A Fragment

THE Archer and the Horseman's trampling haste
Make all they reach a desolated waste:
Some fly dispers'd; unguarded lies their field;
Their treasures and their hopes to rapine yield;
Their humble store, their cattle, and their plough,
The ripening harvest, and the teeming bough.
Some basely pinion'd, and as captives driven,
Look back upon their homes, then up to Heaven:
Envenom'd is the point which bids them die,
For wing'd with subtle death the arrows fly:
Lost what no hands can take, no art can hide,
The guiltless huts in flames on every side.
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