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Thus sang the sweet sequestered bird,
Soft as the passing wind, And I recorded what I heard,
A lesson for mankind.
A Raven, while with glossy breast Her new-laid eggs she fondly pressed, And on her wicker-work high mounted, Her chickens prematurely counted (A fault philosophers might blame. If quite exempted from the same) Enjoyed at ease the genial day; 'Twas April as the bumpkins say, The legislature called it May. But suddenly a wind as high, As ever swept a winter sky, Shook the young leaves about her ears, And filled her with a thousand fears, Lest the rude blast should snap the bough, And spread her golden hopes below. But just at eve the blowing weather, And all her fears were hushed together:
And now, quoth poor unthinkingiRalph,
'Tis Providence alone secures
The lapse of time and rivers is the same,
Both speed their journey with a restless stream;
The silent pace, with which they steal away,
No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade to stay;
Alike irrevocable both when past,
And a wide ocean swallows both at last.
Though each resemble each in every part,
A difference strikes at length the musing heart;
Streams never flow in vain; where streams abound,
How laughs the land with various plenty crowned!
But time, that should enrich the nobler mind,
Neglected leaves a dreary waste behind.
ADDRESED TO A YOUNG LADY.
Sweet stream, that winds thro' yonder glade,
Graceful and useful all she does,
THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.
To Mrs. (now Lady) Throckmorton.
! I have every good
To wish thee fairer is no need,
Or more ingenious, or more freed
What favour then not yet possessed
Can I for thee require,
To thy whole heart's desire?
Full bliss is bliss divine;
And doubtless one in thine.
That wish, on some fair future day,
(Tis blameless, be it what it may)
ODE TO APOLLO.
ON AN INK-CLASS ALMOST DRIED IS THE SUN.
Patron of all those luckless brains,
That to the wrong side leaning
And little or no meaning,
Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams,
That water all the nations,
In constant exhalations,
Why, stooping from the noon of day,
Too covetous of drink,
A poet's drop of ink'
Upborne into the viewless air,
It floats a vapour now,
By all the winds that blow.