Keen lightnings, darting thro' the sky,
In ferpentine meanders fly.
Earth dreads, left from her axis whirl'd,
She be again to chaos hurl'd.
And where's the poet all this while ?
Afleep and fleeping feems to fmile:
Ah! foon he'll feel the vengeful blast,--
That fleep will furely be his laft.
No: he awakes calm and ferene,
Unconscious of the difmal scene:
He to Jove's wrath his safety owes :
The dart muft err which paffion throws.
For all these bolts together tumbled,
In wild confufion, only rumbled;
Thro' vacant skies are vainly toft,
And all the expedition's loft.
Some few, tho' guiltlefs, bore the shock,
And here an oak, and there a rock
Torn up, o'erthrown in woeful plight,
Proclaim'd the horrors of the night.
Now had this wrath-enkindled god
Seiz'd a ftout broomstick, or a rod,
Instead of all this mighty din
A mercy on the poet's skin!
Nce on a time a foolish frog,
rond, and ftupid as a log,
(For 'tis an axiom of the school,
Who argues proud concludes a fool)
Tir'd with the marsh, her native home,
Imprudently abroad would roam,
And fix her habitation where
She'd breathe at least a purer air.
She was refolv'd to change, that's pofs;
Could the be worse than where she was?
Away the filly creature leaps :
A rat, who faw her lab'ring fteps,
Cry'd out, where in this hurry pray?
You certainly will go aftray.
Ne'er fear, I quit that filthy bog,
Where I fo long have croak'd incog:
People of talents fure fhould thrive,
And not be buried thus alive.
But pray, for I'm extremely dry,
Know you of any water nigh?
None, faid the rat, you'll reach to day,
As you fo flowly make your way.
Believe a friend, and take my word,
This jaunt of yours is quite abfurd.
Go to your froggery again;
In your own element remain.
No: on the journey she was bent;
Her thirst increasing as she went,
For want of drink she scarce can hop,
And yet despairing of a drop,
Too late fhe moans her folly past:
She faints, fhe finks, fhe breathes her laft.
Frogs, in your marshes be content;
Dry land for you was never meant.
Some breathe in dry, fome in moist air,
But all fhould live within their sphere.
Ulfe fhook his head-poor Damon lay a dying;
And clofe by his bed-fide his wife fat crying:
O ftay, fhe faid; and must we part?
My foul, like thine, is on the wing;
Methinks I feel death's iron dart;
But oh! 'tis that which wounds thy heart,
That bears to mine the sting.
Her grief was great, fo was her moan:
And much to die fhe feem'd inclin'd;
Howe'er, fhe let him go alone,
And prudently remain❜d behind.
A week, or fo, was past and gone,
Still fhe continued weeping on,
When to her house her father came,
And thus addrefs'd the mournful dame:
My child, faid he, enough of tears you've shed;
Think of the living, and forget the dead.
Another spouse-don't startle at the word,
'Tis but a fecond, you may have a third.
As foon as decency permits,
I have a husband to propose;
Young, handfome, rich, juft one of those
That's form'd to cure a widow's fits.
Ah, fir! is this a father's part
To wound afresh a bleeding heart?
Shall I another husband wed?
Oh no: my only love is dead;
Nor will I other wedding have,
"Till I am bedded in his grave.
The father left her to digest
The wife and prudent things he faid;
He put the husband in her head,'
And time he knew would do the reft.
The cares of mourning next took place;
To dress her grief, and fuit her face:
'Twas Cupid's thought; for what exceeds
A pretty widow in her weeds?
And now each looking-glass could tell
That black became her vaftly well.
The fmiles and graces, that were scar'd away,
With all the band of little loves,
And Cytherea's doves,
Came dropping in each day.
The father, if report fays true,
Another vifit made, ere mourning over;
I'm glad, my dear, said he, so well to find you;
But mention'd not a word of the new lover:
At which she blufh'd-muft I then, fir, remind you?
The thing's too ferious to be made a joke of;
Where is the husband, pray, that once you spoke of?
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