The Plume and Poet both we know
Their lustre to his influence owe;
And she the works of Phoebus aiding,
Both Poet saves and Plume from fading.

53

ON THE

DEATH OF MRS (AFTERWARDS LADY) THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH.

1 YE Nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red
With tears o'er hapless favourites shed,
O share Maria's grief!

Her favourite, even in his cage,
(What will not hunger's cruel rage?)
Assassin'd by a thief.

2 Where Rhenus strays 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 sounds express'd
Of flageolet or flute.

3 The honours of his ebon poll

Were brighter than the sleekest mole;
His bosom of the hue

With which Aurora decks the skies,
When piping winds shall soon arise,
To sweep away the dew.

4 Above, below, in all the house,
Dire foe alike of bird and mouse,

No cat had leave to dwell;
And Bully's cage supported stood
On props of smoothest shaven wood,
Large-built and latticed well.

5 Well latticed-but the grate, alas!
Not rough with wire of steel or brass,
For Bully's plumage sake,

But smooth with wands from Ouse's side,
With which, when neatly peel'd and dried,
The swains their baskets make.

6 Night veil'd the pole: all seem'd secure :
When, led by instinct sharp and sure,
Subsistence to provide,

A beast forth sallied on the scout,
Long back'd, long tail'd, with whisker'd snout,
And badger-colour'd hide.

7 He, entering at the study door,
Its ample area 'gan explore;
And something in the wind

Conjectured, sniffing round and round,
Better than all the books he found,
Food chiefly for the mind.

8 Just then, by adverse fate impress'd,
A dream disturb'd poor Bully's rest;
In sleep he seem'd to view

A rat fast clinging to the cage,
And, screaming at the sad presage,
Awoke and found it true.

9 For, aided both by ear and scent, Right to his mark the monster wentAh, Muse! forbear to speak

Minute the horrors that ensued;

His teeth were strong, the cage was wood-
He left poor Bully's beak.

10 O had he made that too his prey;
That beak, whence issued many a lay
Of such mellifluous tone,

Might have repaid him well, I wot,
For silencing so sweet a throat,
Fast stuck within his own.

11 Maria weeps-the Muses mourn—
So when, by Bacchanalians torn,
On Thracian Hebrus' side

The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell;
His head alone remain'd to tell
The cruel death he died.

THE ROSE.

1 THE rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower, Which Mary to Anna convey'd,

The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower,
And weigh'd down its beautiful head.

2 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.

3 I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd,
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground.

4 And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,

Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resign'd.

5 This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile; And the tear, that is wiped with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.

ODE TO APOLLO.

ON AN INKGLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.

1 PATRON of all those luckless brains,
That, to the wrong side leaning,
Indite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning;

2 Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams,
That water all the nations,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,
In constant exhalations;

3 Why, stooping from the noon of day,
Too covetous of drink,

Apollo, hast thou stolen away
A poet's drop of ink?

4 Upborne into the viewless air, It floats a vapour now,

Impell'd through regions dense and rare, By all the winds that blow.

5 Ordain'd perhaps, ere summer flies,
Combined with millions more,

To form an Iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before.

6 Illustrious drop! and happy then
Beyond the happiest lot,
Of all that ever pass'd my pen,
So soon to be forgot!

7 Phœbus, if such be thy design,
To place it in thy bow,

Give wit, that what is left may shine
With equal grace below.

THE POET'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT.

TO MRS (AFTERWARDS LADY) THROCKMORTON.

1 MARIA! I have every good

For thee wish'd many a time,
Both sad, and in a cheerful mood,
But never yet in rhyme.

2 To wish thee fairer is no need,

More prudent, or more sprightly,
Or more ingenious, or more freed
From temper-flaws unsightly.