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Night veil’d the pole. All seem'd secure.
When led by instinct sharp and sure,

Subsistence to provide,

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,
Its 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 ensued;

His teeth were strong, the cage was wood

He left poor Bully's beak.

He left it-but he should have ta'en

That beak, whence issued many a strain

Of such mellifluous tone,

Might have repaid him well, I wote,
For silencing so sweet a throat,

Fast set within his own.

Maria weeps-—

The Muses mournSo, 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

shower, Which Mary to Anna convey'd,

The plentiful moisture incumber'd the flower, And weigh'd down its 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 its owner awhile,

And the tear that is wip'd with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.

THE

POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.

TO MRS. THROCKMORTON.

Maria! I have ev'ry good

For thee wish'd many a time,

Both sad, and in a cheerful mood,

But never yet in rhime.

To wish thee fairer is no need,

More prudent, or more sprightly, Or more ingenious, or more freed

From temper-flaws unsightly.

What favour, then, not yet possess’d,

Can I for thee require,
In wedded love already blest,

To thy whole heart's desire ?

None here is happy but in part;

Full bliss is bliss divine;

There dwells some wish in ev'ry heart,

And, doubtless, one in thine.

That wish, on some fair future day,

Which fate shall brightly gild, ('Tis blameless, be it what it may)

I wish it all fulfill'd.

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