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Above, below, in all the house,
Dire foe, alike to bird and moufe,
No cat had leave to dwell;

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!
Not rough with wire of feel or brass,
For Bully's plumage fake,

But smooth with wands from Oufe's fide,
With which, when neatly peel'd and dried,.
The fwains their baskets make.

Night veil'd the pole. All feem'd fecure.
When led by inftinct sharp and fure,

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,
Its ample area 'gan explore;

And something in the wind

Conjectur'd, fniffing 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 reft;
In fleep he seem'd to view

A rat, faft-clinging to the cage,
And screaming at the fad prefage,
Awoke and found it true.

For, aided both by ear and scent,
Right to his mark the monfter went-
Ah, mufe! forbear to speak

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
Of fuch mellifluous tone,

Might have repaid him well, I wot,
For filencing fo sweet a throat,
Faft fet within his own.

Maria weeps The Mufes mourn→→
So, when by Bacchanalians torn,
On Thracian Hebrus' fide

The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell;
His head alone remain'd to tell

The cruel death he died.

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THE rofe 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 feem'd to a fanciful view,

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

I haftily feiz'd it, unfit as it was,

For a nofegay, fo dripping and drown'd,
And fwinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground.

And fuch, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to forrow refign'd.

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,
Both fad, and in a cheerful mood,
But never yet in rhime.

To wish thee fairer is no need,
More prudent, or more fprightly,
Or more ingenious, or more freed
From temper-flaws unfightly.

What favour, then, not yet poffefs'd,
Can I for thee require,

In wedded love already bleft,

To thy whole heart's defire?

None here is happy but in part;,
Full blifs is blifs divine;

There dwells fome wifh in ev'ry heart,

And, doubtlefs, one in thine.

That with, on fome fair future day,
Which fate fhall brightly gild,

('Tis blameless, be it what it may)
I wish 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 fide leaning,
Indite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning.

Ab why, fince oceans, rivers, ftreams,
That water all the nations,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,
In constant exhalations,

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.

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