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ON

THE DEATH

OF

Mrs. (now Lady) Throckmorton's BULFINCH.

Ye nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red
With tears o'er hapless fav'rites shed,

O share Maria's grief!
Her fav'rite, even in his cage,
(What will not hunger's cruel rage?)

Assassin'd by a thief.

Where Rhenus strays his vines among, The egg was laid from which he sprung;

And, though by nature mute, Or only with a whistle blest, Well-taught he all the sounds express'd Of flagelet or flute.

:lady Throckmorton's Bulfinch. 283

The honours of his ebon poll

Were brighter than the sleekest mole,

His bosom of the hue,
With which Aurora decks the skies,
When piping winds shall soon arise,

To sweep away the dew.

Above, below, in all the house,
Dire foe alike of bird and mouse,

No cat had leave to dwell;
And Bully's cage supported stood
On props of smoothest shaven wood,

Large-built and lattic'd well.

Well-lattic'd—but the grate, alas!
Not rough with wire of steel or brass,

For Bully's plumage sake,
But smooth with wands from O use'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,

284 LADY THROCKMORTON'S BULFINCH.

A beast forth sallied on the scout,
Long-back'd, long-tail'd, with whisker'd snout,
And badger-colour'd hide.

He, ent'ring at the study-door,
It's ample area 'gan explore;

And something in the wind
Conjectur'd, 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 ensu'd;

His teeth were strong, the cage was wood-
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— 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.

THE ROSE.

The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a showV,

Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flow'r,

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.

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