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MRS. THROCKMORTON'S BULFINCH.
YE nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red
Where Rhenus strays his vines among,
Well taught he all the sounds express'd
The honours of his ebon poll
With which Aurora decks the skies,
Above, below, in all the house,
ON THE DEATH OF A BULFINCH.
Well latticed-but the grate, alas!
But smooth with wands from Ouse's side,
Night veil'd the pole: all seem'd secure:
A beast forth sallied on the scout,
He entering at the study door,
And something in the wind
Just then, by adverse fate impress'd,
For, aided both by ear and scent,
His teeth were strong, the cage was wood-
THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.
O, had he made that too his prey!
Maria weeps the Muses mourn—
POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.
To Mrs. Throckmorton.
MARIA! I have every good
For thee wish'd many a time, Both sad and in a cheerful mood, But never yet in rhyme.
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
In wedded love already bless'd,
None here is happy but in part;
That wish, on some fair future day,
ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ODE
MARIA, Could Horace have guess'd
The honour which you have bestow'd:
He had laugh'd at the critical sneer
Which he seems to have trembled to meet.
And sneer, if you please, he had said,
Although but a mere bagatelle; And even a poet shall say,
Nothing ever was written so well.
To Miss Stapleton, now Mrs. Courtnay.
SHE came- -she is gone—we have ́met—
And seems to have risen in vain, Catharina has fled like a dream
(So vanishes pleasure, alas!) But has left a regret and esteem
That will not so suddenly pass.
By the nightingale warbling nigh.
And much she was charm'd with a tone Less sweet to Maria and me,
Who so lately had witness'd her own. My numbers that day she had sung,
And gave them a grace so divine, As only her musical tongue
Could infuse into numbers of mine. The longer I heard, I esteem'd
The work of my fancy the more, And e'en to myself never seem'd So tuneful a poet before.
Though the pleasures of London exceed In number the days of the year, Catharina, did nothing impede,
Would feel herself happier here;