And hence, he said, my mind computes
The real worth of man's pursuits.

His object chosen, wealth or fame,

Or other sublunary game,
Imagination to his view

Presents it deck'd with ev'ry hue,

30

That can seduce him not to spare

His pow'rs of best exertion there,
But youth, health, vigour, to expend
On so desirable an end.

Ere long approach life's ev'ning shades,

The glow, that fancy gave it, fades;

And, earn'd too late, it wants the

grace,

That first engag'd him in the chase.

True, answer'd an angelic guide,
Attendant at the senior's side-
But whether all the time it cost,
To

urge the fruitless chase be lost,

40

Must be decided by the worth

Of that, which call'd his ardour forth.
Trifles pursu'd, whate'er th' event,

Must cause him shame or discontent;

A vicious object still is worse,

Successful there he wins a curse;

But he, whom ev'n in life's last stage
Endeavours laudable engage,

Is paid, at least in peace of mind,
And sense of having well design'd;
And if, ere he attain his end,
His sun precipitate descend,

A brighter prize than that he meant
Shall recompense his mere intent.
No virtuous wish can bear a date

Either too early or too late.

50

58

THE

FAITHFUL BIRD.

THE greenhouse is my summer seat;
My shrubs displac'd from that retreat

Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song

Had been their mutual solace long,

Liv'd happy pris'ners there.

They sang, as blithe as finches sing,
That flutter loose on golden wing,

And frolic where they list;

Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,

But that delight they never knew,

And therefore never miss'd.

10

But nature works in ev'ry breast;
With force not easily suppress'd;

And Dick felt some desires,

That, after many an effort vain,
Instructed him at length to gain

A pass between his wires.

The

open

windows seem'd t' invite

20

The freeman to a farewell flight;

But Tom was still confin'd;

And Dick, although his way was clear,

Was much too gen'rous and sincere

To leave his friend behind.

So settling on his cage, by play,
And chirp, and kiss, he seem'd to say,

You must not live alone.

Nor would he quit that chosen stand,

Till I, with slow and cautious hand,

Return'd him to his own.

30

Oh ye,

who never taste the joys

Of Friendship, satisfied with noise,

Fandango, ball, and rout!

Blush, when I tell you how a bird

A prison with a friend preferr'd

To liberty without.

THE

NEEDLESS ALARM.

A TALE.

36

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 brier, Contusion hazarding of neck or spine,

Which rural gentlemen call sport divine.