and undisturb’d— Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start And think of my poor boy tossing about Upon the roaring seas. And then I seem’d To feel that it was hard to take him from me For such a little fault. But he was wrong Oh very wrong—a murrain on his traps! See what they’ve brought him too! Traveller. Well! well! take comfort He will be taken care of if he lives; And should you lose your child, this is a country Where the brave sailor never leaves a parent To weep for him in want. Woman. Sir I shall want No succour long. In the common course of years I soon must be at rest, and ’tis a comfort When grief is hard upon me to reflect It only leads me to that rest the sooner. 

  [15] The stink-pots used on board the French ships. In the engagement between the Mars and L’Hercule, some of our sailors were shockingly mangled by them: One in particular, as described in the Eclogue, lost both his eyes. It would be policy and humanity to employ means of destruction, could they be discovered, powerful enough to destroy fleets and armies, but to use any thing that only inflicts additional torture upon the victims of our war systems, is cruel and wicked. 

 

Eclogue V ­ The Witch

 Nathaniel. Father! here father! I have found a horse-shoe! Faith it was just in time, for t’other night I laid two straws across at Margery’s door, And afterwards I fear’d that she might do me A mischief for’t. There was the Miller’s boy Who set his dog at that black cat of hers, I met him upon crutches, and he told me ’Twas all her evil eye. Father. ’Tis rare good luck; I would have gladly given a crown for one If t’would have done as well. But where did’st find it? Nathaniel. Down on the Common; I was going a-field And neighbour Saunders pass’d me on his mare; He had hardly said “good day,” before I saw The shoe drop off; ’twas just upon my tongue To call him back,—it makes no difference, does it. Because I know whose ’twas? Father. Why no, it can’t. The shoe’s the same you know, and you did find it. Nathaniel. That mare of his has got a plaguey road To travel, father, and if he should lame her, For she is but tender-footed,—  Father. Aye, indeed— I should not like to see her limping back Poor beast! but charity begins at home, And Nat, there’s our own horse in such a way This morning! Nathaniel. Why he ha’nt been rid again! Last night I hung a pebble by the manger With a hole thro’, and every body says That ’tis a special charm against the hags. Father. It could not be a proper natural hole then, Or ’twas not a right pebble,—for I found him Smoking with sweat, quaking in every limb, And panting so! God knows where he 

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