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No outward Signs their deepest Thoughts dif

guise, For their dark Souls glare dreadful thro' their

Eyes. To hide their naked Charms the Virgins strove, And their Shrieks echo'd thro' the plaintive

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

Ground Starting, he trembled at the well-known

Sound; His Bow, and Quiver, o'er his Arms he threw, And, wing'd with Love, swift as the Winds

he flew. Soon on the Bank he stood, a new Surprize! For poor Matilda scarce believ'd her Eyes. . Desist, 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 Passage to a Traytor's Heart ; The Villain prostrate on the Ground he laid, A breathless Victim to the virtuous Maid. To fhun his Fate by Flight the second strove, And sought for Refuge in the shady Grove. The Prince pursues fast as the Wretch can fly, Resolv'd his Vengeance to compleat, or die. Mean-while the Damsels to the Shade repair, Studious to dress, and to relieve, the Fair;

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

For lo ! the bless's Preserver of her Fame,
Safe from the Work of Fate, and Justice,


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

And thought the Toils he bore were well re-


In filent Raptures they their Joys reveal,
Which none can well describe, but when they

So fhall the Soul, if true the Sages say,
Mark out her Partner in the last great Day ;
As great as those met to eternal Ease,
Tho' not fo 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 swell his lab'ring Breaft,
To fee such Virtues by himself oppress'd.
His royal Griefs confess his Sense of Shame;
And now he hears with Joy Carvilior's Name,
Firmly resolv'd, impatient of Delay,
Not to defer the marriage Rites a Day:
And that the Tale might e'er be told on Earth,
And such a Pattern of heroic Worth,


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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 sacred Shrine.
Before the Altar to the God they bow;
And make, with Zeal unfeign'd, the solemn

To give, in Time of Need, the wretched Aid ;
To guard, from brutal Force, the spotless Maids
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


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A Yorkshire Pastoral.

ume; ame


Oung Robin of the Plain, 'erst * blitheft

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 rustic Song,
Thro' ev'ry Seafon busy, still, and gay,
He plough’d, he sow'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 shrill 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

thus doleful 'gan he
mourn :
Ah! wae the Time, whenever I was born,
But far more waeful still that luckless Day,
Which with the Commons gave Snaith Marsh

Snaith Mars our whole Town's Pride, the poor

Man's Bread,
Where, tho' no Rent he paid, his Cattle fed,



* Woe.


Fed on the sweetest Grass which here rife *

grew, Common to all, nor Fence, nor Landmark

knew, Whose Aow'ry Turf no crooked Share had

raz’d, Nor wide destroying Scythe its Green effac’d. But now, ah! now, it stoops, sad feet + I

ween, # In mony a Row, with Rails suspended 'tween. Wae warth 5 the Day, when tic'd sure 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 Cast to buy, A deft ** fine breading Mear it, and newted

Whye 11, Ten Ewes, a Tup $$, and more, a Flock of ,

Geese, All which I thought would here so fast increafe, That tho’they'd coft me all my worldly Store, I rekenn'd soon to gain as mickle more, But now Snaith Marsh's taid ||||, and all my

Gain blown o'er.

* Plentiful, † Sight. I Think or conceive. § A Phrase. | Laid out. Riches, ** Lively or nimble.

tt Mare. 11 New calv'd young Cow. $$ A Ram. II Took.


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