They also boast-there's no concealing- Which makes that virtue always shown So sate he in a marble grieving- Meanwhile, of course, with kindly chatter, *Aristot. de Poetica, sect. xi. + Pig and ducks are the favourite food of the Siamese. The Ava soldier bred to dangers, The Cochinese who lives on strangers, "So great the infection soft"-have caught it, And cry-" Poor Fiam! who'd have thought it ?” Though all unravel-no one blames The small hypocrisies of names When Grief's so great we're really dumb for 't, And all the Paul Prys of the city Indulge their vice, and style it—" Pity!" -But on a couch all uncarest The new-born Infants lay, As if they felt the rude world round Already on their being frown'd, And knew that some strange spell had hung Yet made the tie to which they clung No less their shelter than their shame! And now all's hush'd!-a certain still awes And tells-but with a whispered breath( How easy is an infant's death. And that we only do fulfil laws ، Given by Nature-to deny 'Life to the wretched things that mock ، Nature herself !'. Then suddenly There ran a chill electric shock Thro' every woman there whose breast The gossip ceased; and you might mark |