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18

The Thrufb.

THE THRUSH.

How void of care yon merry thrush,
That tunes melodious on the bush,
That has no ftores of wealth to keep,
No lands to plow, no corn to reap!

He never frets for worthless things,
But lives in peace, and fweetly fings;
Enjoys the present with his mate,
Unmindful of tomorrow's fate.

Of true felicity poffeft,

He glides through life fupremely bleft;
And for his daily meal relies

On Him whofe love the world fupplies.

Rejoiced he finds his morning fare,
His dinner lies-he knows not where--
Still to th' unfailing hand he chants

His grateful fong, and never wants.

WILLIAMS.

THE

The Dead Sparrow.

19

THE DEAD SPARROW.

TELL me not of joy, there's none,
Now my little fparrow 's gone:
He would chirp and play with me;
He would hang the wing a while;
Till at length he faw me fmile
O how fullen he would be!

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

Would moisture fip;

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 glafs

H

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

His feathers o'er, now let 'em fall;

And then straightway fleek 'em too.

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O let mournful turtles join

With loving red-breafts, and combine
To fing dirges o'er his ftone!

THE SWALLOW.

SWALLOW! that on rapid wing
Sweep'ft along in fportive ring,

Now here, now there, now low, now high,
Chafing keen the painted fly,....

Could I fkim away with thee

Over land and over fea,

What ftreams would flow, what cities rife,
What landscapes dance before mine eyes!
First from England's fouthern shore
'Crofs the channel we would foar,
And our vent'rous courfe advance
To the lively plains of France;

Sport

The Swallow.

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

'Mid orange groves and myrtle trees;
Entering then the wild domain

21

Where wolves prowl round the flocks of Spain,
Where filk-worms fpin, and olives grow,
And mules plod furely on and flow.
Steering then for many a day
Far to fouth our course away,
From Gibraltar's rocky steep,
Dafhing o'er the foaming deep,
On fultry Afric's fruitful fhore
We'd reft at length, our journey o'er,
Till vernal gales should gently play
To waft us on our homeward way.

ORIGINAL.

ODE

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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!

Whofe herds with milk, whofe fields with bread,
Whofe flocks fupply him with attire,
Whose trees in fummer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Bleft, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days and years flide foft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound fleep by night, study and ease
Together mixt; fweet recreation;

And innocence, with molt does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unfeen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die,....

Steal from the world,....and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

POPE.

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