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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 melliAuous tone,
Might have repaid him well, I wote,
For silencing so sweet a throat,

Fast fet within his own.

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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 walh’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 filld, 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.

And such, I exclaim’d, is the pitilefs part Some act by the delicate mind,

Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to forrow resign’d.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile,

And the tear that is wip'd with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.

THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.

TO MRS. THROCKMORTON.

MARIA! I have ev'ry good

For thee wilh'd many a time, Both sad, and in a cheerful mood,

But never yet in rhime.

To wish thee fairer is no need,

More prudent, or more sprightly, Or more ingenious, or more freed

From temper-flaws unsightly.

What favour, then, not yet poffefs’d,

Can I for thee require,
In wedded love already blest,

To thy whole-heart's desire ?

None here is happy but in part ;

Full bliss is bliss divine ;
There dwells some wish in ev'ry heart,

And, doubtless, one in thine.

That wish, on some fair future day,

Which fate shall brightly gild,
('Tis blameless, be it what it may)

I wish it all fulfill’d.

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ODE TO APOLLO.

ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRY'D IN THE SUN.

PATRON of all those luckless brains,

That, to the wrong side leaning, Indite much metre with much pains,

And little or no meaning,

Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams,

That water all the nations, Pay tribute to thy glorious beams, · In constant exhalations,

Why, stooping from the noon of day,

Too covetous of drink, Apollo, hast thou stol'n away

A poet's drop of ink?

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