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As forth she went at early dawn,
To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn,
Behind she hears the hunter's cries,
And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies •
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath;
She hears the near advance of death;
She doubles, to mislead the hound,
And measures back her mazy round;
Till, fainting in the public way,
Half dead with fear she gasping lay:
What transport in her bosom grew
When first the Horse appeared in view!
Let me, says she, your back ascend,
And owe my safety to a friend.
You know my feet betray my flight,
To friendship every burden's light.
The Horse replied: Poor honest Puss,
It grieves my heart to see you thus :
Be comforted, relief is near,
For all your friends are in the rear.

She next the stately bull implored,
And thus replied the mighty lord :
Since every beast alive can tell
That I sincerely wish you well,
I may, without offence, pretend
To take the freedom of a friend.
To leave you thus might seem unkind;
But see, the Goat is just behind.

The Goat remarked her pulse was high,
Her languid head, her heavy eye;
My back, says he, may do you harm,
The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm.

The Sheep was feeble, and complained His sides a load of wool sustained : Said he was slow, confessed his fears, For hounds eat sheep as well as hares.

She now the trotting Calf addressed, To save from death a friend distressed. Shall I, says he, of tender age, In this important care engage ? Older and abler passed you by ; How strong are those, how weak am I! Should I presume to bear you hence, Those friends of mine may take offence. Excuse me, then. You know my heart; But dearest friends, alas! must part. How shall we all lament! Adieu ! For, see, the hounds are just in view!

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AMBROSE PHILLIPS.

(1671-1749.)

WINTER SCENE IN COPENHAGEN,

And yet but lately have I seen, even here,
The winter in a lovely dress appear,
Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasured snow,
Or winds begun through hazy skies to blow:
At evening a keen eastern breeze arose,
And the descending rain unsullied froze.
Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew,
The ruddy morn disclosed at once to view
The face of nature in a rich disguise,
And brightened every object to my eyes:
For every shrub, and

every

blade of grass, And every pointed thorn, seemed wrought in glass; In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show, While through the ice the crimson berries glow. The thick-sprung reeds, which watery marshes yield, Seemed polished lances in a hostile field. The stag, in limpid currents, with surprise Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise: The spreading oak, the beech, and towering pine Glazed over, in the freezing ether shine. The frighted birds the ng branches shun, Which wave and glitter in the distant sun.

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BISHOP BERKLEY.

(1684-1753.)

VERSES ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANTING ARTS AND

LEARNING IN AMERICA.

The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime

Barren of every glorious theme,
In distant lands now waits a better time,

Producing subjects worthy fame.
In happy climes, where from the genia) sun

And virgin earth, such scenes ensue,
The force of art by nature seems outdone,

And fancied beauties by the true:

In happy climes, the seat of innocence,

Where nature guides and virtue rules,
Where men shall not impose for truth and sense

The pedantry of courts and schools:

There shall be sung another golden age,

The rise of empire and of arts,
The good and great inspiring epic rage,

The wisest heads and noblest hearts.

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay;

Such as she bred when fresh and young,
When heavenly flame did animate her clay,

By future poets shall be sung.
Westward the course of empire takes its way;

The four first acts already past,
A fifth shall close the drama with the day ;
Time's noblest offspring is the last.

JOHNSON

* The fifty-three years between 1727 and 1780, com. prehending the reign of George II., and a portion of that of George III., produced more men of letters, as well as more men of science, than any epoch of similar extent in the literary history of England. It was also a time during which greater progress was made in diffusing literature among the people at large, than had been made, perhaps, throughout all the ages that went before it. Yet while letters, and the cultivators of letters, were thus abundant, it must be allowed that, if we keep out of view the rise of the species of fiction called the novel (including the delineation of character, and not merely incidents), the age was not by any means marked by such striking features of originality or vigour as some of the preceding eras.

“For about a third of this period Pope lived, and his name continued to be the greatest in English poetry. The most distinguished of his contemporaries, however, adopted styles of their own, or at least departed widely from that of their illustrious master. Thomson (who survived Pope only four years) made no attempt to enter the school of polished satire and pungent wit. His enthusiastic descriptions of nature, and his warm poetical feeling, seemed to revive the spirit of the elder muse, and to assert the dignity of genuine inspiration. Young, in his best performances - his startling denunciations of death and judgment, his solemn appeals, his piety, and his epigram-was

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