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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.
Tae rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a show'r,
Which Mary to Anna conveyd,
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,
On the flourishing bush where it grew,
For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd,
I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground.
Some act by the delicate mind,
Already to sorrow resign'd.
Might have bloom'd with it's owner a while;
May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.
Man yet mistakes his way,
Are rarely known to stray.
One silent eve I wander'd late,
And heard the voice of love;
No time shall disengage,
And constancy sincere,
And mine can read them there;
Those ills, that wait on all below,
Shall ne'er be felt by me, Or gently felt, and only so,
As being shar'd with thee.
When lightnings flash among the trees,
Or kites are hov'ring near,
And press thy wedded side,
(Forgive a transient thought) Thou could become unkind at last,
And scorn thy present lots
No need of lightnings from on high,
Or kites with cruel beak: Denied th’ endearments of thine eye,
This widow'd heart would break.
Thus sang the sweet sequester'd bird,
Soft as the passing wind,
A lesson for mankind.
A Raven, while with glossy breast Her new-laid eggs she fondly press’d, And, on her wickerwork high mounted, Her chickens prematurely counted, (A fault philosophers might blame If quite exempted from the same) Enjoy'd at ease the genial day; 'Twas April, as the bunipkins say, The legislature call'd it May. But suddenly a wind as high, As ever swept a wintry sky, Shook the young leaves about her ears, And fill’d her with a thousand fears,