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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 Itrain

Of such mellifuous tone,
Might have repaid him well, I wot,
For filencing so sweet a throat,

Falt set 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 walh'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,

for the buds it had left with regret, On the flourishing bush where it grew.

To weep

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 pitilefs part

Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart

Already to forrow resign'd.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloom'd with its owner a while, 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 TAROCKMORTON.

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, an fome fair future day,

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

I wilh it all fulfill'd.

ODE TO APOLLO.

ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.

PATRON of all those luckless brains,

That, to the wrong side leaning, Indite much metre with much pains,

And little or no meaning.

Ah why, fince oceans, rivers, streams,

That water all the nations,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,

In constant exhalations:

Why, stooping from the noon of day,

Too covetous of drink, Apollo, halt thou stol'n away

A poet's drop of ink?

Upborne into the viewless air,

It floats a vapour now,
Impelld through regions dense and rare,

By all the winds that blow.

Ordain'd, perhaps, ere fummer flies,

Combin'd with millions more, To form an iris in the skies,

Though black and foul before,

Illustrious drop! and happy then

Beyond the happiest lot,
Of all that ever pass'd my pen, ·

So foon to be forgot!

Phæbus, if such be thy design,

To place it in thy bow, Give wit, that what is left

may

shine With equal grace below.

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