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ON THE

DEATH

OF

MRS. THROCKMORTON's

BULFINCH.

Ye nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red

With tears o'er hapless fav'rites shed,
O fhare Maria's grief!

Her fav'rite, even in his cage,

(What will not hunger's cruel rage?)

Affaffin'd by a thief.

Where Rhenus ftrays his vines among,
The egg was laid from which he sprung,
And though by nature mute,

Or only with a whistle blest,

Well-taught, he all the founds express'd

Of flagelet or flute.

The honours of his ebon poll

Were brighter than the fleekeft mole;

His bofom of the hue

With which Aurora decks the fkies,

When piping winds fhall foon arife
To fweep up all the dew.

Above, below, in all the houfe,

Dire foe, alike to bird and mouse,

No cat had leave to dwell;

And Bully's cage fupported stood,
On props of smootheft-fhaven wood,

Large-built and lattic'd well.

Well-lattic'd-but the grate, alas!

Not rough with wire of steel or brass,

For Bully's plumage fake,

But fmooth with wands from Ouse's fide,

With which, when neatly peel'd and dried,

The fwains their baskets make.

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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 study-door,
Its ample area 'gan explore;

And fomething in the wind

Conjectur'd, fniffing round and round,
Better than all the books he found,
Food, chiefly, for the mind.

Juft 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, fcreaming at the fad prefage,

Awoke and found it true.

For, aided both by ear and scent,

Right to his mark the monster went

Ah, Mufe! forbear to speak

Minute the horrors that enfued;

His teeth were strong, the cage was woodHe left poor Bully's beak.

He left it but he should have ta'en

That beak, whence iffued many a strain
Of fuch mellifluous tone,

Might have repaid him well, I wote,
For filencing so 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

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THE ROSE.

THE rose 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 seem'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 swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!

Į snapp'd it, it fell to the ground.

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