And thence securely sees

The bustle and the raree-show
That occupy mankind below,
Secure and at his ease.

You think no doubt he sits and muses
On future broken bones and bruises,
If he should chance to fall;
No not a single thought like that
Employs his philosophic pate,
Or troubles it at all.

He sees that this great roundabout
The world, with all its motley rout,
Church, army, physic, law,

Its customs and its businesses
Are no concern at all of his,

And says,-what says he? Caw.

Thrice happy bird! I too have seen
Much of the vanities of men,
And sick of having seen 'em,
Would cheerfully these limbs resign
For such a pair of wings as thine,
And such a head between 'em.

III. THE CRICKET.

LITTLE inmate, full of mirth,
Chirping on my kitchen hearth;
Wheresoe'er be thine abode,
Always harbinger of good,
Pay me for thy warm retreat,
With a song more soft and sweet,

In return thou shalt receive
Such a strain as I can give.

Thus thy praise shall be exprest,
Inoffensive, welcome guest!
While the rat is on the scout,
And the mouse with curious snout,
With what vermin else infest
Every dish, and spoil the best;
Frisking thus before the fire,
Thou hast all thine heart's desire.

Though in voice and shape they be
Form'd as if akin to thee,
Thou surpassest, happier far,
Happiest grasshoppers that are;
Theirs is but a summer's song,
Thine endures the winter long,
Unimpair'd and shrill and clear,
Melody throughout the year.

Neither night nor dawn of day
Puts a period to thy play.

Sing then—and extend thy span
Far beyond the date of man;
Wretched man, whose years are spent

In repining discontent,

Lives not, aged though he be,

Half a span compared with thee.

IN painted plumes superbly drest,
A native of the gorgeous east,
By many a billow tost,

Poll gains at length the British shore,
Part of the captain's precious store,
A present to his toast.

Belinda's maids are soon preferr'd
To teach him now and then a word,
As Poll can master it;

But 'tis her own important charge

To qualify him more at large,
And make him quite a wit.

"Sweet Poll!" his doting mistress cries, "Sweet Poll!" the mimic bird replies, And calls aloud for sack;

She next instructs him in the kiss, 'Tis now a little one like Miss, And now a hearty smack.

At first he aims at what he hears

And listening close with both his ears,

Just catches at the sound;

But soon articulates aloud,

Much to the amusement of the crowd
And stuns the neighbours round.

A querulous old woman's voice

His humorous talent next employs,

He scolds and gives the lie;

And now he sings, and now is sick, Here, Sally, Susan, come, come quick, Poor Poll is like to die.

Belinda and her bird! 'tis rare

To meet with such a well-match'd pair, The language and the tone,

Each character in every part
Sustain❜d with so much grace and art,
And both in unison.

When children first begin to spell,
And stammer out a syllable,

We think them tedious creatures;

But difficulties soon abate,

When birds are to be taught to prate,
And women are the teachers.

THE SHRUBBERY.

WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION.

OH happy shades! to me unblest,
Friendly to peace, but not to me,
How ill the scene that offers rest,
And heart that cannot rest, agree!

This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
Those alders quivering to the breeze,
Might sooth a soul less hurt than mine,
And please, if any thing could please.

S. C.-8.

Ꮓ

But fixt unalterable care

Foregoes not what she feels within,
Shows the same sadness every where,
And slights the season and the scene.

For all that pleased in wood or lawn,
While peace possess'd these silent bowers,
Her animating smile withdrawn,

Has lost its beauties and its powers.

The saint or moralist should tread
This moss-grown alley, musing slow;
They seek like me the secret shade,
But not like me, to nourish woe.

Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste,
Alike admonish not to roam;
These tell me of enjoyments past,
And those of sorrows yet to come.

THE WINTER NOSEGAY.

WHAT Nature, alas! has denied
To the delicate growth of our isle,

Art has in a measure supplied,

And winter is deck'd with a smile.

See, Mary, what beauties I bring

From the shelter of that sunny shed,

Where the flowers have the charms of the spring, Though abroad they are frozen and dead.