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ON THE

DEATH

OF

Mrs. Throckmorton's

B U L F I N C H.

Ye nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red
With tears o'er hapless fav'rites Ihed,

O share Maria's grief!
Her fav'rite, even in his cage,
(What will not hunger's cruel r^ge ?)

Assaffin'd by a thief.

Where Rhenus strays his vines among,
The egg was laid from which he sprung,

And though by nature mute,
Or only with a whistle blest,
Well-taught, he all the sounds express'd

Of flagelet or flute.

The honours of his ebon poll

Were brighter than the sleekest mole;

His bosom of the hue
With which Aurora decks the skies,
When piping winds shall soon arise

To sweep up all the dew.

Above, below, in all the house,
Dire foe, alike to bird and mouse,

No cat had leave to dwell;
And Bully's cage supported stood,
On props of smoothest-shaven wood,

Large-built and lattic'd well.

Well-lattic'd—but the grate, alas!
Not rough with wire of steel or brass,

For Bully's plumage fake,
But smooth with wands from Ouse's side,
With which, when neatly peel'd and dried,

The swains their baskets make.

Night veil'd the pole. All feem'd secure.
When led by instinct sharp and sure,

Subsistence to provide,
A beast forth-sallied on the scout,
Long-back'd, long-tail'd, with whisker'd snout,

And badger-colour'd hide.

He, ent'ring at the study-door,
Its ample area 'gan explore;

And something in the wind
Conjectur'd, sniffing round and round,
Better than all the books he found,

Food, chiefly, for the mind.

Just then, by adverse fate impress'd,
A dream disturb'd poor Bully's rest;

In sleep he feem'd to view
A rat, fast-clinging to the cage,
And, screaming at the sad presage,

Awoke and found it true.

For, aided both by ear and scent,
Right to his mark the monster went—

Ah, Muse! forbear to speak
Minute the horrors that ensued;
His teeth were strong, the cage was wood— ..

He left poor Bully's beak.

He left it—but he should have ta'en
That beak, whence issued many a strain

Of such mellifluous tone,
Might have repaid him well, I wote.
For silencing so sweet a throat,

Fast set within his own.

Maria weeps—The Muses mourn—
So, when by Bacchanalians torn,

On Thracian Hebrus' side
The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell;
His head alone remain'd to tell

The cruel death he died.

THE ROSE.

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,
On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was,
For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd,

And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground.

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