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In vain I call th' harmonious Ning,

In vain implore Apollo's aid;
Obdurate, they refuse a line,

While spleen and care my rest invade,
Say, fall we Morpheus next implore,
And try if dreams befriend us more?

Wisely at least he'll stop my pen,

And with his poppies crown my brow:
Better by far in lonesome den

To seep unheard of than to glow
With treach'rous wildfire of the brain,
Thintoxicated.poet's bạne,


Written at a Ferme Ornee near Birmingham;

August 7th, 1749

By the Same

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IS Nature here bids pleasing scenes arise,

And wisely gives them Cynthio, to revise :
To veil each blemish; brighten every gnace;
Yet till preserve the lovely Parent's face.

How well the bard obeys, each valley tells ;
These lucid Areams, gay meads, and lonely cells;


Where modeft art in filence lurks conceald:
While Nature fines, fo gracefully revealid,
That She triumphant claims the total plan;
And, with fresh pride, adopts the work of man.


By Mr. JAGO,

Ingenuas didicife fideliter artes
Emollit mores, nec finit ele feros.

To you, whose groves protect the feather'd quires,


Who lend their artless notes a willing ear, To you, whom pity moves, and taste inspires,

The Doric strain belongs; O Şhenstone, hear.

'Twas gentle spring, when all the tuneful race,

By nature taught, in nuptial leagues combine : A goldfinch joy'd to meet the warm embrace,

And hearts and fortunes with her mate to join.

Thro' Nature's spacious walks at large they rang'd,

No settled haụnts, no fix'd abode their aim ; As chance or fancy led, their path they chang'd, Themselves in ev'ry vary'd scene, the same.


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'Till on a day to weighty cares resign'd,

With mutual choice, alternate, they agreed,
On rambling thoughts no more to turn their mind,

But settle foberly, and raise a breed.

All in a garden, on a currant.bush,

With wond'rous art they built their waving feat: In the next orchat liv'd a friendly thrush,

Nor diftant far, a woodlark's soft retreat.

Here bleft with ease, and in each other bleft,

With early songs they wak'd the sprightly groves, ?Till time matur'd their bliss, and crownd their neft

With infant pledges of their faithful loves.

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And now what transport glow'd in either's eye!

What equal fondness dealt th' allotted food! What joy each other's likeness to descry,

And future sonnets in the chirping brood !

But ah! what earthly happiness can laft?

How does the faireft purpose often fail?
A truant-school-boy's wantonness could blaft

Their rising hopes, and leave them both to wail.

The most ungentle of his tribe was he;

No gen'rous precept ever touch'd his heart: With concords false, and hideous prosody

He fcrawl'd his talk, and blunder'd a'er his part.

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On barb'rous plunder bent, with savage eye

He mark'd where wrapt in down the younglins lay;
Then rushing seiz'd the wretched family,

And bore them in his impious hands away.
But how shall I relate in numbers, rude

The pangs for poor * Chryfomitris decreed !
When from a neighb'ring fpray aghaft she view di

The savage ruffian's inauspicious deed!
So wrapt in grief some heart-struck matron stands,

While horrid flames furround her children's room!
On heav'n fhe calls, and wrings her trembling hands,

Conftraind to fee, but not prevent their doom. que o grief of griefs ! with shrieking voice the cry'd,

" Whąt sight is that I have liy'd to see? * o! that I had a maiden-goldfinch died,

“ From love's false joys, and bitter forrows free? ço Was it for this, alas ! with weary bill,

Was it for this, I pois'd th' unwieldy straw ?
For this I pick'd the moss from yonder hill 3°
“ Nor shund the pond'rous chat along to draw?
Was it for this, I cull'd the wool with care ?

« And strove with all my kill our work to crown? “ For this, with pain I bent the stubborn hair?

“ And lin'd our cradle with the thistle's down?

* Chryfomitris, it seems, is obe name for a geldfinch.

o Was

“ Was it for this my freedom I refign'd;

" And ceas'd to rove from beauteons plain to plain? " For this I fate at home whole days confin'd,

“ And bore the searching heat, and pealing raip?

“ Was it for this, my watchful eyes grow dim?

“ The crimfon roses on my cheek turn pale “ Pale is my golden plumage, once fo trim;

“ And all my wonted spirits 'gin to fail.

« O plund'rer vile! O more than weezel fell!

“ More treach'rous than the cat with prudith face “ More fierce chan kites with whom the furies dwell!

" More pilf'ring than the cuckow's prowling race !

" For thee may plumb or goofb'ry never grow,

« No juicy currant cool thy clammy throat : * But bloody birch-twigs work thee hameful woe,

“ Nor ever goldfinch cheer thee with her note."

Thos sang the mournful bird her piteous tale,

The pite rus tale her mournful mate return'd: Then fide by fide they fought the diftant vale,

And there in filent fadness inly mournd,


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