Though the pleasures of London exceed Would feel herself happier here; Than aught that the city can show. So it is, when the mind is endu'd Since, then, in the rural recess The scene of her sensible choice! To inhabit a mansion remote From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note To measure the life that she leads. With her book, and her voice, and her lyre And ours would be pleasant as hers, Might we view her enjoying it hero, THE FAITHFUL BIRD. THE green house is my summer seat; My shrubs displac'd from that retreat Enjoy'd the open air; Two Goldfinches, whose sprightly song, They sang as blithe as finches sing, But nature works in every breast, The open windows seem'd t' invite So settling on his cage, by play, Nor would he quit that chosen stand, O ye who never taste the joys Blush, when I tell you how a bird, THE NEEDLESS ALARM. A TALE. THERE is a field, through which I often pass Thick overspread with moss and silky grass, Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood, Where oft the bitch fox hides her hapless brood, Reserv'd to solace many a neighb'ring squire, That he may follow them through brake and brier, Contusion, hazarding of neck, or spine, Which rural gentlemen call sport divine. A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal'd Runs in a bottom, and divides the field; Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head, But now wear crests of oven-wood instead ; And where the land slopes to its wat'ry bourn, Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn; Bricks line the sides, but shiver'd long ago, And horrid brambles intertwine below; A hollow scoop'd, I judge, in ancient time, For baking earth, or burning rock to lime. Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red, With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed; Nor autuinn yet had brush'd from ev'ry spray, With her chill hand the mellow leaves away; But corn was hous'd, and beans were in the stack; Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear. The sun, accomplishing his early march, And heedless whither, to that field I came, Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was found, Sheep graz'd the field; some with soft bosom press'd But when the huntsman with distended cheek, Then cours'd the field around, and cours'd it round again; But, recollecting with a sudden thought, That flight in circles urg'd advanc'd them nought, * Two woods belonging to John Throckmorton, Esq. The man to solitude accustom'd long Perceives in every thing that lives a tongue, Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees, Have speech for him, and understood with ease; After long drought when rains abundant fall, He hears the herbs and flow'rs rejoicing all; Knows what the freshness of their hue implies, How glad they catch the largess of the skies; But, with precision nice still, the mind He scans of ev'ry locomotive kind; Birds of all feather, beasts of ev'ry name, That serve mankind, or shun them, wild or tame; He spells them true by intuition's light, This truth premis'd was needful as a text, Awhile they mus'd; surveying ev'ry face, Sure ne'er to want them, mathematick truths; Friends! we have liv'd too long. I never heard Sounds such as these, so worthy to be fear'd. Could I believe, that winds for ages pent In Earth's dark womb have found at last a vent, And from their prison-house below arise, With all these hideous howlings to the skies, I could be much compos'd, nor should appear, For such a cause, to feel the slightest fear. |