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-
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.


Tae rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a show'r,

Which Mary to Anna conveyd,
The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flow's,

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,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret,

On the flourishing bush where it grew,
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.


Reas’ning at ev'ry step he treads,

Man yet mistakes his way,
While meaner things, whom instinct leads,

Are rarely known to stray.


One silent eve I wander'd late,

And heard the voice of love;
The turtle thus address'd her mate,
And sooth'd the list’ning dove:

Our mutual bond of faith and truth

No time shall disengage,
Those blessings of our early youth
Shall cheer our latest age:

While innocence without disguise,

And constancy sincere,
Shall fill the circles of those eyes,

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,
I fear lest thee alone they seize,
And know no other fear.

'Tis then I feel myself a wife,

And press thy wedded side,
Resolv'd an union form’d for life
Death never shall divide.

But oh! if, fickle and unchaste,

(Forgive a transient thought) Thou could become unkind at last,

And scorn thy present lots

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No need of lightnings from on high,

Or kites with cruel beak: Denied th’ endearments of thine eye,

This widow'd heart would break.

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Thus sang the sweet sequester'd 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 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,


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