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Caught by the birdlime's treach'rous twigs,

To which he chanc'd to ftray, The bird his faften'd feathers leaves;

Then gladly flies away.

His fhortned wings he foon renews,

Offnares no more afraid;

Then grows by past experience wise,
Nor is again betray'd.

1 know thy pride can ne'er believe
My paffion fully o'er:
Because I oft repeat the tale,

And ftill add fomething more.

'Tis natural instinct prompts my tongue,
And makes the story laft,

As all mankind are fond to boast
Of dangers they have past.

The warrior thus, the combat o'er,
Recounts his bloody wars;

Tells all the hardships which he bore,

And shows his antient scars.

Thus the glad flave, by profp'rous fate

Freed from the fervile chain;

Shews to each friend the galling weight
Which once he dragg'd with pain.

I speak,

I speak, yet speaking, all my aim

Is but to please my mind;
Ifpeak, yet care not if my words
With thee cán credit find.
I fpeak, nor ask if my discourse
Is e'er approv'd by thee:
Or whether thou with equal ease
Do'st talk again of me.

I leave a light, inconftant maid,
Thou'ft loft a heart fincere ;-

I know not which wants comfort most,
Or which has moft to fear.

I'm fure a fwain so fond and true

Nice can never find;

A nymph like her is easy found,
Falfe, faithlefs, and unkind.

To

FANCY.

ALL-powerful Fancy, dear delufive maid,

Daughter of Hope, Imagination's fhade,
Gift of indulgent Heav'n, defign'd below
With pictur'd joys to balance real woe ;-

Where

Wherever thou haft fpread thy airy wings,
Lodg'd in the breasts of statesmen or of kings;
Whether thy vifionary pow'r infpires

Some poet's brain with heav'n-defcending fires,
And bids him wanton in the golden dream
Of riches, honours, and immortal fame;
Whether thou mak'ft the enraptur'd lover trace
A little heav'n, that fmiles in Hebe's face;
Dream of a grace divine, an angel's air,
And in the goddess lose the mortal fair :—
Since, in the bitter draught of human woe,
Whate'er of fweet is found, to thee we owe;
Since what fubftantial happiness we call,
Is but thyfeif, kind nymph, thy bounty all;
Vain all and empty, but what thou haft giv'n,
E'en virtue's felf, unless the leans on heav'n.
Hafte hither, sweet deceiver, gentle guest,
Hafte and erect thy empire in my breast;
Bid pleasures here in airy forms arise,
Ideal raptures, felf-created joys:
Here revel thou entire, and ever reign,
Quick let me catch the visionary scene:
Paint the dear object of my constant fiame,
Her face unchang'd, her beauty still the fame,

(That

(That only thing thou know'ft not to improve)

Fair Chloe, only soften'd into love:

-

There let me view the mark of fond defire,
A pure, unfpotted, but an equal fire;
A love that by its coynefs more endears,
Fearful, but ftill the more betray'd by fears;
Here let the heavn'ly image ever dwell;
Unpleafing truth, rude meffenger, farewell!
And fince all other methods fruitless prove,
FANCY, be thou my advocate in love.

The

RED-BRE A ST.

"When fickly autumn comes, lonely he fits among "the yellow branches, shelter'd by fome broad arm, fing"ing (from morn 'till grey ey'd eye) a requium to expiring nature."

66

TOW chill blows in autumn the gale,

HOW

How fickly the meadows appear,

The birds feem to droop in the dale,
We've only the Red-breaft to chear.

O Damon, attend to his fong,

How sweetly it trills on my ear; I grieve that the warbler ere long Muft fubmit to the season severe.

When

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When fpring gave her buds and her bloom,
That trifler, at dawn of the day,
Would fly to my Philida's room,

And wake the dear maid with his lay.

His mate and her neftlings were bred
In the vine that encircles my cot;
Each day on my bounty they fed,
And feem'd to exult in their lot.

So fond of his younglings was he,
That feldom a moment he'd ftray,
But perch on fome neighb'ring green tree,
And fing to his love all the day.

How oft' (as my charmer beheld)
Would the blithfomely tell of his ways,

Tho' many his plumage excell'd,
She said none could equal his lays.

How oft would fhe fing in his praise,
And wifely his manners define;
Affirming his innocent ways

Afforded a leffon divine.

In your bofom true tenderness glows, (She'd fay) tho' fo fimply dreft; Go, warbler, and teach it to those

Who boaft they're of reason poffefs'd.

T. N.

ELEGY.

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