But soon came a woodman in leathern guise,
His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes.
He'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke,
But with many a hem! and a sturdy stroke,
At length he brought down the poor raven's own

oak.

His young ones were killed; for they could not depart,

And their mother did die of a broken heart.

The boughs from the trunk the woodman did sever: And they floated it down on the course of the river. They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did strip, And with this tree and others they made a good ship. The ship, it was launched; but in sight of the land Such a storm there did rise as no ship could withstand. It bulged on a rock, and the waves rushed in fast: Round and round flew the raven, and cawed to

the blast.

He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls-
See! see! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls!
Right glad was the raven, and off he went fleet,
And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet,
And he thank'd him again and again for this treat:
They had taken his all, and revenge it was sweet!

MUSIC.

HENCE, Soul-dissolving Harmony

That lead'st th' oblivious soul astray— Though thou sphere-descended be—

Hence away!

Thou mightier goddess, thou demand'st my lay,
Born when earth was seiz'd with cholic;

Or as more sapient sages say,

What time the legion diabolic

Compelled their beings to enshrine

In bodies vile of herded swine,
Precipitate adown the steep

With hideous rout were plunging in the deep,
And hog and devil mingling grunt and yell
Seiz'd on the ear with horrible obtrusion;-
Then if aright old legendaries tell,

Wert thou begot by Discord on Confusion!

What tho' no name's sonorous power
Was given thee at thy natal hour!-
Yet oft I feel thy sacred might,

While concords wing their distant flight.
Such power inspires thy holy son

Sable clerk of Tiverton.

And oft where Otter sports his stream,
I hear thy banded offspring scream.
Thou Goddess! thou inspir'st each throat;
"Tis thou who pour'st the scritch-owl note!

Transported hear'st thy children all
Scrape and blow and squeak and squall,
And while old Otter's steeple rings,

Clappest hoarse thy raven wings!

1790.

DEVONSHIRE ROADS.

THE indignant bard compos'd this furious ode,
As tir'd he dragg'd his way thro' Plimtree road!
Crusted with filth and stuck in mire

Dull sounds the bard's bemudded lyre;
Nathless revenge and ire the poet goad
To pour his imprecations on the road.
Curst road! whose execrable way

Was darkly shadow'd out in Milton's lay,

When the sad fiends thro' hell's sulphureous roads Took the first survey of their new abodes;

Or when the fall'n archangel fierce

Dar'd through the realms of night to pierce, What time the bloodhound lur'd by human scent Thro' all Confusion's quagmires floundering went.

Nor cheering pipe, nor bird's shrill note
Around thy dreary paths shall float;
Their boding songs shall scritch-owls pour
To fright the guilty shepherds sore,
Led by the wandering fires astray
Thro' the dank horrors of thy way!

While they their mud-lost sandals hunt
May all the curses, which they grunt
In raging moan like goaded hog,
Alight upon thee, damned bog!

1790.

INSIDE THE COACH.

'Tis hard on Bagshot heath to try
Unclos'd to keep the weary eye;
But ah! Oblivion's nod to get
In rattling coach is harder yet.
Slumbrous god of half-shut eye!

Who lov'st with limbs supine to lie;
Soother sweet of toil and care

Listen, listen to my prayer;

And to thy votary dispense
Thy soporific influence!

What tho' around thy drowsy head

The seven-fold cap of night be spread, Yet lift that drowsy head awhile

And yawn propitiously a smile;

In drizzly rains poppean dews

O'er the tir'd inmates of the coach diffuse ; And when thou'st charm'd our eyes to rest Pillowing the chin upon the breast, Bid many a dream from thy dominions Wave its various-painted pinions,

Till ere the splendid visions close

We snore quartettes in extasy of nose.
While thus we urge our airy course,
Oh may no jolt's electric force

Our fancies from their steeds unhorse,
And call us from thy fairy reign

To dreary Bagshot heath again!

1790.

If Pegasus will let thee only ride him,
Spurning my clumsy efforts to o'erstride him,
Some fresh expedient the Muse will try,
And walk on stilts, although she cannot fly.

DEAR BROTHER,

I HAVE often been surprised that mathematics, the quintessence of truth, should have found admirers so few and so languid. Frequent consideration and minute scrutiny have at length unravelled the case; viz. that though reason is feasted, imagination is starved; whilst reason is luxuriating in its proper paradise, imagination is wearily travelling on a dreary desart. To assist reason by the stimulus of imagination is the design of the following production. In the execution of it much may be objectionable. The verse (particularly in the introduction of the ode) may be accused of unwarrantable liberties, but they are liberties equally homogeneal with the exactness of mathematical disquisition, and the boldness of Pindaric daring. I have three strong cham