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TO MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM, ON RECEIVING FROM HER A NETWORK PURSE, MADE
MAY 4, 1793.
Than plaything for a nurse,
I thank thee for my purse.
For richest rogues to win it;
The best things kept within it.
TO A YOUNG FRIEND, ON HIS ARRIVING AT CAMBRIDGE WET, WHEN NO RAIN
HAD FALLEN THERE.
May, 1793. If Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he
found, While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around, Might fitly represent the Church endow'd With heavenly gifts to heathens not allow'd;
In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high,
Nor even shrubs abound;
Some better things are found ;
Their union undefiled,
As hedge-rows in the wild ;
The history chanced of late,-
A chaffinch and his mate.
With genial instinct fill’d;
But found not where to build.
Except with snow and sleet,
Could yield them no retreat.
Till both grew vex'd and tired;
The good so long desired.
Afford them place of rest ?
The homeless birds a nest ?
This racer of the sea
Proved kinder to them than the coast,
It served them with a tree. But such a tree! 'twas shaven deal,
The tree they call a mast, And had a hollow with a wheel
Through which the tackle pass’d. Within that cavity aloft
Their roofless home they fix'd, Form'd with materials neat and soft,
Bents, wool, and feathers mix's. Four ivory eggs soon pave its floor,
With russet specks bedight;
And lessens to the sight.
As she had changed her kind;
Is doubtless left behind.
The winged mansion move,
Of never-failing love.
Was briskly borne along,
And cheer'd her with a song.
His feather'd shipmates eyes,
Than when he tows a prize.
And from a chance so new
And may his hopes be true! Hail, honour'd land ! a desert where
Not even birds can hide, Yet parent of this loving pair
Whom nothing could divide.
And ye who, rather than resign
Your matrimonial plan,
In company with man;
We English often show,
But wantonness and woe;
The same resource to prove,
Instruct us how to love ! *
A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU,
JULY 15, 1793.
Well fed, and at his ease,
Each trifle that he sees.
Which flew not till to-day,
Forbidding you the prey.
And ease a doggish pain;
You left where he was slain. * This tale is founded on an article of intelligence which the author found in the Buckinghamshire Herald, for Saturday, June 1, 1793, in the following words :
“ Glasgow, May 23. “ In a block, or pulley, near the head of the mast of a gabbert, now lying at the Broomielaw, there is a chaffinch's nest and four eggs. The nest was built while the vessel lay at Greenock, and was followed hither by both birds. Though the block is occasionally lowered for the inspection of the curious, the birds have not forsaken the nest.
The cock however risits the nest but seldom ; while the hen never leaves it, but when she descends to the hull for food."
Nor was he of the thievish sort,
Or one whom blood allures, But innocent was all his sport
Whom you have torn for yours. My dog! what remedy remains,
Since, teach you all I can, I see you, after all my pains,
So much resemble man !
In spite of your command,
And harder to withstand.
A mightier cried--proceed !-'T was nature, sir, whose strong behest
Impell’d me to the deed. Yet much as nature I respect,
I ventured once to break (As you perhaps may recollect)
Her precept for your sake;
Passing his prison door,
And panting press'd the floor ;
Not destined to my tooth,
And lick'd the feathers smooth.
My disobedience now,
From your aggrieved bow-wow;
(Which I can hardly see,) What think you, sir, of killing time
With verse address'd to me?