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Wit flashing on Religion's side,
DEATH OF MRS. THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH.
Ye Nymphs, if e'er your eyes were red
O, share Maria's grief !
Assassin'd by a thief.
And though by nature mute,
Or only with a whistle bless'd,
Of flageolet or flute.
His bosom of the hue
To sweep away the dew.
No cat had leave to dwell;
Large built and latticed well.
For Bully's plumage sake,
The swains their baskets make.
Subsistence to provide,
And badger-colour'd hide.
And something in the wind
Food chiefly for the mind.
In sleep he seein'd to view
Awoke and found it true.
For, aided both by ear and scent,
Ah, Muse! forbear to speak
He left poor Bully's beak.
Of such mellifluous tone,
Fast stuck within his own.
On Thracian Hebrus' side
The cruel death he died.
Which Mary to Anna convey'd ;
And weigh'd down its beautiful head.
And it seem'd, to a fanciful view,
On the flourishing bush where it grew.
For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd,
I snapp'd it; it fell to the ground.
Some act by the delicate mind,
Already to sorrow resign'd.
Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile;
And the tear that is wiped with a little address,
May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.
ON THE DEATH OF SIR WILLIAM RUSSELL. Doom'd as I am in solitude to waste The present moments, and regret the past ; Deprived of every joy I valued most, My friend torn from me and my mistress lost; Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mien, The dull effect of business or of spleen. Still, still, I mourn, with each returning day, Him snatch'd by fate in early youth away; And her, through tedious years of doubt and pain Fix'd in her choice, and faithful, but in vain. O prone to pity, generous and sincere, Whose eye ne'er yet refused the wretch a tear; Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows, Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes; See me, ere yet my destined course half done, Cast forth a wanderer on a world unknown : See me neglected on the world's rude coast, Each dear companion of my voyage lost; Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my brow, And ready tears wait only leave to flow; Why all that soothes a heart from anguish free, All that delights the happy, palls with me.
ODE TO APOLLO.
ON AN INK-GLASS ALMUST DRIED IN THE SUN.
PATRON of all those luckless brains
That, to the wrong side leaning,
And little or no eaning;
That water all the nations,
În 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, Impell’d through regions dense and rare,
By all the winds that blow; Ordain'd perhaps ere summer flies,
Combined with millions more, To form an Iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before.
Beyond the happiest lot,
So soon to be forgot!
To place it in thy bow,
With equal grace below.
THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT. TO MRS. (AFTERWARDS LADY) THROCKMORTON. Maria! I have every good
For thee wish'd many a time,
But never yet in rhyme.
More prudent, or more sprightly,
From temper-flaws unsightly.
Can I for thee require,
To thy whole heart's desire ?
Full bliss is bliss divine ;