Wheresoe'er be thine abode,
Always harbinger of good,
Pay me for thy warm retreat,
With a song more soft and sweet;
In return thou shalt receive
Such a strain as I can give.
Thus thy praise shall be express'd,
Inoffensive, welcome guest!
While the rat is on the scout,
And the mouse with curious snout,
With what vermin else infest
Every dish, and spoil the best;
Frisking thus before the fire,
Thou hast all thine heart's desire.
Though in voice and shape they be
Form'd as if akin to thee,
Thou surpassest, happier far,
Happiest grasshoppers that are;
Theirs is but a summer's song,
Thine endures the winter long,
Unimpair'd and shrill and clear,
Melody throughout the year.
Neither night nor dawn of day
Puts a period to thy play.
Sing then-and extend thy span
Far beyond the date of man;
Wretched man, whose years are spent
In repining discontent,
Lives not, aged though he be,
Half a span compared with thee.
IV. THE PARROT.
IN painted plumes superbly drest,
A native of the gorgeous east,
By many a billow tost,
Poll gains at length the British shore,
Part of the captain's precious store,
A present to his toast.
Belinda's maids are soon preferr❜d
To teach him now and then a word,
As Poll can master it;
But 'tis her own important charge
To qualify him more at large,
And make him quite a wit.
"Sweet Poll!" his doting mistress cries, "Sweet Poll!" the mimic bird replies, And calls aloud for sack;
She next instructs him in the kiss,
'Tis now a little one like Miss,
And now a hearty smack.
At first he aims at what he hears,
And listening close with both his ears,
Just catches at the sound;
But soon articulates aloud,
Much to the amusement of the crowd,
And stuns the neighbours round.
A querulous old woman's voice
His humorous talent next employs,
He scolds and gives the lie;
And now he sings, and now is sick,
Here, Sally, Susan, come, come quick,
Poor Poll is like to die.
Belinda and her bird! 't is rare
To meet with such a well-match'd pair,
The language and the tone,
Each character in every part
Sustain'd with so much grace and art,
And both in unison.
When children first begin to spell,
And stammer out a syllable,
We think them tedious creatures;
But difficulties soon abate,
When birds are to be taught to prate,
And women are the teachers.
ON THE PICTURE OF A SLEEPING CHILD.
SWEET babe, whose image here express'd
Does thy peaceful slumbers show;
Guilt or fear, to break thy rest,
Never did thy spirit know.
Soothing slumbers, soft repose,
Such as mock the painter's skill,
Such as innocence bestows,
Harmless infant, lull thee still!
THE THRACIAN.
THRACIAN parents, at his birth,
Mourn their babe with many a tear,
But with undissembled mirth
Place him breathless on his bier.
Greece and Rome with equal scorn,
"O the savages!" exclaim,
"Whether they rejoice or mourn,
Well entitled to the name!"
But the cause of this concern
And this pleasure would they trace,
Even they might somewhat learn
From the savages of Thrace.
RECIPROCAL KINDNESS,
THE PRIMARY LAW OF NATURE.
ANDROCLES from his injured lord, in dread
Of instant death, to Libya's desert fled.
Tired with his toilsome flight, and parch'd with heat,
He spied, at length, a cavern's cool retreat,
But scarce had given to rest his weary frame,
When, hugest of his kind, a lion came:
He roar'd approaching; but the savage din
To plaintive murmurs changed,-arrived within,
And with expressive looks, his lifted paw
Presenting, aid implored from whom he saw
The fugitive, through terror at a stand,
Dared not awhile afford his trembling hand,
But bolder grown, at length inherent found
A pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound.
The cure was wrought; he wiped the sanious blood,
And firm and free from pain the lion stood.
Again he seeks the wilds, and day by day,
Regales his inmate with the parted prey;
Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepared,
Spread on the ground, and with a lion shared.
But thus to live-still lost-sequester'd still—
Scarce seem'd his lord's revenge a heavier ill.
Home! native home! O might he but repair!
He must, he will, though death attends him there.
He goes, and doom'd to perish, on the sands
Of the full theatre unpitied stands;
When lo! the self-same lion from his cage
Flies to devour him, famish'd into rage.
He flies, but viewing in his purposed prey
The man, his healer, pauses on his way,
And soften'd by remembrance into sweet
And kind composure, crouches at his feet.
Mute with astonishment the assembly gaze :
But why, ye Romans? Whence your mute amaze?
All this is natural: nature bade him rend
An enemy; she bids him spare a friend.
MORE ANCIENT THAN THE ART OF PRINTING, AND NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY CATALOGUE.
THERE is a book, which we may call
(Its excellence is such)
Alone a library, though small;
The ladies thumb it much.
Words none, things numerous it contains;
And, things with words compared,
Who needs be told, that has his brains,
Which merits most regard?
Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hue
A golden edging boast;
And open'd, it displays to view
Twelve pages at the most.
Nor name, nor title, stamp'd behind,
Adorns its outer part;
But all within 't is richly lined,
A magazine of art.
The whitest hands that secret hoard
Oft visit; and the fair
Preserve it in their bosoms stored,
As with a miser's care.
Thence implements of every size,
And form'd for various use,
(They need but to consult their eyes,)
They readily produce.
The largest and the longest kind
Possess the foremost page,
A sort most needed by the blind,
Or nearly such from age.
The full-charged leaf, which next ensues,
Presents in bright array
The smaller sort, which matrons use,
Not quite so blind as they.
The third, the fourth, the fifth supply
What their occasions ask,
Who with a more discerning eye
Perform a nicer task.
But still with regular decrease
From size to size they fall,
In every leaf grow less and less;
The last are least of all.
O! what a fund of genius, pent
In narrow space, is here!
This volume's method and intent
How luminous and clear!
It leaves no reader at a loss
Or posed, whoever reads:
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