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THE FAITHFUL FRIEND.

THE green-house is my fummer feat;
My shrubs displaced from that retreat
Enjoyed the open air;

Two goldfinches, whose sprightly fong
Had been their mutual folace long,
Lived happy prisoners there.

They fang, as blithe as finches fing,
That flutter loose on golden wing,
And frolic where they lift;

Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,

But that delight they never knew,
And therefore never miffed.

But nature works in every breaft;
Inftinct is never quite fuppreffed;
And Dick felt fome defires,
Which, after many an effort vain,
Inftructed him at length to gain

A pass between his wires.

The open windows feemed to invite
The freeman to a farewell flight;

But Tom was ftill confined;

And Dick, although his way was clear,
Was much too generous and fincere
To leave his friend behind.

For, fettling on his grated roof,

He chirped and kiffed him, giving proof
That he defired no more;

Nor would forfake his cage at laft,
Till gently feized, I shut him faft,
A prisoner as before.

Oh ye, who never knew the joys
Of Friendship, satisfied with noise,
Fandango, ball, and rout!

Blush, when I tell you how a bird,
A prison with a friend preferred
To liberty without.

THE NEEDLESS ALARM.

A TALE.

THERE is a field, through which I often pafs,
Thick overfpread with mofs and filky grafs,
Adjoining clofe to Kilwick's echoing wood,
Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood,
Referved to folace many a neighbouring 'fquire,
That he may follow them through brake and briar,
Contufion hazarding of neck or spine,

Which rural gentlemen call sport divine.
A narrow brook, by rushy banks concealed,
Runs in a bottom, and divides the field;
Oaks interfperfe it, that had once a head,
But now wear crefts of oven-wood instead;
And where the land flopes to its watery bourn,
Wide yawns a gulph befide a ragged thorn;
Bricks line the fides, but fhivered long ago,
And horrid brambles intertwine below;
A hollow fcooped, I judge in ancient time,
For baking earth, or burning rock to lime.

Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red,
With which the fieldfare, wintry gueft, is fed;
Nor autumn yet had brushed from every spray,
With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away;
But corn was housed, and beans were in the stack,
Now therefore iffued forth the spotted pack,
With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and throats
With a whole gamut filled of heavenly notes,
For which, alas! my destiny fevere,

Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear.
The fun, accomplishing his early march,
His lamp now planted on heaven's topmoft arch,
When, exercise and air my only aim,

And heedlefs whither, to that field I came,

Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound
Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was found,
Or with the high-raised horn's melodious clang
All Kilwick and all Dingle-derry * rang.

Sheep grazed the field; some with soft bosom preffed
The herb as foft, while nibbling ftrayed the reft;
Nor noife was heard but of the hafty brook,
Struggling, detained in many a petty nook.
All seemed fo peaceful, that from them conveyed
To me, their peace by kind contagion spread.

* Two woods belonging to John Throckmorton, Efq.

But when the huntsman, with diftended cheek, 'Gan make his inftrument of music speak, And from within the wood that crash was heard, Though not a hound from whom it burft appeared, The sheep recumbent, and the sheep that grazed, All huddling into phalanx, ftood and gazed, Admiring, terrified, the novel ftrain,

Then courfed the field around,and courfed it round again;
But, recollecting with a fudden thought,

That flight in circles urged advanced them nought,
They gathered close around the old pit's brink,
And thought again—but knew not what to think.
The man to folitude accustomed long,

Perceives in every thing that lives a tongue;
Not animals alone, but fhrubs and trees,
Have fpeech for him, and understood with ease;
After long drought, when rains abundant fall,
He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all :
Knows what the freshness of their hue implies,
How glad they catch the largeness of the skies;
But, with precision nicer still, the mind

He scans of every loco-motive kind;

Birds of all feather, beafts of every name,

That ferve mankind, or fhun them, wild or tame;
The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears
Have all articulation in his ears;

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