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The wind, of late breath'd gently forth,
Now shifted east and east by north;

Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know,

Could shelter them from rain or snow, Stepping into their nests, they paddled, Themselves were chill'd, their eggs were addled; Soon ev'ry father bird and mother

Grew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other,

Parted without the least regret,

Except that they had ever met,

And learn'd, in future, to be wiser,

Than to neglect a good adviser.

"

INSTRUCTION.

Misses! the tale that I relate

This lesson seems to carry

Choose not alone a proper mate,

But proper time to marry.

THE

NEEDLESS ALARM.

A TALE.

THERE is a field through which I often pass, Thick overspread with moss and silky grass, Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood, Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood, Reserv'd to solace many a neighb'ring 'squire,

That he may follow them through brake and briar,
Contusion hazarding of neck or spine,

Which rural gentlemen call sport divine.
A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal'd,
Runs in a bottom, and divides the field;
Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head,
But now wear crests of oven-wood instead;
And where the land slopes to its wat'ry bourn,
Wide yawns a gulph beside a ragged thorn;

Bricks line the sides, but shiver'd long ago,
And horrid brambles intertwine below;

A hollow scoop'd, 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, wint'ry guest, is fed;
Nor autumn yet had brush'd from ev'ry spray,
With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away;
But corn was hous'd, and beans were in the stack,
Now, therefore, issued forth the spotted pack,
With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and throats
With a whole gamut fill'd of heav'nly notes,
For which, alas! my destiny severe,

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

And heedless 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-rais'd horn's melodious clang
All Kilwick and all Dingle-derry° rang.

Sheep graz'd the field; some with soft bosom

press'd

The herb as soft, while nibbling stray'd the rest;
Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook,

Struggling, detain'd in many a petty nook.
All seem'd so peaceful, that from them convey'd
To me, their peace by kind contagion spread.

But when the huntsman, with distended cheek,
'Gan make his instrument of music speak,
And from within the wood that crash was heard,
Though not a hound from whom it burst appear'd,
The sheep recumbent, and the sheep that graz'd,
All huddling into phalanx, stood and gaz’d,
Admiring, terrified, the novel strain,

Then cours'd the field around, and cours'd it round

again;

• Two woods belonging to John Throckmorton, Esq.

II.

2 B

But, recollecting with a sudden thought,
That flight in circles urg'd advanc'd them nought,
They gather'd close around the old pit's brink,
And thought again—but knew not what to think.
The man to solitude accustom'd long,
Perceives in ev'ry thing that lives a tongue;
Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees,
Have speech for him, and understood with ease;
After long drought, when rains abundant fall,
He hears the herbs and flow'rs 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 ev'ry loco-motive kind;

Birds of all feather, beasts of ev'ry name,

That serve mankind, or shun them, wild or tame;

The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears Have, all, articulation in his ears;

He spells them true by intuition's light,

And needs no glossary to set him right.

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