Acts with a force and kindles with a zeal,
Whate'er the theme, that others never feel.
If human woes her soft attention claim,
A tender sympathy pervades the frame;
She pours a sensibility divine
Along the nerve of ev'ry feeling line.
But if a deed not tamely to be borne
Fire indignation, and a sense of scorn,
The strings are swept with such a power, so loud
The storm of music shakes the astonished crowd.
So when remote futurity is brought
Before the keen inquiry of her thought,
A terrible sagacity informs
The Poet's heart, he looks to distant storms,
He hears the thunder, ere the tempest lowers,
And armed with strength, surpassing human powers,
Seizes events as yet unknown to man,
And darts his soul into the dawning plan.
Hence, in a Roman mouth, the graceful name
Of poet, and of prophet was the same;
Hence British poets in the priesthood shared
And every hallowed poet was a bard.
There often wanders one, whom better days
Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimm'd
With lace, and hat with splendid ribbon bound.
A serving maid was she, and fell in love
With one who left her, went to sea, and died.
Her fancy follow'd him through foaming waves
To distant shores; and she would sit and weep
At what a sailor suffers; fancy too,
Delusive most where warmest wishes are,
Would oft anticipate his glad return,
And dream of transports she was not to know.
She heard the doleful tidings of his death-
And never smil'd again! and now she roams
The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day,
And there, unless when charity forbids,
The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides,
Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown
More tatter'd still; and both but ill conceal
A bosom heav'd with never ceasing sighs.
She begs an idle pin of all she meets,
And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food,
Though press'd with hunger oft, or comelier clothes,
Though pinch'd with cold, asks never-Kate is craz'd.
In Scotland's realm where trees are few,
Nor even shrubs abound;
But where, however bleak the view,
Some better things are found.
For husband there and wife may boast
Their union undefil'd,
And false ones are as rare almost
As hedge-rows in the wild.
In Scotland's realm forlorn and bare,
This hist'ry chanc'd of late
The hist'ry of a wedded pair,
A chaffinch and his mate.
The spring drew near, each felt a breast
With genial instinct fill'd;
They pair'd, and would have built a nest,
But found not where to build.
The heaths uncover'd, and the moors,
Except with snow and sleet,
Sea-beaten rocks, and naked shores
Could yield them no retreat.
Long time a breeding-place they sought,
Till both grew vex'd and tir'd;
At length, a ship arriving, brought
The good so long desir'd.
A ship! could such a restless thing
Afford them place of rest?
Or was the merchant charg'd to bring
The homeless birds a nest?
Hush-silent hearers profit most-
This racer of the sea
Prov'd kinder to them than the coast,
It serv'd them with a tree.
But such a tree! 'twas shaven deal,
The tree they call a mast,
And had a hollow with a wheel
Through which the tackle pass'd.
Within that cavity aloft,
Their roofless home they fix'd, Form'd with materials neat and soft, Bents, wool, and feathers mix'd.
Four iv'ry eggs soon pave its floor,
With russet specks bedight-
The vessel weighs, forsakes the shore,
And lessens to the sight.
The mother-bird is gone to sea,
As she had changed her kind;
the male! Far wiser, he
Is doubtless left behind?
No-Soon as from ashore he saw
The winged mansion move,
He flew to reach it, by a law
Of never-failing love.
Then perching at his consort's side,
Was briskly borne along,
The billows and the blast defied,
And cheer'd her with a song.
The seaman with sincere delight,
His feather'd shipmates eyes,
Scarce less exulting in the sight
Than when he tows a prize.
For seamen much believe in signs,
And from a chance so new,
Each some approaching good divines,
And may his hopes be true!
Hail, honour'd land! a desert where
Not even birds can hide,
Yet parent of this loving pair
Whom nothing could divide.
And ye who, rather than resign
Your matrimonial plan,
Were not afraid to plough the brine
In company with Man.
For whose lean country much disdain
We English often show,
Yet from a richer nothing gain,
But wantonness and wo.
Be it your fortune year by year,
The same resource to prove,
And may ye, sometimes landing here,
Instruct us how to love.
"This tale is founded on an article of intelligence which the author found in the Buckinghamshire Herald, for Saturday, June 1, 1793, in the following words.
"In a block, or pulley, near the head of the mast of a gabert, now lying at the Bromeslaw, there is a chaffinch's nest and four eggs. The nest was built while the vessel lay at Greenock, and was followed hither by both birds. Though the block is occasionally lowered for the inspection of the curious, the birds have not forsaken the nest. The cock, however, visits the nest but seldom, while the hen never leaves it but when she descends to the hull for food,"
On a Spaniel, called Beau, killing a young Bird. A spaniel, Beau, that fares like you,
Well fed, and at his ease.
Should wiser be than to pursue
Each trifle that he sees.
But you have kill'd a tiny bird,
Which flew not till to day.
Against my orders, whom you heard
Forbidding you the prey.
Nor did you kill that you might eat,
And ease a doggish pain,
For him, though chas'd with furious heat,
You left where he was slain.
Nor was he of the thievish sort,
Or one whom blood allures,
But innocent was all his sport
Whom you have torn for yours.
My dog! what remedy remains,
Since, teach you all I can,
I see you, after all my pains,
So much resemble Man?
You cried-forbear--but in breast
A mightier cried-proceed
"Twas Nature, Sir, whose strong behest Impell'd me to the deed.
Yet much as nature I respect,
I ventur'd once to break,
|