POEMS ADDED BY THE AUTHOR IN SUBSEQUENT EDITIONS OF HIS WORKS. ON THE DEATH OF MRS. THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH. YE Nymphs, if e'er your eyes were red Where Rhenus strays his vines among The honours of his ebon poll With which Aurora decks the skies, Above, below, in all the house, Well latticed, but the grate, alas! Not rough with wire of steel or brass, For Bully's plumage sake, But smooth with wands from Ouse's side, With which, when neatly peeled and dried, The swains their baskets make. Night veiled the pole; all seemed secure; When, led by instinct sharp and sure, Subsistence to provide, A beast forth sallied on the scout, Long backed, long tailed, with whiskered snout, And badger-coloured hide. He, entering at the study door, Its ample area 'gan explore; And something in the wind Conjectured, sniffing round and round, Better than all the books he found, Food chiefly for the mind. Just then, by adverse fate impressed, For, aided both by ear and scent, He left poor Bully's beak. Oh, had he made that too his prey! 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 remained to tell The cruel death he died. THE ROSE. THE rose had been washed, just washed in a shower, The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower, The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet, And it seemed, to a fanciful view, To weep for the buds it had left with regret I hastily seized it, unfit as it was For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned; "And such," I exclaimed, "is the pitiless part Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart "This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloomed with its owner awhile; ODE TO APOLLO. ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN. PATRON of all those luckless brains That, to the wrong side leaning, Indite much metre with much pains, And little or no meaning: Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams, Why, stooping from the noon of day, Upborne into the viewless air, Impelled through regions dense and rare Ordained, perhaps, ere summer flies, Illustrious drop! and happy then Phoebus, if such be thy design, Give wit, that what is left may shine I SHALL not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau 'Tis clear that they were always able And even the child who knows no better Than to interpret by the letter A story of a cock and bull, Must have a most uncommon skull. It chanced then on a winter's day, But warm and bright and calm as May, In many an orchard, copse, and grove, And with much twitter and much chatter At length a Bullfinch, who could boast More years and wisdom than the most, * It was one of the whimsical speculations of this philosopher, that all fables which ascribe reason and speech to animals should be withheld from children, as being only vehicles of deception. But what child was ever deceived by them, or can be, against the evidence of his senses? "My friends! be cautious how ye treat The subject upon which we meet; I fear we shall have winter yet." A Finch, whose tongue knew no control, A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried By his good will would keep us single I marry without more ado; My dear Dick Redcap, what say you?" Of an immediate conjugation. All paired, and each pair built a nest. But though the birds were thus in haste, Themselves were chilled, their eggs were addled : Grew quarrelsome, and pecked each other, Except that they had ever met, And learnt in future to be wiser Than to neglect a good adviser. MORAL. Misses! the tale that I relate |