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What are the blessings of the sight,

O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see,

You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he

Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make

Whene'er I sleep or play ;
And could I ever keep awake

With me 't were always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear

You mourn my hapless woc;
But sure with patience I can bear

A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have

My cheer of mind destroy :
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.

C. Cibber

CXX

ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A

TUB OF GOLD FISHES

’T Where China's prayest airlshad dyed

The azure flowers that blow,
Demurest of the tabby kind
The pensive Selima, reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared :
The fair round face, the snowy bearů,
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes –
She saw, and purr'd applause.

Still had she gazed, but ’midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The Genii of the stream :
Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue
Through richest purple, to the view
Betray'd a golden gleam.

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw :
A whisker first, and then a claw
With many an ardent wish
She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize --
What female heart can gold despise ?
What Cat 's averse to Fish ?

Presumptuous maid ! with looks intent
Again she stretch'd, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between
Malignant Fate sat by and smiled —
The slippery verge her feet beguiled ;
She tumbled headlong in !

Eight times emerging from the flood
She mew'd to every watery God
Some speedy aid to send :-
No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd,
Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard -
A favourite has no friend !

From hence, ye Beauties ! undeceived
Know one false step is ne'er retrieved,
And be with caution bold :
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize,
Nor all that glisters, gold !

T. Gray

CXXI

TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY

T

"IMELY blossom, Infant fair,

Fondling of a happy pair,
Every morn and every night
Their solicitous delight,
Sleeping, waking, still at ease,
Pleasing, without skill to please ;
Little gossip, blithe and hale,
Tattling many a broken tale,
Singing many a tuneless song,
Lavish of a heedless tongue ;
Simple maiden, void of art,
Babbling out the very heart,
Yet abandon’d to thy will,
Yet imagining no ill,
Yet too innocent to blush ;
Like the linnet in the bush
To the mother-linnet's note
Moduling her slender throat;
Chirping forth thy petty joys,
Wanton in the change of toys,
Like the linnet green, in May
Flitting to each bloomy spray ;
Wearied then and glad of rest,

Like the linnet in the nest :
This thy present happy lot
This, in time will be forgot :
Other pleasures, other cares,

Ever-busy Time prepares ;
And thou shalt in thy daughter see,
This picture, once, resembled thee.

A. Philips

CXXII

RULE BRITANNIA

W!

HEN Britain first at Heaven's command

Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of her land,

And guardian angels sung the strain : Rule Britannia ! Britannia rule the waves !

Britons never shall be slaves.

The nations not so blest as thee

Must in their turn to tyrants fall, Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free

The dread and envy of them all.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies

Serves but to root thy native oak.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;

All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame,

And work their woe and thy renown.

To thee belongs the rural reign ;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine ;
All thine shall be the subject main,

And every shore it circles thine !

The Muses, still with Freedom found,

Shall to thy happy coast repair ;
Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd,

And manly hearts to guard the fair :
Rule Britannia ! Britannia rule the waves !
Britons never shall be slaves !

3. Thomson

CXXIII

THE BARD

Pindaric Ode

UIN seize thee, ruthless King !

Tho’ fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing

They mock the air with idle state.
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears !'
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride

Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side

He wound with toilsome march his long array : Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance ; To arms !' cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering

lance.

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