XXXII. THE DYING KID. -SHENSTONE. A TEAR bedews my Delia's eye, To think yon playful kid must die; 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 And stedfast ear, devoured the sound. His every frolic, light as air, But knows my Delia, timely wise, 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 No more those bowers might Strephon see, 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, XXXIII. TO THE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND, 1758.—AKENSIDE, WHITHER is Europe's ancient spirit fled? 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, Ye lost, ye self-deserted? whose proud lords 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 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! |