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ON A GOLDFINCH STARVED TO DEATH IN HIS CAGE.
IME was when I was free as air,
The thistle's downy seed my fare,
My drink the morning dew ;
I perch'd at will on every spray,
My form genteel, my plumage gay,
My strains for ever new.
But gaudy plumage, o strain,
And form genteel were all in vain,
And of a transient date ;
For, caught and caged and starved to death,
In dying sighs my little breath
Soon pass'd the wiry grate.
Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes,
And thanks for this effectual close
And cure of ev'ry ill !
More cruelty could none express,
And I, if you had shown me less,
Had been your prisoner still.
HAT Nature, alas ! has denied To the delicate growth of our isle, Art has in a measure supplied, And winter is deck'd with a smile. See, Mary, what beauties I bring From the shelter of that sunny shed,
Where the flow'rs have the charms of the spring,
Though abroad they are frozen and dead.
'Tis a bow'r of Arcadian sweets,
Where Flora is still in her prime,
A fortress to which she retreats,
From the cruel assaults of the climes.
While earth wears a mantle of snow,
These pinks are as fresh and as gay
As the fairest and sweetest that blow
On the beautiful bosom of May.
See how they have safely survived
The frowns of a sky so severe;
Such Mary's true love, that has lived
Through many a turbulent year.
The charms of the late-blowing rose
Seem graced with a livelier hue,
And the winter of sorrow best shows
The truth of a friend, such as you.
NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED STATE.
HE lady thus address'd her spouse—
What a mere dungeon is this house I
By no means large enough ; and, was it,
Yet this dull room and that dark closet,
Those hangings with their worn-out graces,
Long beards, long noses, and pale faces,
Are such an antiquated scene,
They overwhelm me with the spleen.
—Sir Humphry, shooting in the dark,
Makes answer quite beside the mark:
No doubt, my dear, I bade him come,
Engaged myself to be at home,
And shall expect him at the door
Precisely when the clock strikes four,
You are so deaf, the lady cried
(And raised her voice, and frown'd beside),
You are so sadly deaf, my dear,
What shall I do to make you hear?
Dismiss poor Harry he replies,
Some people are more nice than wise, -
For one slight trespass all this stir
What if he did ride, whip and spur,
'Twas but a mile—your fav'rite horse
Will never look one hair the worse.
Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing—
Child ! I am rather hard of hearing—
Yes, truly—one must scream and bawl,
I tell you you can't hear at all;
Then, with a voice exceeding low,
No matter if you hear or no.
Alas! and is domestic strife,
That sorest ill of human life,
A plague so little to be fear'd,
As to be wantonly incurr'd,
To gratify a fretful passion,
On ev'ry trivial provocation?
The kindest and the happiest pair
Will find occasion to forbear.
And something ev'ry day they live
To pity and, perhaps, forgive.
But if infirmities that fall
In common to the lot of all,
A blemish, or a sense impair'd,
Are crimes so little to be spared,
Then farewell all that must create
The comfort of the wedded state ;
Instead of harmony, 'tis jar
And tumult, and intestine war.
The love that cheers life's latest stage,
Proof against sickness and old age,
Preserved by virtue from declension,
Becomes not weary of attention,
But lives, when that exterior grace
Which first inspired the flame decays.
'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind,
To faults compassionate or blind,
And will with sympathy endure
Those evils it would gladly cure.
But angry, coarse, and harsh expression
Shows love to be a mere profession ;
Proves that the heart is none of his,
Or soon expels him if it is.
TO THE REW. M.R. NEWTON. AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.
Th; swallows in their torpid state,
Compose their useless wing,
And bees in hives as idly wait
The call of early spring.
The keenest frost that binds the stream,
The wildest wind that blows,
Are neither felt nor fear'd by them,
Secure of their repose. -
But man all feeling and awake
The gloomy scene surveys,
With present ills his heart must ache,
And pant for brighter days.
Old Winter halting o'er the mead,
Bids me and Mary mourn,
But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head,
And whispers your return.
Then April, with her sister May,
Shall chase him from the bow'rs,
And weave fresh garlands ev'ry day,
To crown the smiling hours.
And if a tear that speaks regret
Of happier time appear,
A glimpse of joy that we have met
Shall shine and dry the tear. . .
- HEN the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,