thou busy busy Bee!

When abroad I took my early way, Before the cow from her resting-place Had risen up, and left her trace

On the meadow with dew so grays I saw thee, thou busy busy Bee !

Thou wert alive, thou busy busy Bee !

When the crowd in their sleep were dead, Thou wert abroad in the freshest hour, When the sweetest odour comes from the flower.

Man will not learn to leave his lifeless bed, And be wise and copy thee, thou busy busy Bee !

Thou

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Thou wert working late, thou busy busy Bee !

After the fall of the ciftus flower, I heard thee last as I saw thee first, When the primrose tree blossom was ready to burst.

In the coolness of the ev'ning hour, I heard thee, thou busy busy Bee !

Thou art a miser, thau busy busy Bee !

Late and early at employ;
Still on thy golden stores intent,
Thy youth in heaping and hoarding is spent

What thy age will never enjoy.
I will not copy thee, thou miserly Bee !

Thou art a fool, thou busy busy Bee,

Thus for another to toil !
Thy mafter waits till thy work is done,
Till the latest flowers of the ivy are gone,

And then he will seize the spoil,
And will murder thee, thou poor

little Bee ! ANTHOLOGY:

६३

66

The Cranes.--The Strength of Virtue.

THE CRANES.

MARK how when fullen clouds appear,
And wintry storms deface the year,
The prudent cranes no longer stay,
But take the wing, and thro' the air

From the cold region fly away,
And far o'er land and feas to warmer elimes

repair.

THE STRENGTH OF VI

UE.

Against the threats Of malice..........or that power Which erring men call Chance, this hold I firm, Virtue may be assail'd, but never hurtSurpris'd by unjust force, but not inthralld; Yea, even that which mischief meant mof harm, Shall in the happy trial prove most glory : But evil on itself shall back recoil, And mix no more with goodness.

MILTON.

The Nightingale.-The Serpent.

67

THE NIGHTINGALE.

Close in the poplar shade the nightingale
With piercing cries does her lost young bewail;
Which the rough hind observing as they lay
Warm in their downy neft had stol'n away:
But she in mournful sounds does still complain,
Sings all the night, tho' all her songs are vain
And still renews her miserable strain.

LEE.

THE SERPENT.

In fair Calabria's woods a snake is bred.
With curling crest, and with advancing head,
Waving he rolls, and makes a fhining track;
His belly spotted, burnish'd is his back :
While springs are gushing, while the southern air
And dropping heav'ns the moisten'd earth repair,
He lives on standing lakes or trembling bogs ;
And fills his maw with fish, or with loquacious

frogs. But when in muddy pools the water finks, And the chapt earth is furrow'd o'er with chinks,

He

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