IX. 



THE POETS' FLOCKS. 



" Let me hear 

 The morning uproar of the fleecy flock, 

 What lime, vociferoas, their tardy march 

 With baying curs impatient their rude load 

 To the green pastures urge. Loud inquires 

 The bleating mother for her sundered lamb. 

 As loud complaining for his mother lost. 

 With quick infallible perception, she. 

 Amid the mingled outcry, hears distinct 

 His slender shrill entreaty, he remote. 

 With nicety that shames our grosser sense. 

 Her voice acknowledge?, and through the crowd 

 Winds his insulted way." 



I THINK this Stanza is exquisite, and, as a sketch straight 

 from Nature, perfect But the poets are, as a rule, excep- 

 tionally happy in their treatment of sheep. Most of them 

 are bom shepherds. They seem to have an instinctive 

 sympathy with the woolly folk. « 



" To him the whistling ploughman's artless tune. 

 The bleating flocks, the oxen's hollow crune. 

 Give more delight tiian the Italian song." 



With what a nice accuracy they watch them ; how exactly 

 faithful they are to the real life of the flocks. 



At morning the sheef>-fold pours out its fleecy tenants 

 " o'er the glade, and, first progressive in a stream, they seek 

 the middle field, but scattered by degrees, each to his 



