Page images

No outward Signs their deepest Thoughts dif


For their dark Souls glare dreadful thro' their Eyes.

To hide their naked Charms the Virgins ftrove,
And their Shrieks echo'd thro' the plaintive

The boding Cries Carvilior's Ears invade,
Who penfive lay beneath a diftant Shade;
He knew the much lov'd Voice, and from the

Starting, he trembled at the well-known
Sound ;

His Bow, and Quiver, o'er his Arms he threw, And, wing'd with Love, fwift as the Winds he flew.

Soon on the Bank he ftood, a new Surprize!
For poor Matilda scarce believ'd her Eyes.
Defift, he cry'd aloud, nor touch the Fair;
An unexpected Foe demands your Care.
Then to the Head he drew the barbed Dart,
And found a Paffage to a Traytor's Heart;
The Villain proftrate on the Ground he laid,
A breathless Victim to the virtuous Maid.
To fhun his Fate by Flight the fecond ftrove,
And fought for Refuge in the fhady Grove.
The Prince pursues fast as the Wretch can fly,
Refolv'd his Vengeance to compleat, or die.
Mean-while the Damfels to the Shade repair,
Studious to drefs, and to relieve, the Fair;

With her they Prince Carvilior's Fate deplore, And fear for him, as for themselves before; But foon their Fears are with their Danger fled, And now the Nymph uprears her drooping Head;

For lo the blefs'd Preferver of her Fame, Safe from the Work of Fate, and Justice,


Quick to his Breast he clafp'd the love-fick Maid,

And thought the Toils he bore were well repay'd.

In filent Raptures they their Joys reveal,

Which none can well defcribe, but when they feel.

So fhall the Soul, if true the Sages fay,
Mark out her Partner in the last great Day;
As great as those met to eternal Ease,
Tho' not so lasting, are the Joys of these.

Soon as the good old King the Story hears,
He owns the godlike Act in gen'rous Tears;
A thousand Sorrows fwell his lab'ring Breast,
To fee fuch Virtues by himself oppress'd.
His royal Griefs confefs his Sense of Shame;
And now he hears with Joy Carvilior's Name,
Firmly refolv'd, impatient of Delay,

Not to defer the marriage Rites a Day:
And that the Tale might e'er be told on Earth,
And fuch a Pattern of heroic Worth,


To future Ages might be handed down,
He thrice twelve gallant Youths, of high Re-


Selected Souls, of all the Land the Flow'r,
Appointed to adorn the bridal Hour.
They go, conducted by the Man divine,
Full of Devotion to the facred Shrine.
Before the Altar to the God they bow;
And make, with Zeal unfeign'd, the folemn

To give, in Time of Need, the wretched Aid;
To guard, from brutal Force, the spotless Maid.
And thus, my Lord, the Knights of Bath

In Honour to the brave and godlike Man;
An Order, ever to Carvilior's Fame,

Which from the Virgins bathing took the


A Yorkshire Paftoral.

Oung Robin of the Plain, 'erft* blithest

That e'er with Sickle keen the Fields disray'd,

* An old Word fignifying Time past.


Who whistling drove the smoking Teem along, Or trimm'd the thorny Fence, with ruftic Song, Thro' ev'ry Seafon busy, still, and gay,

He plough'd, he fow'd; he made, and stack'd the Hay,

Not dreary Winter reach'd to Robin's Breast, He thrash'd, he winnow'd, and he crack'd his


But now, nor Spring's Return with Joy he fees,
Nor flow'ry Plain he heeds, nor budding Trees,
Nor Linnet warbling from the dewy Brakes,
Nor early Lark who tow'ring Circles takes,
Nor tuneful Thrushes from the Hedge that fing,
Nor the fhrill Blackbird's Welcome to the

Against a Gate he leans in rueful Plight,
And eyes the Plain that late was Snaith Marsh

Ah! wae is me, thus doleful 'gan he


Ah! wae the Time, whenever I was born, But far more waeful still that luckless Day, Which with the Commons gave Snaith Marsh


Snaith Marfh our whole Town's Pride, the poor Man's Bread,

Where, tho' no Rent he paid, his Cattle fed,

* Woe.


Fed on the fweetest Grafs which here rife*


Common to all, nor Fence, nor Landmark


Whofe flow'ry Turf no crooked Share had raz'd,

Nor wide destroying Scythe its Green effac'd. But now, ah! now, it stoops, fad feet + I ween, ‡

In mony a Row, with Rails fufpended 'tween. Wae warth § the Day, when tic'd fure by old Nick,

All to grow rich at once, like Neighbour Dick, To Town I high'd, and on a luckless Fair, For Cattle here to graze, war'd || all my Gear, ¶

And boldly ventur'd at one Caft to buy,

A deft ** fine breading Mear ††, and newted Whye ‡‡,

Ten Ewes, a Tup §§, and more, a Flock of

All which I thought would here so fast increase,
That tho' they'd coft me all my worldly Store,
I rekenn'd foon to gain as mickle more,
But now Snaith Marsh's taid, and all my
Gain blown o'er.

[blocks in formation]
« EelmineJätka »