18 The Thrufb. THE THRUSH. How void of care yon merry thrush, He never frets for worthless things, Of true felicity poffeft, He glides through life fupremely bleft; On Him whofe love the world fupplies. Rejoiced he finds his morning fare, His grateful fong, and never wants. WILLIAMS. THE The Dead Sparrow. 19 THE DEAD SPARROW. TELL me not of joy, there's none, He would catch a crumb, and then, Would moisture fip; He would from my trencher feed, 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 He would fit, and mark and do His feathers o'er, now let 'em fall; And then straightway fleek 'em too. O let mournful turtles join With loving red-breafts, and combine THE SWALLOW. SWALLOW! that on rapid wing Now here, now there, now low, now high, Could I fkim away with thee Over land and over fea, What ftreams would flow, what cities rife, Sport The Swallow. Sport among the feather'd choir 'Mid orange groves and myrtle trees; 21 Where wolves prowl round the flocks of Spain, ORIGINAL. ODE ODE ON SOLITUDE. HAPPY the man whose wish and care Content to breathe his native air In his own ground! Whofe herds with milk, whofe fields with bread, Bleft, who can unconcern'dly find Quiet by day, Sound fleep by night, study and ease And innocence, with molt does please, Thus let me live, unfeen, unknown, Steal from the world,....and not a stone Tell where I lie. POPE. |