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The honours of his ebon poll
His bosom of the hue,
To sweep away 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 sake,
The swains their baskets make.
Night veild the pole: all seem'd secure: When led by instinct sharp and sure,
Subsistence to provide,
A beast forth sallied on the scout,
And badger-colour'd hide.
He, entring at the study-door,
And something in the wind
Food chiefly for the mind.
Just then, by adverse fate impressid,
In sleep he seem'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.
O had he made that too his
prey; That beak whence issu'd many a lay
Of such mellifluous tone, Might have repaid him well, I wote, For silencing so sweet a throat,
Fast stuck 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 show'r,
Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
And weigh'd down it's beautiful head.
The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet,
And it seem'd to a fanciful view,
for the buds it had left with regret,
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 pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind, Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resign'd.
This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,
Might have bloom'd with it's owner a while; And the tear, that is wip'd with a little address,
May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.
Man yet mistakes his way,
And heard the voice of love;
No time shall disengage,
And constancy sincere,
And mine can read them there;