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Updated: June 26, 2025
I need not say much of my hail and Snow, My ice and extream cold, which all men know, Whereof the first so ominous I rain'd, That Israel's enemies therewith were brain'd; And of my chilling snows such plenty be, That Caucasus high mounts are seldome free, Mine ice doth glaze Europes great rivers o're, Till sun release, their ships can sail no more, All know that inundations I have made, Wherein not men, but mountains seem'd to wade; As when Achaia all under water stood, That for two hundred years it n'er prov'd good.
Sweating we fear lest any conscious spy, Might search our bosom, and the theft descry. But with our sieep when all our joys are o're, And minds restor'd to what they were before, Concern'd, we wish the fancy'd loss regain'd, And with the image still are entertain'd.
Some time now past in the Autumnal Tide When Phoebus wanted but one hour to bed The trees all richly clad, yet void of pride Where gilded o're by his rich golden head. Their leaves and fruits seemed painted but was true Of green, of red, of yellow mixed hew, Rapt were my sences at this delectable view.
The sun-beams with unusual brightness rise And spread new glories round the gilded skies. New fir'd with omens of the promis'd day, Caesar o're untrod mountain leads the way; Where th' frozen earth o're-clad with ice and snows, At first not yielding to their horses blows, A dreadful quiet in dull stiffness shows.
Thus as one soil alone too narrow were, Their glorious dust, and great remains to bear, O're all the earth their scatter'd ruin lyes; Such honours to the mighty dead arise.
But why do we of such small fears complain, With both the consuls greater Pompey ran, That Asia aw'd, in dire Hydaspes grown The only rock, its pyrates split upon; Whose third triumph o're earth made Jove afraid, Proud with success he'd next his Heaven invade: To whom the ocean yielding honours gave, And rougher Bosphorus humbly still'd his wave.
"In the meantime there happening a trial of criminals, the condemn'd were order'd to be crucify'd near the vault in which the lady was weeping o're the corps of her late husband.
The Scotch dragoon, Mackenzie, seeing me look long and intently at the distant Falls of Montmorency, drily observed, "It may be a' vera fine; but it looks na' better to my thinken than hanks o' white woo' hung out o're the bushes." "Weel," cried another, "thae fa's are just bonnie; 'tis a braw land, nae doubt; but no' just so braw as auld Scotland."
In burden'd vessels now they travelled o're The furrow'd deep to seas unknown before: And any hidden part of land or sea, That gold afforded, was an enemy. Thus fate the seeds of civil fury rais'd, When great in wealth no common pleasure pleas'd. Delights more out of fashion by the town: Th' souldiers scarlet now from Spain must come; The purple of the sea contemn'd is grown.
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