ON THE DEATH OF A BULLFINCH.
Above, below, in all the house,
Dire foe alike of bird or mouse,
No cat had leave to dwell;
And Bully's cage supported stood
On
props of smoothest shaven wood,
Large built and latticed well.
Well latticed-but the grate, alas!
Not rough with wire of steel or brass,
For Bully's plumage sake,
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 seem'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, entering at the study door,
Its ample area 'gan explore;
And something in the wind
Conjectured, 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 seem'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.
THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.
O had he made that too his prey!
That beak, whence issued 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-
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.
TO MRS. THROCKMORTON.
MARIA! I have every good
For thee wish'd many a time,
Both sad and in a cheerful mood,
But never yet in rhyme.
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 possess'd
Can I for thee require,
In wedded love already bless'd,
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 fulfill'd.
ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ODE
FEBRUARY, 1790.
MARIA, Could Horace have guess'd
What honour awaited his ode
To his own little volume address'd,
The honour which you have bestow'd:
Who have traced it in characters here,
So elegant, even, and neat,
He had laugh'd at the critical sneer
Which he seems to have trembled to meet.
sneer, if you please, he had said,
A nymph shall hereafter arise,
Who shall give me, when you are all dead,
The glory your malice denies;
Shall dignity give to my lay,
Although but a mere bagatelle;
And even a poet shall say,
Nothing ever was written so well.
TO MISS STAPLETon (now mrs. cOURTNAY.)
SHE came-she is gone-we have met―
And meet perhaps never again;
The sun of that moment is set,
And seems to have risen in vain,
Catharina has fled like a dream-
(So vanishes pleasure, alas!)
But has left a regret and esteem
That will not so suddenly pass.
The last evening ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,
Our progress was often delay'd
By the nightingale warbling nigh.
We paused under many a tree,
And much she was charm'd with a tone Less sweet to Maria and me,
Who so lately had witness'd her own.
My numbers that day she had sung,
And gave them a grace so divine,
As only her musical tongue
Could infuse into numbers of mine.
The longer I heard, I esteem'd
The work of my fancy the more,
And e'en to myself never seem'd
So tuneful a poet before.
Though the pleasures of London exceed
In number the days of the year,
Catharina, did nothing impede,
Would feel herself happier here;
For the close-woven arches of limes
On the banks of our river, I know,
Are sweeter to her many times
Than aught that the city can show.
So it is, when the mind is endued
With a well-judging taste from above,
Then, whether embellish'd or rude,
"Tis Nature alone that we love.
The achievements of art may amuse,
May even our wonder excite,
But groves, hills, and valleys diffuse
A lasting, a sacred delight.
Since then in the rural recess
Catharina alone can rejoice,
May it still be her lot to possess
The scene of her sensible choice!
To' inhabit a mansion remote
From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note
To measure the life that she leads.
With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,
To wing all her moments at home;
And with scenes that new rapture inspire,
As oft as it suits her to roam;
She will have just the life she prefers,
With little to hope or to fear,
And ours would be pleasant as hers,
Might we view her enjoying it here.
On her Marriage to George Courtnay, Esq. 1792.
BELIEVE it or not, as you choose,
The doctrine is certainly true,
That the future is known to the Muse,
And poets are oracles too.
I did but express a desire
To see Catharina at home,
At the side of my friend George's fire,
And lo-she is actually come.
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