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No outward Signs their deepest Thoughts difguife,
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 Grove.
The boding Cries Carvilior's Ears invade,
Starting, he trembled at the well-known
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!
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 Breaft he clasp'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 describe, but when they feel.
So fhall the Soul, if true the Sages fay,
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 Senfe 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,
Selected Souls, of all the Land the Flow'r,
To give, in Time of Need, the wretched Aid;
In Honour to the brave and godlike Man ;
A Yorkshire Paftoral.
'Oung Robin of the Plain, 'erft * blithest
* An old Word fignifying Time past.
Who whistling drove the smoking Teem along,
Not dreary Winter reach'd to Robin's Breast,
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 Spring.
Against a Gate he leans in rueful Plight,
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 Marsh our whole Town's Pride, the poor Man's Bread,
Where, tho' no Rent he paid, his Cattle fed,
Fed on the fweetest Grafs which here rife *
Common to all, nor Fence, nor Landmark
Whofe flow'ry Turf no crooked Share had
Nor wide destroying Scythe its Green effac'd.
In mony a Row, with Rails fufpended 'tween.
All to grow rich at once, like Neighbour Dick,
And boldly ventur'd at one Caft to buy,
Ten Ewes, a Tup §§, and more, a Flock of
All which I thought would here fo fast increafe,
* Plentiful, † Sight.
Think or conceive. § A Phrase.