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TO MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM, ON RECEIVING FROM HER A NETWORK PURSE, MADE

BY HERSELF.

MAY 4, 1793.
My gentle Anne, whom heretofore,
When I was young, and thou no more

Than plaything for a nurse,
I danced and fondled on my knee,
A kitten both in size and glee,-

I thank thee for my purse.
Gold pays the worth of all things here;
But not of love !-that gem's too dear

For richest rogues to win it;
I, therefore, as a proof of love,
Esteem thy present far above

The best things kept within it.

INSCRIPTION
FOR A HERMITAGE IN THE AUTHOR'S GARDEN.

MAY, 1793.
This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears,
Built as it has been in our waning years,
A rest afforded to our weary feet,
Preliminary to-the last retreat.

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,
Thy locks were wet when others' locks were dry.
Heaven grant us half the omen, -may we see
Not drought on others, but much dew on thee!

A TALE.

JUNE, 1793.
In Scotland's realm, where trees are few,

Nor even shrubs abound;
But where, however bleak the view,

Some better things are found ;
For husband there and wife may boast

Their union undefiled,
And false ones are as rare almost

As hedge-rows in the wild ;
In Scotland's realm forlorn and bare

The history chanced of late,-
This history of a wedded pair,

A chaffinch and his mate.
The spring drew near, each felt a breast

With genial instinct fill’d;
They pair'd, and would have built a nest,

But found not where to build.
The heaths uncover'd and the moors

Except with snow and sleet,
Sea-beaten rocks and naked shores

Could yield them no retreat.
Long time a breeding-place they sought,

Till both grew vex'd and tired;
At length a ship arriving brought

The good so long desired.
A ship !--could such a restless thing

Afford them place of rest ?
Or was the merchant charged to bring

The homeless birds a nest ?
Hush!-silent hearers profit most,-

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;
The vessel weighs, forsakes the shore,

And lessens to the sight.
The mother-bird is gone to sea,

As she had changed her kind;
But goes the male ? Far wiser he

Is doubtless left behind.
No;—soon as from ashore he saw

The winged mansion move,
He flew to reach it, by a law

Of never-failing love.
Then perching at his consort's side,

Was briskly borne along,
The billows and the blast defied,

And cheer'd her with a song.
The seaman with sincere delight

His feather'd shipmates eyes,
Scarce less exulting in the sight

Than when he tows a prize.
For seamen much believe in signs,

And from a chance so new
Each some approaching good divines,

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,
Were not afraid to plough the brine

In company with man;
For whose lean country much disdain

We English often show,
Yet from a richer nothing gain

But wantonness and woe;
Be it your fortune, year by year,

The same resource to prove,
And may ye, sometimes landing here,

Instruct us how to love ! *

ON

A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU,
KILLING A YOUNG BIRD.

JULY 15, 1793.
A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you,

Well fed, and at his ease,
Should wiser be than to pursue

Each trifle that he sees.
But you have kill'd a tiny bird,

Which flew not till to-day,
Against my orders, whom you heard

Forbidding you the prey.
Nor did you kill that you might eat,

And ease a doggish pain;
For him, though chased with furious heat,

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 !

BEAU'S REPLY.
Sir, when I flew to seize the bird

In spite of your command,
A louder voice than yours I heard,

And harder to withstand.
You cried-forbear!-but in my breast

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;
And when your linnet on a day,

Passing his prison door,
Had flutter'd all his strength away,

And panting press'd the floor ;
Well knowing him a sacred thing,

Not destined to my tooth,
I only kiss'd his ruffled wing,

And lick'd the feathers smooth.
Let my obedience then excuse

My disobedience now,
Nor some reproof yourself refuse

From your aggrieved bow-wow;
If killing birds be such a crime,

(Which I can hardly see,) What think you, sir, of killing time

With verse address'd to me?

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