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18

The Thrufs.

THE THRUSH.

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

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

Of true felicity possest,
He glides through life supremely bleft;
And for his daily meal relies
On Him whofe love the world supplies.

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.

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 a while;
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 lip;
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?

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O how eager would he fight,
And ne'er hurt, though he did bite!

No morn did pass,
But on my glass

20

The Swallow.
He would sit, and mark and do
What I did; now ruffle all
His feathers o'er, now let 'em fall;
And then straightway fleek ’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 fea,
What streams would flow, what cities rise,
What landscapes dance before mine eyes!
First from England's southern shore
Cross the channel we would foar,
And our vent'rous course advance
To the iively 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 side ; Cross the towering Pyrenees, Mid orange groves and myrtle trees; Entering then the wild domain Where wolves prowl round the flocks of Spain, Where filk-worms (pin, and olives grow, And mules plod surely on and flow. Steering then for many a day Far to fouth 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.

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!

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 mixt; sweet recreation;
And innocence, when mort 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.

POPE.

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