The Dead Sparrow.

19

THE DEAD SPARROW.

TELL me not of joy! there's none
Now my little sparrow's gone:

He would chirp and play with me;
He would hang the wing awhile;
Till at length he saw me smile
O how sullen he would be!

He would catch a crumb, and then,
Sporting, let it go again;
He from my lip

Would moisture sip;

He would from my trencher feed; Then would hop, and then would run, And cry philip when he'd done!

O! whose heart can choose but bleed?

O! how eager would he fight,

And ne'er hurt though he did bite!

No morn did pass,

But on my glass

He would sit, and mark and do
What I did; now ruffle all

His feathers o'er, now let 'em fall;
And then straightway sleek 'em too.

Now

my

faithful bird is gone;

O let mournful turtles join

With loving red-breasts, and combine
To sing dirges o'er his stone!

THE SWALLOW.

SWALLOW! that on rapid wing

Sweep'st along in sportive ring,

Now here, now there, now low, now high, Chasing keen the painted fly ;—

Could I skim away with thee

Over land and over sea,

What streams would flow, what cities rise,
What landscapes dance before mine eyes!
First from England's southern shore
'Cross the channel we would soar,
And our vent'rous course advance
To the lively plains of France;

The Swallow.

Sport among the feather'd choir
On the verdant banks of Loire,
Skim Garonne's majestic tide
Where Bourdeaux adorns his side;
Cross the towering Pyrenees,

'Mid myrtle groves and orange trees;

Entering then the wild domain

21

Where wolves prowl round the flocks of Spain,
Where silk-worms spin, and olives grow,

And mules plod surely on and slow.
Steering thus for many a day`

Far to south our course away,
From Gibraltar's rocky steep
Dashing o'er the foaming deep,
On sultry Afric's fruitful shore
We'd rest at length, our journey o'er,
Till vernal gales should gently play
To waft us on our homeward way.

ORIGINAL.

22

Ode on Solitude.

ODE ON SOLITUDE.

HAPPY the man whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground!

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation;
And innocence, with most does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die!

Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

РОРЕ.

Spring.-The Mouse's Petition. 23

SPRING:

Now the glad earth her frozen zone unbinds,
And o'er her bosom breathe the western winds;
Already now. the snow-drop dares appear,
The first pale blossom of th' unripen'd year;
As Flora's breath, by some transforming power,
Had chang'd an icicle into a flower:

Its name and hue the scentless plant retains,
And winter lingers in its icy veins.

To these succeed the violet's glossy blue,
And each inferior flower of fainter hue;
Till riper months the perfect year disclose,
And Flora cries exulting," See my rose !"

MRS. BARBAULD.

THE MOUSE'S PETITION.

Found in the trap, where he had been confined all night.

O HEAR a pensive prisoner's prayer,

For liberty that sighs;

And never let thine heart be shut

Against the wretch's cries!