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 hill to hill; Till, life's warm vapour issuing thro' the wound, Wild mountain wolves the fainting beast surround.

Just as their jaws his prostrate limbs invade, The lion rushes thro' the woodland shade: The wolves, tho' hungry, scour dispers❜d away; The lordly savage vindicates his prey.

POPE'S HOMER.

40

The Ass.-Harvest.

THE ASS.

THE tardy ass, with heavy strength endued, In a wide field by troops of boys pursued, Tho' round his sides a wooden tempest 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 slowly when he stirs at last. POPE'S HOMER.

HARVEST.

THE russet field rose high with waving grain; With bended sickles stand the reaper train; Here, stretch'd in ranks, the levell'd swarths are found,

Sheaves heap'd on sheaves here thicken up the ground.

With sweeping stroke the mowers strow the lands; The gath'rers follow, and collect in bands; And last the children, in whose arms are borne (Too short to gripe them) the brown sheaves of

corn.

The Piedmontese and his Marmot. 41

The rustic monarch of the field descries,
With silent glee, the heaps around him rise;
A ready banquet on the tuft is laid;
Beneath an ample oak's extended shade
The victim ox the sturdy youth prepare;
The reaper's 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 thro' cities I've wander'd away.. Tho' I merrily sing, yet forlorn is my lot;

I'm a poor Piedmontese, and I show a marmot. This pretty marmot, in a mountain's steep side, Made a burrow, himself and his young ones to hide.

The bottom they cover'd with moss and with hay, And stopp'dup 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 awak'd them again To crop the young plants and to frisk on the plain.

42

Moonlight.

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 Piedmontese 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,
And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene;
Around her throne the vivid planets roll,
And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole;
O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,
And tip with silver ev'ry mountain's head.
Then shines the vales, the rocks in prospect vise,
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies:
The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight,
Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.
POPE'S HOMER.

Snow.-The Torrent.

43

SNOW.

WHEN highest Jove his sharp artillery forms,
And opes his cloudy magazine of storms,
In winter's bleak uncomfortable reign,
A snowy inundation hides the plain;

He stills the winds, and bids the skies to sleep,
Then pours the silent tempest, thick and deep:
And first the mountain tops are cover'd o'er,
Then the green fields, and then the sandy shore;
Bent with the weight the nodding woods are seen,
Andone bright waste hides all the works of men;
The circling seas, alone absorbing all,
Drink the dissolving fleeces as they fall.
POPE'S HOMER.

THE TORRENT.

WHEN Some big torrent from a mountain's brow Bursts, pours, and thunders down the vale below; O'erwhelms the fields, lays waste the golden

grain,

And headlong sweeps the forests to the main; Stunn'd at the din, the swain with list'ning ears, From some steep rock the sounding ruin hears.

PITT'S VIRGIL.