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Just then, by adverse fate impress'd,
In sleep he seem'd to view
Awoke and found it true.
For, aided both by ear and scent,
Ah, Muse ! forbear to speak
He left poor Bully's beak.
He left it but he should have ta'en
Of such mellifuous tone,
Falt set within his own.
Maria weeps—The Muses mourn
On Thracian Hebrus' side
The cruel death he died.
The rose had been wash'd, just walh'd in a shower,
Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
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.
I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was,
For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd,
I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground.
Some act by the delicate mind,
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,
To thy whole heart's desire?
Full bliss is bliss divine;
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,
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,
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,
So foon to be forgot!
Phæbus, if such be thy design,
To place it in thy bow, Give wit, that what is left
shine With equal grace below.