Above, below, in all the house, On And Bully's cage fupported food, props of fmootheft-fhaven wood, Large built and lattic'd well. Well-lattic'd-but the grate, alas! But smooth with wands from Oufe's fide, Night veil'd the pole. All feem'd fecure. Subfiftence to provide, A beaft forth-fallied on the scout, Long-back'd, long-tail'd, with whisker'd fnout, And badger-colour'd hide. He, ent'ring at the ftudy-door, And something in the wind Conjectur'd, fniffing round and round, Food, chiefly, for the mind. Just then, by adverse fate impress'd, A rat, faft-clinging to the cage, For, aided both by ear and scent, Minute the horrors that enfued; His teeth were ftrong, the cage was woodHe left poor Bully's beak. He left it but he fhould have ta'en That beak, whence iffued many a strain Might have repaid him well, I wot, Maria weeps The Mufes mourn→→ The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell; The cruel death he died. THE rofe had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower, The plentiful moisture incumber'd the flower, The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet, To weep for the buds it had left with regret, I haftily feiz'd it, unfit as it was, For a nofegay, fo dripping and drown'd, And fuch, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part This elegant rofe, had I fhaken it lefs, 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. THROCKMORTON. MARIA! I have ev'ry good For thee wifh'd many a time, To wish thee fairer is no need, What favour, then, not yet poffefs'd, In wedded love already bleft, To thy whole heart's defire? None here is happy but in part;, There dwells fome wifh in ev'ry heart, And, doubtlefs, one in thine. That with, on fome fair future day, ('Tis blameless, be it what it may) ODE TO APOLLO. ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN. PATRON of all those luckless brains, That, to the wrong fide leaning, Ab why, fince oceans, rivers, ftreams, Why, ftooping from the noon of day, Too covetous of drink, Apollo, haft thou stol’n away A poet's drop of ink? Upborne into the viewless air, It floats a vapour now, Impell'd through regions dense and rare, By all the winds that blow. |