Yet down his cheeks the gems of pity fell, To fee the helpless wretches that remain'd, There left thro' delves and deferts dire to yell; Amaz'd, their looks with pale dismay were stain'd, And, fpreading wide their hands, they meek repentance feign'd.

LXXV.

But ah! their fcorned day of grace was past:
For (horrible to tell!) a defert wild

Before them stretch'd, bare, comfortless, and vaft;
With gibbets, bones, and carcafes defil'd.

There nor trim field, nor lively culture fmil'd;
Nor waving fhade was feen, nor fountain fair;

But fands abrupt on fands lay loosely piľ'd,

Thro' which they flound'ring toil'd with painful care, Whilst Phebus finote them fore, and fir'd the cloudlefs air.

LXXVI.

Then, varying to a joylefs land of bogs,
The fadden'd country a grey waste appear'd;
Where nought but putrid ftreams and noifome fogs
For ever hung on drizzly Aufter's beard;

Or else the ground by piercing Gaurus fear'd,
Was jagg'd with froft, or heap'd with glazed fnow:
Thro' these extremes a ceaseless round they steer'd,
By cruel fiends ftill hurry'd to and fro,

Gaunt Beggary, and Scorn, with many hell-hounds moe.

LXXVII.

The firft was with bafe dunghill rags yclad,

Tainting the gale, in which they flutter'd light;

Of morbid hue his features, funk, and fad;
His hollow eyne fhook forth a fickly light;
And o'er his lank jaw-bone, in piteous plight,
His black rough beard was matted rank and vile;
Direful to fee! an heart-appalling fight!

Mean-time foul fcurf and blotches him defile;
And dogs, where-e'er he went, ftill barked all the while.

LXXVIII.

The other was a fell despightful fiend :

Hell holds none worse in baleful bow'r below:
By pride, and wit, and rage, and rancour, keen'd;
Of man alike, if good or bad, the foe:
With nose up-turn'd, he always made a fhow
As if he fmelt fome naufeous fcent; his eye

Was cold, and keen, like blast from Boreal fnow;
And taunts he casten forth most bitterly.

Such were the twain that off drove this ungodly fry.

LXXIX.

Ev'n fo thro' Brentford town, a town of mud,
An herd of brifly fwine is prick'd along ;

The filthy beafts, that never chew the cud,

Still grunt, and fqueak, and fing their troublous fong, And oft they plunge themfelves the mire among: But ay the ruthlefs driver goads them on,

And ay of barking dogs the bitter throng Makes them renew their unmelodious moan; Ne ever find they reft from their unresting fone.

POEM S

Ο Ν

SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

X 2

POE M
M S

ON

SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

VER SES

OCCASIONED BY THE

DEATH OF MR. AIK MAN,

A

A particular FRIEND of the AUTHOR..

S those we love decay, we die in part,

String after string is fever'd from the heart ;; Till loofen'd life, at laft, but breathing clay,

Without one pang is glad to fall away.
Unhappy he, who latest feels the blow,

Whofe eyes have wept o'er ev'ry friend laid low,
Dragg'd ling'ring on from partial death to death,,
Till, dying, all he can resign is breath.