ON

THE DEATH

OF

MRS THROCKMORTON'S BULFINCH.

Ye nymphs ! if e'er your eyes were red
With tears o'er hapless fav’rites shed,

O share Maria's grief!
Her fav’rite, even in his cage,
(What will 'not hunger's cruel rage :)

Asfallin'd by a thief.

Where Rhenus strays his vines among,
The egg was laid from which he sprung;

And though by nature mute,
Or only with a whistle blest,
Well-taught, he all the sounds express’d,

Of flagelet or Aute.

The honours of his ebon poll
Were brighter than the sleekest mole;

His bosom of the hue
With which Aurora decks the skies,
When piping winds shall soon arise

To sweep up all the dew,

Above, below, in all the house,
Dire foe, alike to bird and mouse,

No cat had leave to dwell;
And Bully's cage supported stood,
On props of smoothest-shaven wood,

Large built, and lattic'd well:

Well-lattic'd—but the grate, alas !
Not rough with wire of steel or brass,

For Bully's plumage fake,
But smooth with wands from Ouse's side,
With which, when neatly peeld and dried,

The swains their bakets make.

Night veil'd the pole. All seem'd secure,
When led by instinct sharp and sure,

Sublistence to provide,
A beast forth-fallied on the scout,
Long-back'd, long-tail'd, with whisker'd fnout,

And badger-colour'd hide.

He, ent'ring at the study-door,
Its ample area 'gan explore;

And something in the wind
Conjectur’d, sniffing round and round,
Better than all the books he found,

Food, chiefly, for the mind.

Just then, by adverse fate impress'd,
A dream disturb'd poor Bully's rest;

In sleep he seem'd to view
A rat, faft-clinging to the cage,
And screaming at the sad presage,

Awoke and found it true.

For, aided both by ear and scent,
Right to his mark the monster went-

Ah, Muse ! forbear to speak
Minute the horrors that ensued;
His teeth were strong, the cage was wood

He left poor Bully's beak.

a

He left it---but he should have ta'en
That beak, whence issued many

strain
Of such mellifluous tone,
Might have repaid him well, I wot,
For filencing so sweet a throat,

Fast fet within his own.

Maria weeps— The Muses mourn
So, when by Bacchanalians torn,

On Thracian Hebrus' lide
The tree enchanter Orpheus fell;
His head alone remain'd to tell

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,
The plentiful moisture incumber'd the flower,

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,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret,

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,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart

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,
In wedded love already blest,

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.