XXXII.

THE DYING KID.

-SHENSTONE.

A TEAR bedews

my Delia's eye,

To think yon playful kid must die;
From crystal spring, and flowery mead,

Must, in his prime of life, recede!

Erewhile, in sportive circles round,

She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound; From rock to rock pursue his way,

And on the fearful margin play.

Pleased on his various freaks to dwell,

She saw him climb my rustic cell:

Thence eye my lands with verdure bright, And seem all ravished at the sight.

She tells, with what delight he stood,

To trace his features in the flood; Then skipped aloof with quaint amaze, And then drew near again to gaze.

She tells me how with eager speed
He flew, to hear my vocal reed;
And how with critic face profound,

And stedfast ear, devoured the sound.

His every frolic, light as air,
Deserves the gentle Delia's care;
And tears bedew her tender eye,
To think the playful kid must die.

But knows my Delia, timely wise,
How soon this blameless æra flies?
While violence and craft succeed;

Unfair design, and ruthless deed!

Soon would the vine his wounds deplore,

And yield her purple gifts no more;

Ah soon, erased from every grove
Were Delia's name and Strephon's love.

No more those bowers might Strephon see,
Where first he fondly gazed on thee;
No more those beds of flowerets find,
Which for thy charming brows he twined.

Each wayward passion soon would tear

His bosom, now so void of care;

And, when they left his ebbing vein,

What, but insipid age, remain?

Then mourn not the decrees of fate,
That gave his life so short a date;
And I will join thy tenderest sighs,
To think that youth so swiftly flies!

XXXIII.

TO THE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND, 1758.—AKENSIDE,

WHITHER is Europe's ancient spirit fled?
Where are those valiant tenants of her shore,
Who from the warrior bow the strong dart sped,
Or with firm hand the rapid pole-ax bore?
Freeman and soldier was their common name,
Who late with reapers to the furrow came,

Now in the front of battle charged the foe:

Who taught the steer the wintery plough to endure, Now in full councils check'd encroaching power,

And gave the guardian laws their majesty to know.

But who are ye? from Ebro's loitering sons,
To Tiber's pageants, to the sports of Seine;
From Rhine's frail palaces to Danube's thrones,
And cities looking on the Cimbric main,

Ye lost, ye self-deserted? whose proud lords
Have baffled your tame hands, and given your swords
To slavish ruffians, hired for their command:

These, at some greedy monk's or harlot's nod,

See rifled nations crouch beneath their rod: These are the public will, the reason of the land.

Thou, heedless Albion, what, alas! the while
Dost thou presume? O inexpert in arms,
Yet vain of freedom, how dost thou beguile,

With dreams of hope, these near and loud alarms?

Thy splendid home, thy plan of laws renown'd,

The praise and envy of the nations round,

What care hast thou to guard from fortune's sway? Amid the storms of war, how soon may all

The lofty pile from its foundations fall,

Of ages the proud toil, the ruin of a day!