Above, below, in all the house,
Dire foe alike of bird and mouse,
No cat had leave to dwell;
And bully's cage supported stood
On props of smoothest-shaven wood,
Large built and latticed well.
Well latticed-but the grate, alas!
Not rough with wire of steel or brass,
For bully's plumage sake,
But smooth with wands from Ouse's side,
With which, when neatly peeled and dried,
The swains their baskets make.
Night veiled the pole, all seemed secure:
When led by instinct sharp and sure,
Subsistence to provide,
A beast forth sallied on the scout,
The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower, And weighed down its beautiful head.
The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet,
And it seemed to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret,
On the flourishing bush where it grew.
I hastily seized it, unfit as it was
For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas! I snapped it, it fell to the ground.
And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resigned.
Long-backed, long-tailed, with whiskered snout, This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,
And badger-coloured hide.
He, entering at the study door,
Its ample area 'gan explore;
And something in the wind
Conjectured, sniffing round and round,
Better than all the books he found,
Food chiefly for the mind.
Just then, by adverse fate impressed,
A dream disturbed poor bully's rest;
In sleep he seemed to view
A rat fast 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.
Oh had he made that too his prey;
That beak whence issued many a lay
Of such mellifluous tone,
Might have repaid him well, I wote,
For silencing so sweet a throat,
Fast stuck within his own.
Maria weeps the muses mourn-
So, when by Bachanalians torn,
On Thracian Hebrus' side
The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell,
His head alone remained to tell
The cruci death he died.
THE Rose had been washed, just washed in a
Which Mary to Anna conveyed,
Might have bloomed with its owner awhile; And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be followed perhaps by a smile.
REASONING at every step he treads,
Man yet mistakes his way,
While meaner things, whom instinct leads,
Are rarely known to stray.
One silent eve I wandered late,
And heard the voice of love;
The turtle thus addressed her mate,
And soothed the listening dove:
Our mutual bond of faith and truth
No time shall disengage,
Those blessings of our early youth
Shall cheer our latest age:
While innocence without disguise,
And constancy sincere,
Shall fill the circle of those eyes,
And mine can read them there
Those ills that wait on all below,
Shall ne'er be felt by me,
Or gently felt, and only so,
As being shared with thee.
When lightnings flash among the trees,
Or kites are hovering near,
I fear lest thee alone they seize,
And know no other fear.
"Tis then I feel myself a wife, And press thy wedded side, Resolved a union formed for life, Death never shall divide.
But oh! if fickle and unchaste,
(Forgive a transient thought)
Thou couldst become unkind at last,
And scorn thy present lot.
No need of lightnings from on high,
Or kites with cruel beak;
Denied the endearments of thine eye,
This widowed heart would break.
Thus sang the sweet sequestered bird,
Soft as the passing wind;
And I recorded what I heard,
A lesson for mankind.
THE lapse of time and rivers is the same,
Both speed their journey with a restless stream;
The silent pace, with which they steal away,
No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade to stay;
Alike irrevocable both when past,
And a wide ocean swallows both at last.
Though each resemble each in every part,
A difference strikes at length the musing heart;
Streams never flow in vain where streams abound,
How laughs the land with various plenty crowned!
But time, that should enrich the nobler mind,
Neglected leaves a dreary waste behind.
A RAVEN, while with glossy breast
Her new-laid eggs she fondly pressed,
And on her wickerwork high mounted,
Her chickens prematurely counted.
(A fault philosophers might blame.
If quite exempted from the same,)
Enjoyed at ease the genial day;
'Twas April, as the bumpkins say,
The legislature called it May.
But suddenly a wind as high
As ever swept a winter sky,
Shook the young leaves about her ears,
And filled her with a thousand fears,
Lest the rude blast should snap the bough,
And spread her golden hopes below.
But just at eve the blowing weather
And all her fears were hushed together;
And now, quoth poor unthinking Ralph,
'Tis over and the brood is safe;
(For ravens, though as birds of omen
They teach both conjurers and old women,
To tell us what is to befall,
Can't prophesy themselves at all.)
The morning came, when neighbour Hodge,
Who long had marked her airy lodge,
And destined all the treasure there
A gift to his expecting fair,
Climbed like a squirrel to his dray,
And bore the worthless prize away.
'Tis Providence alone secures
In every change both mine and yours:
Safety consists not in escape
From dangers of a frightful shape;
An earthquake may be bid to spare
The man, that's strangled by a hair.
Fate steals along with silent tread,
Found oftenest in what least we dread;
Frowns in the storm with angry brow,
But in the sunshine strikes the blow.
ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.
SWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade,
Apt emblem of a virtuous maid—
Silent and chaste she steals along,
Far from the world's gay busy throng;
With gentle yet prevailing force,
Intent upon her destined course;
Graceful and useful all she does,
Blessing and blest where'er she goes;
Pure bosomed as that watery glass,
And heaven reflected in her face.
THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT. TO MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON. MARIA! I have every good
For thee wished many a time, Both sad and in a cheerful mood,
But never yet in rhyme.
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 possessed,
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 every 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 wish it all fulfilled.
ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.
PATRON of all those luckless brains,
That, to the wrong side leaning,
Indite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning:
Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams,
That water all the nations,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,
In constant exhalations;
Why, stooping from the noon of day,
Too covetous of drink, Apollo, hast thou stolen away A poet's drop of ink?
Upborne into the viewless air
It floats a vapour now,
Impelled through regions dense and rare,
By all the winds that blow.
Ordained perhaps ere summer flies,
Combined with millions more,
To form an Iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before.
Illustrious drop! and happy then
Beyond the happiest lot,
Of all that ever past my pen,
So soon to be forgot!
Phoebus, if such be thy design,
To place it in thy bow,
Give wit, that what is left may shine
With equal grace below.
PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED.
I SHALL not ask Jean Jacques Rosseau,* If birds confabulate or no; 'Tis clear, that they were always able To hold discourse, at least in fable; And e'en the child, that knows no better Than to interpret by the letter A story of a cock and bull, Must have a most uncommon scull.
It chanced then on a winter's day, But warm, and bright, and calm as May, The birds, conceiving a design
To forestall sweet St. Valentine,
It was one of the whimsical speculations of this philosopher, that all fables which ascribe reason and speech to animals should be withheld from children, as being only vehicles of deception. But what child was ever deceived by them, or can be, against the evidence of his senses?
In many an orchard, copse, and grove,
Assembled on affairs of love,
And with much twitter and much chatter,
Began to agitate the matter.
At length a Bulfinch, who could boast
More years and wisdom than the most,
Entreated, opening wide his beak,
A moment's liberty to speak;
And, silence publicly enjoined,
Delivered briefly thus his mind:
My friends! be cautious how ye treat
The subject upon which we meet:
I fear we shall have winter yet.
A Finch, whose tongue knew no control,
With golden wing, and satin poll,
A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried
What marriage means, thus pert replied:
Methinks the gentleman, quoth she,
Opposite in the apple-tree,
By his good ill would keep us single
Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle,
Or (which is likelier to befall)
Till death exterminate us all.
I'll marry without more ado,
My dear Dick Redcap, what say you?
Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling
Turning short round, strutting and sideling,
Attested, glad, his approbation
Of an immediate conjugation.
Their sentiments, so well expressed,
Influenced mightily the rest;
All paired, and each pair built a nest.
But though the birds were thus in haste,
The leaves came on not quite so fast,
And Destiny, that sometimes bears
An aspect stern on man's affairs,
Not altogether smiled on theirs.
The wind, of late breathed 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 chilled, their eggs were addled;
Soon every father bird and mother
Grew quarrelsome and pecked each other,
Parted without the least regret,
Except that they had ever met,
And learned in future to be wiser,
Than to neglect a good adviser.
Misses! the tale that I rclate
This lesson seems to carryChoose not alone a proper mate, But proper time to marry.
THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY. THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SEN. SITIVE PLANT.
THE noon was shady, and soft airs
Swept Ouse's silent tide,
When, 'scaped from literary cares,
I wandered on his side.
My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
And high in pedigree,
(Two nymphs* adorned with every grace
That spaniel found for me.)
Now wantoned lost in flags and reeds,
Now starting into sight,
Pursued the swallows o'er the meads
With scarce a slower flight.
It was the time when Ouse di played
His lilies newly blown;
Their beauties I intent surveyed,
And one I wished my own.
With cane extended far I sought
To steer it close to land;
But still the prize, though nearly caught,
Escaped my eager hand.
Beau marked my unsuccessful pains
With fixed considerate face, And puzzling set his puppy brains
To comprehend the case.
But with a cherup clear and strong,
Dispersing all his dream,
I thence withdrew, and followed long
The windings of the stream.
My ramble ended, I returned;
Beau, trotting far before,
The floating wreath again discerned,
And plunging left the shore.
I saw him with that lily cropped
Impatient swim to meet
My quick approach, and spon he dropped
The treasure at my feet.
Charmed with the sight, the world, I cried,
Shall hear of this thy deed:
My dog shall mortify the pride
Of man's superior breed
But chief myself I will enjoin,
Awake at duty's call,
To show a love as prompt as thine
To Him who gives me all.
'Sir Robert Gunning's daughters.
An Oyster, cast upon the shore,
Was heard, though never heard before,
Complaining in a speech well worded-
And worthy thus to be recorded:-
Ah, hapless wretch, condemned to dwell
For ever in my native shell;
Ordained to move when others please,
Not for my own content or ease;
But tossed and buffeted about,
Now in the water and now out.
'Twere better to be born a stone,
Of ruder shape, and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And sensibilities so fine!
I envy that unfeeling shrub,
Fast-rooted against every rub.
The plant he meant, grew not far off,
And felt the sneer with scorn enough;
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,
And with asperity replied.
When, cry the botanists, and stare,
Did plants called sensitive grow there?
No matter when-a poet's muse is
To make them grow just where she chooses.
You shapeless nothing in a dish,
You that are but almost a fish,
I scorn your coarse insinuation,
And have most plentiful occasion
To wish myself the rock I view,
Or such another dolt as you:
For many a grave and learned clerk,
And many a gay unlettered spark,
With curious touch examines me,
If I can feel as well as he;
And when I bend, retire and shrink,
Says-Well, 'tis more than one would think'
Thus life is spent (oh fie upon 't!)
In being touched, and crying-Don't!
A poet, in his evening walk,
O'erheard and checked this idle talk.
And your fine sense, he said, and yours,
Whatever evil it endures,
Deserves not, if so soon offended,
Much to be pitied or commended.
Disputes, though short, are far too long,
Where both alike are in the wrong;
Your feelings in their full amount,
Are all upon your own account.
You, in your grotto-work enclosed,
Complain of being thus exposed;
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,
Wherever driven by wind or tide,
Exempt from every ill beside.
And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Who reckon every touch a blemish,
If all the plants, that can be found
Embellishing the scene around,
Should droop and wither where they grow,
You would not feel at all-not you.
The noblest minds their virtue prove
By pity, sympathy, and love:
These, these are feelings truly fine,
And prove their owner half divine.
His censure reached them as he dealt it, And each by shrinking showed he felt it.
WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION.
Он, happy shades-to me unblest! Friendly to peace, but not to me! How ill the scene that offers rest,
And heart that can not rest, agree!
This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
Those alders quivering to the breeze, Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine, And please, if any thing could please.
But fixed unalterable Care
Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness every where, And slights the season and the scene.
For all that pleased in wood or lawn,
While Peace possessed these silent bowers,
Her animating smile withdrawn,
Has lost its beauties and its powers
The saint or moralist should tread
This moss-grown alley musing, slow; They seek like me the secret shade.
But not like me to nourish wo!
Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste
Alike admonish not to roam;
These tell me of enjoyments past,
And those of sorrows yet to come.
WHAT Nature, alas! has denied
To the delicate growth of our isle, Art has in a measure supplied,
And winter is decked with a smile. See, Mary, what beauties I bring
From the shelter of that sunny shed,
Where the flowers have the charms of the spring, Though abroad they are frozen and dead.
'Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets,
Where Flora is still in her prime, A fortress to which she retreats
From the cruel assaults of the climo. 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 Seemed 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.
THE lady thus addressed her spouse:
What a mere dungeon is this house!
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 Humphrey, 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 frowned 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 favourite 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 baw!:
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 feared,
As to be wantonly incurred,
To gratify a fretful passion,
On every trivial provocation?
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