Those, clods of earth or flints discharge; and these Hurl prickly branches, sliver’d from the trees And lest their passion should be unsupplied, The rabble crew, by chance, at distance spied Where oxen, straining at the heavy yoke, The fallow’d field with slow advances broke; Nigh which the brawny peasants dug the soil, Procuring food with long laborious toil: These, when they saw the ranting throng draw near Quitted their tools, and fled, possess’d with fear. Long spades, and rakes of mighty size, were found, Carelessly left upon the broken ground: With these the furious lunatics engage⁠— And first the labouring oxen feel their rage; Then to the poet they return with speed, Whose fate was, past prevention, now decreed: In vain he lifts his suppliant hands, in vain He tries, before, his never-failing strain: And from those sacred lips, whose thrilling sound Fierce tigers and insensate rocks could wound. Ah, gods! how moving was the mournful sight! To see the fleeting soul now take its flight. Thee the soft warblers of the feather’d kind Bewail’d; for thee thy savage audience pined;