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Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song
They sang as blithe as finches sing
And frolic where they list;
And therefore never missed.
But nature works in every breast,
And Dick felt some desires,
A pass between his wires.
The open windows seemed to invite
But Tom was still confined;
To leave his friend behind.
So settling on his cage, by play,
And chirp, and kiss, he seemed to say,
You must not live alone ;—
Returned him to his own
Oh ye, who never taste the joys
Fandango, ball, and rout!
To liberty without.
THE NEEDLESS ALARM.
There is a field, through which I often pass,
390 THE NEEDLESS ALARM.
But now wear crests of oven wood instead;
Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red,
The sun, accomplishing his early march,
Sheep grazed the field; some with soft bosom pressed
But when the huntsman, with distended cheek,
The man to solitude accustomed long, .
1 Two woods belonging to John Throckmorton, Esq.
How glad they catch the largess of the skies;
But, with precision nicer still, the mind
He scans of every locomotive kind;
Birds of all feather, beasts of every name,
That serve mankind, or shun them, wild or tame;
The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears
Have all articulation in his ears;
He spells them true by intuition's light,
And needs no glossary to set him right.
This truth premised was needful as a text, To win due credence to what follows next.
Awhile they mused; surveying every face, Thou hadst supposed them of superior race; Their periwigs of wool and fears combined, Stamped on each countenance such marks of mind, That sage they seemed, as lawyers o'er a doubt, Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzle out; Or academic tutors, teaching youths, Sure ne'er to want them, mathematic truths; When thus a mutton statelier than the rest, A ram, the ewes and wethers sad addressed:
Friends! we have lived too long. I never heard Sounds such as these, so worthy to be feared. Could I believe, that winds for ages pent In earth's dark womb have found at last a vent, And from their prison-house below arise, With all these hideous bowlings to the skies, I could be much composed, nor should appear, For such a cause, to feel the slightest fear. Yourselves have seen what time the thunders rolled All night, me resting quiet in the fold. Or heard we that tremendous bray alone, I could expound the melancholy tone; Should deem it by our old companion made, The ass; for he, we know, has lately strayed, And being lost, perhaps, and wandering wide, Might be supposed to clamour for a guide. But ah! those dreadful yells what soul can hear, That owns a carcass, and not quake for fear? Demons produce them doubtless, brazen-clawed, And fanged with brass, the demons are abroad; I hold it therefore wisest and most fit That, life to save, we leap into the pit.
Him answered then his loving mate and true,
How? leap into the pit our life to save? •
Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we.
While thus she spake, I fainter heard the peals,
Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day,
INSCRIPTION FOR THE TOMB OF MR HAMILTON.
Pause here, and think; a monitory rhyme
Consult life's silent clock, thy bounding vein;
EPITAPH ON MRS. M HIGGINS, OF WESTON.
Laurels may flourish round the conqueror's tomb,
THE RETIRED CAT.
A Poet's cat, sedate and grave
As poet well could wish to have,
Was much addicted to inquire
For nooks to which she might retire,
And where, secure as mouse in chink,
She might repose, or sit and think.
I know not where she caught the trick,—
Nature perhaps herself had cast her
In such a mould Philosophique,
Or else she learned it of her master.
Sometimes ascending, debonnair,
An apple-tree, or lofty pear,
Lodged with convenience in the fork,
She watched the gardener at his work;
Sometimes her ease and solace sought
In an old empty watering-pot,
There wanting nothing, save a fan,
To seem some nymph in her sedan
Apparelled in exactest sort,
And ready to be borne to court.
But love of change it seems has place Not only in our wiser race, Cats also fee' ns well as we, That passion's, force, and so did she. Her climbing, she began to find, Exposed her too much to the wind, And the old utensil of tin Was cold and comfortless within: She therefore wished instead of those Some place of more serene repose, Where neither cold might come, nor air Too rudely wanton with her hair, And sought it in the likeliest mode Within her master's snug abode.
A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined With linen of the softest kind, With such as merchants introduce From India, for the ladies' use, A drawer impending o'er the rest, Half-open in the topmost chest, Of depth enough, and none to spare, Invited her to slumber there; Puss with delight beyond expression Surveyed the scene and took possessionRecumbent at her ease ere long, And lulled by her own humdrum song, She left the cares of life behind, And slept as she would sleep her last,