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MRS THROCKMORTON'S BULFINCH.
Ye nymphs ! if e'er your eyes were red
O share Maria's grief!
Asfallin'd by a thief.
Where Rhenus strays his vines among,
And though by nature mute,
Of flagelet or Aute.
The honours of his ebon poll
His bosom of the hue
To sweep up all the dew,
Above, below, in all the house,
No cat had leave to dwell;
Large built, and lattic'd well:
Well-lattic'd—but the grate, alas !
For Bully's plumage fake,
The swains their bakets make.
Night veil'd the pole. All seem'd secure,
Sublistence to provide,
And badger-colour'd hide.
He, ent'ring at the study-door,
And something in the wind
Food, chiefly, for the mind.
Just then, by adverse fate impress'd,
In sleep he seem'd to view
Awoke and found it true.
For, aided both by ear and scent,
Ah, Muse ! forbear to speak
He left poor Bully's beak.
He left it---but he should have ta'en
Fast fet within his own.
Maria weeps— The Muses mourn
On Thracian Hebrus' lide
The cruel death he died.
THE ROS E.
The rose had been wash'd, jult walh'd in a shower,
Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
And weigh'd down its beautiful head.
The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet,
And it seem'd to a fanciful view,
On the flourishing bush where it grew.
I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was,
For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas !
I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground.
And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitilefs part
Some act by the delicate mind,
Already to forrow resign'd.
This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,
Might have bloom'd with its owner a while, And the tear that is wip'd with a little address,
May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.
THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.
TO MRS TAROCKMORTON, Maria! I have ev'ry good
For thee wilh'd many a time, Both sad, and in a cheerful mood,
But never yet in rhime,
To wish thee fairer is no need,
More prudent, or more sprightly, Or more ingenious, or more freed
From temper-flaws unsightly.
What favour, then, not yet poffefs'd,
Can I for thee require,
To thy whole heart's desire?
None here is happy but in part;
Full bliss is bliss divine; There dwells some wish in ev'ry heart, . And, doubtless, one in thine.
That wish, on some fair future day,
Which fate shall brightly 'gild, ('Tis blameless, be it what it may)
I with it all fulfill'd.