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B U L F I N C H.
Ye nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red
O share Maria's grief!
Assaffin'd by a thief.
Where Rhenus strays his vines among,
And though by nature mute,
Of flagelet or flute.
The honours of his ebon poll
Were brighter than the sleekest mole;
His bosom of the hue
To sweep up all the dew.
Above, below, in all the house,
No cat had leave to dwell;
Large-built and lattic'd well.
Well-lattic'd—but the grate, alas!
For Bully's plumage fake,
The swains their baskets make.
Night veil'd the pole. All feem'd secure.
Subsistence to provide,
And badger-colour'd hide.
He, ent'ring at the study-door,
And something in the wind
Food, chiefly, for the mind.
Just then, by adverse fate impress'd,
In sleep he feem'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.
He left it—but he should have ta'en
Of such mellifluous tone,
Fast set within his own.
Maria weeps—The Muses mourn—
On Thracian Hebrus' side
The cruel death he died.
The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower, Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
The plentiful moisture incumber'd the flower, And weigh'd down its beautiful head.
The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet, And it seem'd to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret,
I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was,
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!