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Meantime her warlike brother on the seas

His waving streamers to the winds displays, And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays. Ah, gen'rous youth, that wish forbear,

The winds too soon will waft thee here!
Slack all thy sails, and fear to come,

Alas, thou know'st not, thou art wreck'd at home!
No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face,
Thou hast already had her last embrace.
But look aloft, and if thou ken'st from far
Among the Pleiads a new-kindled star,
If any sparkles than the rest more bright;
'Tis she that shines in that propitious light.

THE HIND AND THE PANTHER. 1686.

A milk-white hind, immortal and unchang'd,
Fed on the lawns, and in the forest rang'd;
Without unspotted, innocent within,

She fear'd no danger, for she knew no sin.

Yet had she oft been chas'd with horns and hounds,
And Scythian shafts; and many winged wounds

Aim'd at her heart; was often forced to fly,
And doom'd to death, though fated not to die.

Panting and pensive now, she rang'd alone, And wander'd in the kingdoms, once her own. The common hunt, though from their rage restrain'd By sovereign pow'r, her company disdain'd; Grinn'd as they pass'd, and with a glaring eye Gave gloomy signs of secret enmity.

'Tis true, she bounded by, and tripp'd so light,
They had not time to take a steady sight.
For truth has such a face and such a mien,
As, to be lov'd, needs only to be seen.

As, where the lightning runs along the ground,
No husbandry can heal the blasting wound;
Nor bladed grass, nor bearded corn succeeds,
But scales of scurf and putrefaction breeds:
Such wars, such waste, such fiery tracks of dearth
Their zeal has left, and such a teemless earth.

Of all the tyrannies on human kind,

The worst is that which persecutes the mind.
Let us but weigh at what offence we strike,
'Tis but because we cannot think alike.
In punishing of this, we overthrow

The laws of nations and of nature too.
Beasts are the subjects of tyrannic sway,
Where still the stronger on the weaker prey.
Man only of a softer mould is made,
Not for his fellow's ruin, but their aid:
Created kind, beneficent, and free,
The noble image of the Deity.

"Tis said with ease, but never can be prov'd, The church her old foundations has remov'd, And built new doctrines on unstable sands:

Judge that, ye winds and rains: you prov'd her, yet she stands.

Thus, while with heav'nly charity she spoke, A streaming blaze the silent shadows broke;

Shot from the skies; a cheerful azure light:
The birds obscene to forests wing'd their flight,
And gaping graves receiv'd the wand'ring guilty sprite.
Such were the pleasing triumphs of the sky,
For James's late nocturnal victory;

The pledge of his almighty patron's love,
The fireworks which his angels made above.
I saw myself the lambent easy light

Gild the brown horror, and dispel the night.

The panther, though she lent a list'ning ear,
Had more of lion in her than to fear:
Yet wisely weighing, since she had to deal
With many foes, their numbers might prevail,
Return'd her all the thanks she could afford;
And took her friendly hostess at her word:
Who entering first her lowly roof, a shed
With hoary moss, and winding ivy spread,
Honest enough to hide an humble hermit's head,
Thus graciously bespoke her welcome guest:
So might these walls, with your fair

presence blest,
Become your dwelling-place of everlasting rest;
Not for a night, or quick revolving year,
Welcome an owner, not a sojourner.
This peaceful seat my poverty secures;
War seldom enters but where wealth allures:
Nor yet despise it; for this poor abode
Has oft receiv'd, and yet receives a god;

A god victorious of a Stygian race

Here laid his sacred limbs, and sanctified the place.
This mean retreat did mighty Pan contain:

Be emulous of him, and pomp disdain,
And dare not to debase your soul to gain.
The silent stranger stood amaz'd to see
Contempt of wealth, and wilful poverty:

And, though ill habits are not soon control'd, Awhile suspended her desire of gold.

But civilly drew in her sharpen'd paws,

Not violating hospitable laws,

And pacified her tail, and lick'd her frothy jaws.

This heard, the matron was not slow to find What sort of malady had seiz'd her mind: Disdain, with gnawing envy, fell despight, And canker'd malice, stood in open sight: Ambition, int'rest, pride without control, And jealousy, the jaundice of the soul; Revenge, the bloody minister of ill, With all the lean tormentors of the will. 'Twas easy now to guess from whence arose Her new-made union with her ancient foes, Her forc'd civilities, her faint embrace, Affected kindness with an alter'd face.

This said, she paus'd a little, and suppress'd The boiling indignation of her breast. She knew the virtue of her blade, nor would Pollute her satire with ignoble blood: Her panting foe she saw before her eye, And back she drew the shining weapon dry. So when the gen'rous lion has in sight His equal match, he rouses for the fight; But when his foe lies prostrate on the plain, He sheaths his paws, uncurls his angry mane, And, pleas'd with bloodless honours of the day, Walks over, and disdains th' inglorious prey. So James, if great with less we may compare, Arrests his rolling thunder-bolts in air; And grants ungrateful friends a lengthen'd space, T' implore the remnants of long-suff'ring grace.

This breathing-time the matron took; and then
Resum'd the thread of her discourse again.
Be vengeance wholly left to pow'rs divine,
And let Heav'n judge betwixt your sons and mine:
If joys hereafter must be purchas'd here
With loss of all that mortals hold so dear,
Then welcome infamy and public shame,
And, last, a long farewell to worldly fame.
'Tis said with ease, but, oh, how hardly tried
By haughty souls to human honour tied!
O sharp convulsive pangs of agonizing pride!
Down then, thou rebel, never more to rise,
And what thou didst and dost so dearly prize,

That fame, that darling fame, make that thy sacrifice.
'Tis nothing thou hast giv'n, then add thy tears
For a long race of unrepenting years:

'Tis nothing yet, yet all thou hast to give:
Then add those may-be years thou hast to live:
Yet nothing still; then poor, and naked come:
Thy Father will receive his unthrift home,

And thy blest Saviour's blood discharge the mighty sum.
Thus (she pursued) I discipline a son,
Whose uncheck'd fury to revenge would run:
He champs the bit, impatient of his loss,
And starts aside, and flounders at the Cross.

The swallow, privileg'd above the rest
Of all the birds, as man's familiar guest,
Pursues the sun in summer brisk and bold,
But wisely shuns the persecuting cold:
Is well to chancels and to chimneys known,
Though 'tis not thought she feeds on smoke alone.
From hence she has been held of heav'nly line,
Endued with particles of soul divine.

This merry chorister had long possess'd

Her summer seat, and feather'd well her nest:

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