OCT. 1,1817.

THE

LILY AND THE ROSE.

THE nymph must lose her female friend,
If more admired than she-
But where will fierce contention end
If flowers can disagree?

Within the garden's peaceful scene
Appear'd two lovely foes
Aspiring to the rank of queen,
The Lily and the Rose.

The Rose soon redden'd into rage,
And, swelling with disdain,
Appeal'd to many a poet's page,
To prove her right to reign.

The Lily's height bespoke command,
A fair imperial flower;

She seem'd design'd for Flora's hand,
The sceptre of her power.

This civil bickering and debate
The goddess chanced to hear,
And flew to save, ere yet too late,
The pride of the parterre;

Yours is, she said, the nobler hue,
And yours the statelier mien!
And, till a third surpasses you,
Let each be deem'd a queen.

Thus, soothed and reconciled, each seeks

The fairest British fair:

The seat of empire is her cheeks,
They reign united there.

ON A GOLDFINCH,

STARVED TO DEATH IN HIS CAGE.

TIME was when I was free as air,
The thistle's downy seed my fare,
My drink the morning dew;
I perch'd at will on every spray,
My form genteel, my plumage gay,
My strains for ever new.

But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain,
And form genteel, were all in vain,

And of a transient date;

For caught, and caged, and starved to death,

In dying sighs, my little breath

Soon pass'd the wiry grate.

Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes,

And thanks for this effectual close

And cure of every ill!

More cruelty could none express;
And I, if you had shown me less,
Had been your prisoner still,

THE MODERN PATRIOT.

REBELLION is my theme all day;
I only wish 'twould come

(As who knows but perhaps it may?)
A little nearer home.

Yon roaring boys, who rave and fight
On t'other side the Atlantic,

I always held them in the right,
But most so when most frantic.

When lawless mobs insult the court,
That man shall be my toast,
If breaking windows be the sport, .
Who bravely breaks the most.

But O! for him my fancy culls
The choicest flowers she bears,

Who constitutionally pulls

Your house about your ears.

Such civil broils are my delight,

Though some folks can't endure them,

Who say the mob are mad outright,
And that a rope must cure them.

A rope! I wish we Patriots had

Such strings for all who need 'emWhat! hang a man for going mad?

Then farewell British freedom.