Need help, denies them nothing but his Though lean and beggared, every twentieth Plaintive and piteous, as it wept and wailed Its wasted tones and harmony unheard; 361 Fierce the dispute, whate'er the theme; while she, Fell Discord, arbitress of such debate, Perched on the sign-post, holds with even hand Her undecisive scales. In this she lays 365 370 414 That to suppose a scene where she presides 427 By modern lights from an erroneous taste, 476 Not unemployed, and finding rich amends Is an ingredient in the compound, man, 480 Is still the livery she delights to wear, Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole. What are the casements lined with creeping herbs The prouder sashes fronted with a range Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed, The Frenchman's darling? are they not all proofs 511 That man, immured in cities, still retains And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds To range the fields, and treat their lungs with air, Yet feel the burning instinct: over-head Suspend their crazy boxes planted thick 520 And watered duly. There the pitcher stands A fragment, and the spoutless tea-pot there: Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, 'Always from port withheld, always dis tressed And since thou own'st that praise, I spare 5 And she may float again And plough the distant main. But Kempenfelt is gone, 10 And he and his eight hundred By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly On which the eyes of God not rarely look; His victories are o'er; Shall plough the wave no more. 10 15 20 25 25 30 35 (1803) |