Lo! anxious the peasant descends:
Good peasant no more be afraid!
Heaven sent her the bravest of friends,
In the boy who has rush'd to her aid.
Before thou couldst spring to the ground,
Her boy made her triumph complete;
And contriving a marvellous wound,
He has stretch'd her foe dead at her feet.
From the tree by his struggles releas'd,
While he roll'd in his own blood afloat
Brave Demba ran up to the beast,
And darted ten shafts in his throat.
Their poisons collected afford
Lethargic relief to his pangs;
And Death! of all nature the lord!
Thy shadows now rest on his fangs.
Now love! thy own fancy employ!
For words are too feeble to trace
The father, the mother, the boy,
In triumph's extatic embrace.
* * * * *
THE SWAN.
BALLAD THE TENTH.
Kind Heaven will oft a lesson give
If mortals are inclined to learn;
To shew how simplest things that live,
To kindness make a rich return.
Tho' fiction speaks of dying notes,
Sung by the swan in death resign'd;
Is there a tribe, that flies or floats,
Of sense, or feeling, less refin'd?
Yet simple as this bird we deem,
My faithful ballad shall attest,
One Swan displayed on Thames's stream,
A feeling and a friendly breast
Cecilia liv'd on Thames's bank,
A young and lovely married fair;
To creatures kind of every rank,
A favourite Swan had own'd her care.
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