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 over, and the brood is safe;
(For ravens, though as birds of omen
They teach both conjurers and old women
To tell us what is to befall,
Can't prophesy themselves at all.)
The morning came when neighbour Hodge,
Who had long marked her airy lodge,
And destined all the treasure there
A gift to his expecting fair,
Climbed like a squirrel to his dray,
And bore the worthless prize away.


'Tis Providence alone secures
In every change both mine and your's:
Safety consists not in escape
From dangers of a frightful shape;
An earthquake may be bid to spare
The man, that's strangled by a hair*
Fate steals along with silent tread,
Found oftenest in what least we dread,
Frowns in the storm with angry brow,
But in the sunshine strikes the blow.


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.



Sweet stream, that winds thro' yonder glade,
Apt emblem of a virtuous maid—
Silent and chaste she steals along,
Far from the world's gay busy throng;
With gentle yet prevailing force,
Intent upon her destined course;

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Graceful and useful all she does,
Blessing and blest where'er she goes,
Pure-bosomed as that watery glass,
And heaven reflected in her face.


To Mrs. (now Lady) Throckmorton.

! I have every good
For thee wished 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 possessed

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 every 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 fulfilled.



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 stolen away

A poet's drop of ink'

Upborne into the viewless air,

It floats a vapour now,
Impelled through regions dense and rare,-

By all the winds that blow.

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