57

MRS. THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH.

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.

For, aided both by ear and scent,
Right to his mark the monster went—
Ah, Muse! forbear to speak

Minute the horrors that ensued;

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

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 wote,
For silencing so sweet a throat,
Fast stuck within his own.

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

POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.

TO MRS. THROCKMORTON.

MARIA! I have every good

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

To wish thee fairer is no need,
More prudent or more sprightly,
Or more ingenious, or more freed
From temper flaws unsightly.

What favour then not yet possess'd
Can I for thee require,

In wedded love already bless'd,
To thy whole heart's desire?

None here is happy but in part;
Full bliss is bliss divine;

There dwells some wish in every heart,
And doubtless one in thine.

That wish, on some fair future day,
Which Fate shall brightly gild

('Tis blameless, be it what it may),
I wish it all fulfill'd.

ΤΟ

MRS. THROCKMORTON.

ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ONE AD LIBRUM SUUM.

FEBRUARY, 1790.

MARIA, Could Horace have guess'd
What honour awaited his ode,
To his own little volume address'd,
The honour which you have bestow'd:
Who have traced it in characters here,
So elegant, even, and neat,

He had laugh'd at the critical sneer

Which he seems to have trembled to meet.

And sneer if you please, he had said,

A nymph shall hereafter arise,

Who shall give me, when you are all dead,

The glory your malice denies;

Shall dignity give to my lay,

Although but a mere bagatelle;

And even a poet shall say,

Nothing ever was written so well.

CATHARINA.

TO MISS STAPLETON, NOW MRS. COURTNAY,

SHE came-she is gone-we have met-
And meet perhaps never again;
The sun of that moment is set,

And seems to have risen in vain.
Catharina has fled like a dream-
(So vanishes pleasure, alas!)
But has left a regret and esteem
That will not so suddenly pass.

The last evening ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,
Our progress was often delay'd

By the nightingale warbling nigh.

We paused under many a tree,

And much she was charm'd with the tone,

Less sweet to Maria and me,

Who so lately had witness'd her own.

My numbers that day she had sung,
And gave them a grace so divine,

As only her musical tongue

Could infuse into numbers of mine.

The longer I heard, I esteem'd

The work of my fancy the more,
And e'en to myself never seem'd
So tuneful a poet before.

Though the pleasures of London exceed
In number the days of the year,
Catharina, did nothing impede,

Would feel herself happier here;
For the close-woven arches of limes
On the banks of our river, I know,
Are sweeter to her many times

Than aught that the city can show.

So it is, when the mind is endued
With a well judging taste from above,
Then, whether embellish'd or rude,
'Tis nature alone that we love.
The achievements of art may amuse,
May even our wonder excite,
But groves, hills, and valleys diffuse
A lasting, a sacred delight.

Since then in the rural recess
Catharina alone can rejoice,
May it still be her lot to possess
The scene of her sensible choice!

To inhabit a mansion remote

From the clatter of street-pacing steeds,

And by Philomel's annual note

To measure the life that she leads.

PART I.

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